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Poems by Frederick Goddard Tuckerman

Tuckerman, Frederick Goddard (1821-1873)

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PART I.
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PART II.
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Sonnets.
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PART 1.
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[I. Sometimes, when winding slow by brook and bower]
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[II. Wherefore, with this belief, held like a blade]
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[III. And borne with theirs, my proudest thoughts do seem]
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[IV. Nor looks that backward life so bare to me]
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[V. And so the day drops by; the horizon draws]
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[VI. Not sometimes, but, to him that heeds the whole]
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[VII. Dank fens of cedar; hemlock-branches gray]
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[VIII. As when, down some broad River dropping, we]
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[IX. Yet wear we on; the deep light disallowed]
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[X. An upper chamber in a darkened house]
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[XI. What profits it to me, though here allowed]
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[XII. Tall, stately plants, with spikes and forks of gold]
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[XIII. As one who walks and weeps by alien brine]
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[XIV. Not proud of station; nor in worldly pelf]
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[XV. And she, her beauty never made her cold]
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[XVI. Yet Nature, where the thunder leaves its trace]
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[XVII. All men,—the Preacher saith,—whate'er or whence]
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[XVIII. Perchance his own small field some charge demands]
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[XIX. Yet vain, perhaps, the fruits our care applaud]
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[XX. Still craves the spirit: never Nature solves]
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[XXI. O Father, God! to whom, in happier days]
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[XXII. The morning comes; not slow, with reddening gold]
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[XXIII. Shall I not see her? Yes; for one has seen]
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[XXIV. Perhaps a dream; yet surely truth has beamed]
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[XXV. By this low fire I often sit to woo]
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[XXVI. For Nature daily through her grand design]
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[XXVII. So, to the mind long brooding but on it]
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[XXVIII. Not the round natural world, not the deep mind]
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PART II.

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197

[XXVII. So, to the mind long brooding but on it]

So, to the mind long brooding but on it—
A haunting theme for anger, joy, or tears,—
With ardent eyes, not what we think, appears,
But, hunted home, behold its opposite!
Worn Sorrow breaking in disastrous mirth,
And wild tears wept of laughter, like the drops
Shook by the trampling thunder to the earth;
And each seems either, or but a counterfeit
Of that it would dissemble: hopes are fears,
And love is woe. Nor here the discord stops;
But through all human life runs the account,—
Born into pain, and ending bitterly;
Yet sweet perchance, between-time, like a fount,
That rises salt, and freshens to the sea.
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