 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
THE RIDDLE OF BEAUTY.
Brown bird of spring, on pinion soft
Ascending,
A voice to reddening dawn aloft
Thus lending;
Few heed thy song; why is it sweet?
Why art thou beautiful as fleet,
Light comer,
Bewildered in the stir and heat
Of summer?
Ascending,
A voice to reddening dawn aloft
Thus lending;
Few heed thy song; why is it sweet?
Why art thou beautiful as fleet,
Light comer,
Bewildered in the stir and heat
Of summer?
White clouds, that over the blue sky
Are pressing,
The pilots of an argosy
Of blessing;
Ye float with all your sails unfurled
Above a dull, unconscious world;
None caring
Whence ye those fleeces, golden-curled,
Are bearing.
Are pressing,
The pilots of an argosy
Of blessing;
Ye float with all your sails unfurled
Above a dull, unconscious world;
None caring
Whence ye those fleeces, golden-curled,
Are bearing.
Blue autumn flower, thy deep heart stores
Heaven's azure;
And thence from out thy chalice pours
Rare pleasure.
The frost a plague-spot blackening casts;
Thy fringe is torn when sleety blasts
Grow stronger;
Men love thee while thy beauty lasts;
No longer.
Heaven's azure;
And thence from out thy chalice pours
Rare pleasure.
The frost a plague-spot blackening casts;
Thy fringe is torn when sleety blasts
Grow stronger;
Men love thee while thy beauty lasts;
No longer.
Thou maid, around whose lip and eye
Intwining,
The loveliest tints of earth and sky
Are shining,—
Thy sweet song dies; thy freshness must
Fade like a flower's, by blight and dust
O'ertaken;
And all the roots of mortal trust
Are shaken.
Intwining,
The loveliest tints of earth and sky
Are shining,—
Thy sweet song dies; thy freshness must
Fade like a flower's, by blight and dust
O'ertaken;
And all the roots of mortal trust
Are shaken.
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Oh, why should thus the beautiful
O'erbrood us,
Yet ever its harmonious rule
Elude us?
The grave its hopeless blot may be;
Largess to eyes that cannot see
'T is giving;
The joy, the pain, the mystery
Of living.
O'erbrood us,
Yet ever its harmonious rule
Elude us?
The grave its hopeless blot may be;
Largess to eyes that cannot see
'T is giving;
The joy, the pain, the mystery
Of living.
Say whence, O Beauty, floatest thou,
And whither?
But in a shade, an echo now
Swept hither.
Born with the sounds that hurry past?
Dead with the shapes that flee so fast?
Oh, never!
The soul of each fair thing must last
Forever.
And whither?
But in a shade, an echo now
Swept hither.
Born with the sounds that hurry past?
Dead with the shapes that flee so fast?
Oh, never!
The soul of each fair thing must last
Forever.
The glory of the rose remains
Unfaded,
Though now no wreath from blossoming lanes
Be braided.
A word unknown she drooping said;
A breath was in her, from the dead
To waft her:
And Beauty's riddle shall be read
Hereafter.
Unfaded,
Though now no wreath from blossoming lanes
Be braided.
A word unknown she drooping said;
A breath was in her, from the dead
To waft her:
And Beauty's riddle shall be read
Hereafter.
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |