 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
148
POEMS WRITTEN BETWEEN 1867 AND 1872
A BIRD'S SONG
The shadow of a bird
On the shadow of a bough;
Sweet and clear his song is heard,
“Seek me now—I seek thee now.”
The bird swings out of reach in the swaying tree,
But his shadow on the garden walk below belongs to me.
On the shadow of a bough;
Sweet and clear his song is heard,
“Seek me now—I seek thee now.”
The bird swings out of reach in the swaying tree,
But his shadow on the garden walk below belongs to me.
The phantom of my Love
False dreams with hope doth fill,
Softly singing far above,
“Love me still—I love thee still!”
The cruel vision hovers at my sad heart's door,
But the soul-love is soaring out of reach forevermore.
False dreams with hope doth fill,
Softly singing far above,
“Love me still—I love thee still!”
The cruel vision hovers at my sad heart's door,
But the soul-love is soaring out of reach forevermore.
149
THE NEWS-GIRL
A tiny, blue-eyed, elfin lass
Meets me upon the street I pass
In going to the ferry;
Barefooted, scantly clothed, and thin,
With little weazen cheeks and chin,
Yet always chirk and merry:
Ever merry, however pale,
I always hear her, as I draw near her:
“'Ere 's the Mail, sir!—Mail?—Mail?”
Meets me upon the street I pass
In going to the ferry;
Barefooted, scantly clothed, and thin,
With little weazen cheeks and chin,
Yet always chirk and merry:
Ever merry, however pale,
I always hear her, as I draw near her:
“'Ere 's the Mail, sir!—Mail?—Mail?”
With that same piping little tune,
She waits there every afternoon,
Selling her bunch of papers;
She scarcely looks aside to see
What 's passing by, of grief or glee—
No childish tricks or capers;
Her pattering bare feet never fail
To run and meet me, and chirping greet me,
“'Ere 's the Mail, sir!—Mail?—Mail?”
She waits there every afternoon,
Selling her bunch of papers;
She scarcely looks aside to see
What 's passing by, of grief or glee—
No childish tricks or capers;
Her pattering bare feet never fail
To run and meet me, and chirping greet me,
“'Ere 's the Mail, sir!—Mail?—Mail?”
Her dingy frock is scant and torn;
Her old, old face looks wan and worn,
Yet always sweet and sunny;
Week in, week out, she is the same—
I asked her once what was her name,
And, jingling all her money,
Holding a paper up for sale,
The little midget answered, “Bridget!
Want the Mail, sir?—Mail?—Mail?”
Her old, old face looks wan and worn,
Yet always sweet and sunny;
Week in, week out, she is the same—
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And, jingling all her money,
Holding a paper up for sale,
The little midget answered, “Bridget!
Want the Mail, sir?—Mail?—Mail?”
I wonder where she goes at night,
And in what nook the poor young sprite
Finds room for rest and sleeping;
I wonder if her little bones
Go home to blows and cuffs, and tones
That roughly set her weeping—
When, rainy days, the pennies fail
And few are buying, for all her crying,
“'Ere 's the Mail, sir!—Mail?—Mail?”
And in what nook the poor young sprite
Finds room for rest and sleeping;
I wonder if her little bones
Go home to blows and cuffs, and tones
That roughly set her weeping—
When, rainy days, the pennies fail
And few are buying, for all her crying,
“'Ere 's the Mail, sir!—Mail?—Mail?”
O rich and happy people! you
Whose ways are smooth, and woes are few,
Whose life brims o'er with blisses,
Pity the little patient face,
That never knows the tender grace
Of kind caress or kisses.
For you, the blessings never fail;
For her 't is only to wait there lonely
And cry, “The Mail, sir?—Mail?—Mail?”
Whose ways are smooth, and woes are few,
Whose life brims o'er with blisses,
Pity the little patient face,
That never knows the tender grace
Of kind caress or kisses.
For you, the blessings never fail;
For her 't is only to wait there lonely
And cry, “The Mail, sir?—Mail?—Mail?”
151
THE HOUSE AND THE HEART
Every house with its garret,
Lumbered with rubbish and relics,—
Spinning-wheels leaning in corners,
Chests under spider-webbed rafters,
Brittle and yellow old letters,
Grandfather's things and grandmother's.
There overhead, at the midnight,
Noises of creaking and stepping
Startle the hush of the chambers—
Ghosts on their tiptoes repassing.
Lumbered with rubbish and relics,—
Spinning-wheels leaning in corners,
Chests under spider-webbed rafters,
Brittle and yellow old letters,
Grandfather's things and grandmother's.
There overhead, at the midnight,
Noises of creaking and stepping
Startle the hush of the chambers—
Ghosts on their tiptoes repassing.
Every house with its garden;
Some little plot—a half-acre,
Or a mere strip by the windows,
Flower-beds and narrow box-borders,
Something spicily fragrant,
Something azure and golden.
There the small feet of the sparrow
Star the fresh mould round the roses;
And, in the shadowy moonlight,
Wonderful secrets are whispered.
Some little plot—a half-acre,
Or a mere strip by the windows,
Flower-beds and narrow box-borders,
Something spicily fragrant,
Something azure and golden.
There the small feet of the sparrow
Star the fresh mould round the roses;
And, in the shadowy moonlight,
Wonderful secrets are whispered.
