 | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
DANS LA BOHÈME
The leafless branches snap with cold;
The night is still, the winds are laid;
And you are sitting, as of old,
Beside my hearth-stone, heavenly maid!
What would have chanced me all these years,
As boy and man, had you not come
And brought me gifts of smiles and tears
From your Olympian home?
The night is still, the winds are laid;
And you are sitting, as of old,
Beside my hearth-stone, heavenly maid!
What would have chanced me all these years,
As boy and man, had you not come
And brought me gifts of smiles and tears
From your Olympian home?
Dear Muse, 't is twenty years or more
Since that enchanted, fairy time
When you came tapping at my door,
Your reticule stuffed full of rhyme.
What strange things have befallen, indeed,
Since then! Who has the time to say
What bards have flowered (and gone to seed)—
Immortal for a day!
Since that enchanted, fairy time
When you came tapping at my door,
Your reticule stuffed full of rhyme.
What strange things have befallen, indeed,
Since then! Who has the time to say
What bards have flowered (and gone to seed)—
Immortal for a day!
139
We've seen Pretence with cross and crown,
And Folly caught in self-spun toils;
Merit content to pass unknown,
And Honor scorning public spoils—
Seen Bottom wield the critic's pen
While Ariel sang in sunlit cloud:
Sometimes we wept, and now and then
We could but laugh aloud.
And Folly caught in self-spun toils;
Merit content to pass unknown,
And Honor scorning public spoils—
Seen Bottom wield the critic's pen
While Ariel sang in sunlit cloud:
Sometimes we wept, and now and then
We could but laugh aloud.
With pilgrim staff and sandal-shoon,
One time we sought the Old-World shrines:
Saw Venice lying in the moon,
The Jungfrau and the Apennines;
Beheld the Tiber rolling dark,
Rent temples, fanes, and gods austere;
In English meadows heard the lark
That charmed her Shakespeare's ear.
One time we sought the Old-World shrines:
Saw Venice lying in the moon,
The Jungfrau and the Apennines;
Beheld the Tiber rolling dark,
Rent temples, fanes, and gods austere;
In English meadows heard the lark
That charmed her Shakespeare's ear.
What dreams and visions we have had,
What tempests we have weathered through!
Been rich and poor, and gay and sad,
But never hopeless—thanks to you.
A draught of water from the brook,
Or alt hochheimer—it was one;
Whatever fortune fell we took,
Children of shade and sun.
What tempests we have weathered through!
Been rich and poor, and gay and sad,
But never hopeless—thanks to you.
A draught of water from the brook,
Or alt hochheimer—it was one;
Whatever fortune fell we took,
Children of shade and sun.
Though lacking gold, we never stooped
To pick it up in all our days;
Though lacking praise we sometimes drooped,
We never asked a soul for praise.
The exquisite reward of song
Was song—the self-same thrill and glow
That to unfolding flowers belong
And woodland thrushes know!
To pick it up in all our days;
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We never asked a soul for praise.
The exquisite reward of song
Was song—the self-same thrill and glow
That to unfolding flowers belong
And woodland thrushes know!
What gilt-winged hopes have taken flight,
And dropped, like Icarus, in mid-sky!
What cloudy days have turned to bright!
What fateful years have glided by!
What lips we loved vain memory seeks!
What hands are cold that once pressed ours!
What lashes rest upon the cheeks
Beneath the snows and flowers!
And dropped, like Icarus, in mid-sky!
What cloudy days have turned to bright!
What fateful years have glided by!
What lips we loved vain memory seeks!
What hands are cold that once pressed ours!
What lashes rest upon the cheeks
Beneath the snows and flowers!
We would not wish them back again;
The way is rude from here to there:
For us, the short-lived joy and pain,
For them, the endless rest from care,
The crown, the palm, the deathless youth:
We would not wish them back—ah, no!
And as for us, dear Muse, in truth,
We've but half way to go.
The way is rude from here to there:
For us, the short-lived joy and pain,
For them, the endless rest from care,
The crown, the palm, the deathless youth:
We would not wish them back—ah, no!
And as for us, dear Muse, in truth,
We've but half way to go.
| The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |