 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
67
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I know a spot beneath three ancient trees,
A solitude of green and grassy shade,
Where the tall roses, naked to the knees,
In that deep shadow wade,
Whose rippled coolness drips from bough to bough,
And bathes the world's vexation from my brow.
A solitude of green and grassy shade,
Where the tall roses, naked to the knees,
In that deep shadow wade,
Whose rippled coolness drips from bough to bough,
And bathes the world's vexation from my brow.
The gnarléd limbs spring upward airy-free,
And from their perfect arch they scarcely swerve,
Like spouted fountains from a dark, green sea
So beautiful they curve,—
Motionless fountains, slumbering in mid-air,
With spray of shadows falling everywhere.
And from their perfect arch they scarcely swerve,
Like spouted fountains from a dark, green sea
So beautiful they curve,—
Motionless fountains, slumbering in mid-air,
With spray of shadows falling everywhere.
Here the Sun comes not like the king of day,
To rule his own, but hesitant, afraid,
Forbears his sceptre's golden length to lay
Across the inviolate shade,
And wraps the broad space like a darkened tent,
With many a quivering shaft of splendor rent.
To rule his own, but hesitant, afraid,
Forbears his sceptre's golden length to lay
Across the inviolate shade,
And wraps the broad space like a darkened tent,
With many a quivering shaft of splendor rent.
Seclusion, as an island still and lone,
Round which the ocean-world may ebb and flow,
Unheeded, following fruitlessly the moon,
And where the soul may go
Naked of all its vanities and cares,
To meet the bounteous grace that Nature bares.
Round which the ocean-world may ebb and flow,
Unheeded, following fruitlessly the moon,
And where the soul may go
Naked of all its vanities and cares,
To meet the bounteous grace that Nature bares.
68
Here stretched at morn I watch the sunrise ray
That sweeps across the earth like minstrel's hand,
Waking from all the birds a song of day,
Caught up from land to land,
And earth is beautiful and hearts are brave,
Ere busy Life has waked to claim her slave.
That sweeps across the earth like minstrel's hand,
Waking from all the birds a song of day,
Caught up from land to land,
And earth is beautiful and hearts are brave,
Ere busy Life has waked to claim her slave.
Each day a pure and velvet-petal'd flower,
Blooms fresh at dawn, with trembling light bedewn,
But dull and tarnished at the mid-day hour—
The noisy, trampling noon,
Its beauty soiled with handling. Ever choose
The virgin morning for the soul to use.
Blooms fresh at dawn, with trembling light bedewn,
But dull and tarnished at the mid-day hour—
The noisy, trampling noon,
Its beauty soiled with handling. Ever choose
The virgin morning for the soul to use.
The wind comes hushing, hushing through the trees
Like surf that breaks on an invisible beach
And sends a spray of whispers down the breeze,
Whispers that seem to reach
From some far inner land where spirits dwell,
And hint the secret which they may not tell.
Like surf that breaks on an invisible beach
And sends a spray of whispers down the breeze,
Whispers that seem to reach
From some far inner land where spirits dwell,
And hint the secret which they may not tell.
No garrulous company is here, but books—
Earth's best men taken at their best—books used,
With dark-edged paths, and penciled margin-strokes,
Where friends have paused and mused,
And here and there beneath the noticed lines,
Faint zigzag marks like little trailing vines.
Earth's best men taken at their best—books used,
With dark-edged paths, and penciled margin-strokes,
Where friends have paused and mused,
And here and there beneath the noticed lines,
Faint zigzag marks like little trailing vines.
69
Here what to me are all the childish cares
That make a Bedlam of the busy world?
Each hour that flies some quiet message bears
Beneath its moments furled,
Like a white dove, that, under her soft wings,
Kind thoughts from far-off home and kindred brings.
That make a Bedlam of the busy world?
Each hour that flies some quiet message bears
Beneath its moments furled,
Like a white dove, that, under her soft wings,
Kind thoughts from far-off home and kindred brings.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |