 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
SUNSET.
A Fragment.
Sunset again! Behind the massy green
Of the continuous oaks, the sun has fallen,
And his last ray has ceased to dart between
The heavy foliage, as hopes intervene
Amid gray cares. The western sky is wallen
Of the continuous oaks, the sun has fallen,
And his last ray has ceased to dart between
The heavy foliage, as hopes intervene
Amid gray cares. The western sky is wallen
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With shadowy mountains, built upon the marge
Of the horizon, from eve's purple sheen,
And thin gray clouds, that daringly uplean
Their silver cones upon the crimson verge
Of the high zenith, while their unseen base
Is rocked by lightning, which will show its eye
Soon as the night comes. Eastward you can trace
No stain, no spot of cloud upon a sky
Pure as an angel's brow;
The winds have folded up their quick wings now,
And all asleep, high up within cloud-cradles lie.
Beneath the trees, the dark and massy glooms
Are growing deeper, more material,
In windless solitude; the flower-blooms
Richly exhale their thin and unseen plumes
Of odor, which they gave not at the call
Of the hot sun; the birds all sleep within
Unshaken nests—all but the owl, who booms
Far off his cry, like one that mourns strange dooms,
And the wild wishtonwish, with lonely din.
There is a deep, calm beauty all around,
A massive, heavy, melancholy look,
A unison of lonesome sight and sound,
Which touches us till we can hardly brook
Our own sad feelings here;
It cannot wring from out the heart a tear,
But gives us heavy hearts, like reading some sad book.
Not such thy sunsets, O New England! Thou
Hast more wild grandeur in thy noble eye,
More majesty upon thy rugged brow.
When sunset pours on thee his May-time glow
From his flush heart, it is on proud and high
Gray granite mountains—rock and precipice,
Upcrested with the white foam of the snow—
On sober glades, and meadows drear and low—
On wild old woods of savage mysteries—
On cultivated fields, hedged with gray rocks,
And greening with the husbandman's young treasure—
On azure ocean, foaming with fierce shocks
Against the shores which his dominions measure—
On towns and villages,
And environs of flowers and of trees,
Full of gray, pleasant shades, and sacred to calm leisure.
And when the sunset doth unfold his wing
Upon thy occident, and fill the clouds
With his rich spirit, on thy eves of spring,
He is a far more bold and gorgeous thing;
He sends his flocks of colors out in crowds,
Of the horizon, from eve's purple sheen,
And thin gray clouds, that daringly uplean
Their silver cones upon the crimson verge
Of the high zenith, while their unseen base
Is rocked by lightning, which will show its eye
Soon as the night comes. Eastward you can trace
No stain, no spot of cloud upon a sky
Pure as an angel's brow;
The winds have folded up their quick wings now,
And all asleep, high up within cloud-cradles lie.
Beneath the trees, the dark and massy glooms
Are growing deeper, more material,
In windless solitude; the flower-blooms
Richly exhale their thin and unseen plumes
Of odor, which they gave not at the call
Of the hot sun; the birds all sleep within
Unshaken nests—all but the owl, who booms
Far off his cry, like one that mourns strange dooms,
And the wild wishtonwish, with lonely din.
There is a deep, calm beauty all around,
A massive, heavy, melancholy look,
A unison of lonesome sight and sound,
Which touches us till we can hardly brook
Our own sad feelings here;
It cannot wring from out the heart a tear,
But gives us heavy hearts, like reading some sad book.
Not such thy sunsets, O New England! Thou
Hast more wild grandeur in thy noble eye,
More majesty upon thy rugged brow.
When sunset pours on thee his May-time glow
From his flush heart, it is on proud and high
Gray granite mountains—rock and precipice,
Upcrested with the white foam of the snow—
On sober glades, and meadows drear and low—
On wild old woods of savage mysteries—
On cultivated fields, hedged with gray rocks,
And greening with the husbandman's young treasure—
On azure ocean, foaming with fierce shocks
Against the shores which his dominions measure—
On towns and villages,
And environs of flowers and of trees,
Full of gray, pleasant shades, and sacred to calm leisure.
And when the sunset doth unfold his wing
Upon thy occident, and fill the clouds
With his rich spirit, on thy eves of spring,
He is a far more bold and gorgeous thing;
He sends his flocks of colors out in crowds,
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To sail with lustrous eyes the azure river
Of thy keen sky, and spirit-like to cling
Unto its waves of cloud, and wildly fling
Themselves from crest to crest wlth sudden quiver
Thy sunset is more brilliant and intense,
But not so melancholy, or so calm,
As this which now is just retreating hence,
Shading his eye with gray and misty palm,
Lulled into early sleep
By thunder from the western twilight deep,
Now 'neath the red horizon moaning out his psalm.
Of thy keen sky, and spirit-like to cling
Unto its waves of cloud, and wildly fling
Themselves from crest to crest wlth sudden quiver
Thy sunset is more brilliant and intense,
But not so melancholy, or so calm,
As this which now is just retreating hence,
Shading his eye with gray and misty palm,
Lulled into early sleep
By thunder from the western twilight deep,
Now 'neath the red horizon moaning out his psalm.
Ark. Territory, May 10th, 1833.
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