 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
Crossing the Ford.—O. W. H.
Clouds, forests, hills, and waters!—and they sleep
As if a spirit pressed their pulses down,
From the calm bosom of the waveless deep
Up to the mountain with its sunlit crown,
Still as the moss-grown cities of the dead,
Save the dull plashing of the horse's tread.
As if a spirit pressed their pulses down,
From the calm bosom of the waveless deep
Up to the mountain with its sunlit crown,
Still as the moss-grown cities of the dead,
Save the dull plashing of the horse's tread.
And who are they that stir the slumbering stream?
Nay, curious reader; I can only say
That, to my eyes of ignorance, they seem
Like honest rustics on the homeward way;
There is a village; doubtless thence they came;
There was a christening; and they have a name.
Nay, curious reader; I can only say
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Like honest rustics on the homeward way;
There is a village; doubtless thence they came;
There was a christening; and they have a name.
They are to us, like many a living form,
The image of a moment; and they pass
Like the last cloud that vanished on the storm,
Like the last shape upon the faithless glass;
By lake, or stream, by valley, field, or hill,
They must have lived; perchance are living still.
The image of a moment; and they pass
Like the last cloud that vanished on the storm,
Like the last shape upon the faithless glass;
By lake, or stream, by valley, field, or hill,
They must have lived; perchance are living still.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |