 | Songs Old and New |  |
Why sigh we for the times of yore,
The “good old times” that come no more?
The oldest day was once to-day;
Each hour wore in its settled place
As every-day a garb and face
As those which glide from us away.
The “good old times” that come no more?
The oldest day was once to-day;
Each hour wore in its settled place
As every-day a garb and face
As those which glide from us away.
Nature grows never old;
On every dawning soul she dawns anew,
And grows and ripens with their growth:
Only to spirits which have lost their youth,
The heart of love and sense sincere and true.
Her living forms seem cold.
On every dawning soul she dawns anew,
And grows and ripens with their growth:
Only to spirits which have lost their youth,
The heart of love and sense sincere and true.
Her living forms seem cold.
Sigh not for ancient days with poetry rife,
To poets is the poetic age not fled;
Go, let the dead inter their dead,
For to the living there is always life.
Nature has still fresh founts of art
To pour into the artist's heart;
To eyes fresh bathed in morning dew
The Golden Age shines ever new.
To poets is the poetic age not fled;
Go, let the dead inter their dead,
For to the living there is always life.
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To pour into the artist's heart;
To eyes fresh bathed in morning dew
The Golden Age shines ever new.
Do ocean billows foam less gladly now
Than when the sea-nymphs danced upon the wave?
Curve they less proudly 'neath the swift ship's prow,
Upheaving from the coral cave?
Than when the sea-nymphs danced upon the wave?
Curve they less proudly 'neath the swift ship's prow,
Upheaving from the coral cave?
Sing they a song less syren-sweet,
At noon-tide bathing weary feet,
Languidly smiling,
Softly beguiling,
Like lips that faintly move
Murmuring words of love?
At noon-tide bathing weary feet,
Languidly smiling,
Softly beguiling,
Like lips that faintly move
Murmuring words of love?
Do forest-streams less freshly well,
Dewing with green the grassy dell,
Giving the thirsty flowers to drink,
Filling their starry eyes with joy,
Shedding cool fragrance on the air,
Than when the wood-nymphs sported there?
Or does the waterfall's robe silver-pale,
Wave in the breeze less lightly
Than when the Naiad's moonlit veil
Streamed through the dark trees brightly?
Dewing with green the grassy dell,
Giving the thirsty flowers to drink,
Filling their starry eyes with joy,
Shedding cool fragrance on the air,
Than when the wood-nymphs sported there?
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Wave in the breeze less lightly
Than when the Naiad's moonlit veil
Streamed through the dark trees brightly?
Has evening a less golden sheen?
Has morning a less rosy glow?
Are noonday's arrowy rays less keen
Than when Apollo strung the bow?
Has morning a less rosy glow?
Are noonday's arrowy rays less keen
Than when Apollo strung the bow?
And when at morn in spring
The sun with kisses wakes the earth,
And sun-born showers of golden rain
With floods of melody pour forth,—
Say, are not Light and Music one again?
The sun with kisses wakes the earth,
And sun-born showers of golden rain
With floods of melody pour forth,—
Say, are not Light and Music one again?
| Songs Old and New | |