Every heart with its garret,
Cumbered with relics and rubbish—
Wheels that are silent forever,
Leaves that are faded and broken,
Foolish old wishes and fancies,
Cobwebs of doubt and suspicion—
Useless, unbeautiful, growing
Year by year thicker and faster:
Naught but a fire or a moving
Ever can clear it, or clean it.
Cumbered with relics and rubbish—
Wheels that are silent forever,
Leaves that are faded and broken,
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Cobwebs of doubt and suspicion—
Useless, unbeautiful, growing
Year by year thicker and faster:
Naught but a fire or a moving
Ever can clear it, or clean it.
Every heart with its garden;
Some little corner kept sacred,
Fragrant and pleasant with blossoms;
There the forget-me-nots cluster,
And pure love-violets, hidden,
Guessed but by sweetness all round them;
Some little strip in the sunshine,
Cheery and warm, for above it
Rest the deep, beautiful heavens,
Blue, and beyond, and forever.
Some little corner kept sacred,
Fragrant and pleasant with blossoms;
There the forget-me-nots cluster,
And pure love-violets, hidden,
Guessed but by sweetness all round them;
Some little strip in the sunshine,
Cheery and warm, for above it
Rest the deep, beautiful heavens,
Blue, and beyond, and forever.
153
A PRAYER FOR PEACE
Father in Heaven! humbly before thee
Kneeling in prayer thy children appear;
We in our weakness, we in our blindness,
Thou in thy wisdom, hear us, oh hear!
Kneeling in prayer thy children appear;
We in our weakness, we in our blindness,
Thou in thy wisdom, hear us, oh hear!
God watching o'er us sleeps not nor slumbers,
Faithful night watches his angels keep.
Through all the darkness, unto the dawning,
To his beloved he giveth sleep.
Faithful night watches his angels keep.
Through all the darkness, unto the dawning,
To his beloved he giveth sleep.
154
A TROPICAL MORNING AT SEA
Sky in its lucent splendor lifted
Higher than cloud can be;
Air with no breath of earth to stain it,
Pure on the perfect sea.
Higher than cloud can be;
Air with no breath of earth to stain it,
Pure on the perfect sea.
Crests that touch and tilt each other,
Jostling as they comb;
Delicate crash of tinkling water,
Broken in pearling foam.
Jostling as they comb;
Delicate crash of tinkling water,
Broken in pearling foam.
Plashings—or is it the pinewood's whispers,
Babble of brooks unseen,
Laughter of winds when they find the blossoms,
Brushing aside the green?
Babble of brooks unseen,
Laughter of winds when they find the blossoms,
Brushing aside the green?
Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle;
Foam-wreaths slipping by,
Soft as a snow of broken roses
A float over mirrored sky.
Foam-wreaths slipping by,
Soft as a snow of broken roses
A float over mirrored sky.
Off to the East the steady sun-track
Golden meshes fill—
Webs of fire, that lace and tangle,
Never a moment still.
Golden meshes fill—
Webs of fire, that lace and tangle,
Never a moment still.
155
Liquid palms but clap together,
Fountains, flower-like, grow—
Limpid bells on stems of silver—
Out of a slope of snow.
Fountains, flower-like, grow—
Limpid bells on stems of silver—
Out of a slope of snow.
Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets—
Blue as a summer sky,
When you blink at its arch sprung over
Where in the grass you lie.
Blue as a summer sky,
When you blink at its arch sprung over
Where in the grass you lie.
Dimly an orange bit of rainbow
Burns where the low west clears,
Broken in air, like a passionate promise
Born of a moment's tears.
Burns where the low west clears,
Broken in air, like a passionate promise
Born of a moment's tears.
Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver,
Clouds in the distance dwell,
Clouds that are cool, for all their color,
Pure as a rose-lipped shell.
Clouds in the distance dwell,
Clouds that are cool, for all their color,
Pure as a rose-lipped shell.
Fleets of wool in the upper heavens
Gossamer wings unfurl;
Sailing so high they seem but sleeping
Over yon bar of pearl.
Gossamer wings unfurl;
Sailing so high they seem but sleeping
Over yon bar of pearl.
What would the great world lose, I wonder—
Would it be missed or no—
If we stayed in the opal morning,
Floating forever so?
Would it be missed or no—
If we stayed in the opal morning,
Floating forever so?
156
Swung to sleep by the swaying water,
Only to dream all day—
Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting,
Scatter such dreams away!
Only to dream all day—
Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting,
Scatter such dreams away!
157
THE PICTURE OF THE WORLD
One morning of a summer's day,
Upon a painter's easel lay
The picture of a child at play:
A form of laughing life and grace,
And finished all except the place
Left empty for the untouched face.
In nodding violets, half asleep,
The dancing feet were ankle deep:
One rounded arm was heaping up
With clover-bloom and buttercup;
The other tossed a blossom high
To lure a wandering butterfly.
'T was easy to imagine there
In that round frame of rippling hair
The wanting face, all bright and fair.
Upon a painter's easel lay
The picture of a child at play:
A form of laughing life and grace,
And finished all except the place
Left empty for the untouched face.
In nodding violets, half asleep,
The dancing feet were ankle deep:
One rounded arm was heaping up
With clover-bloom and buttercup;
The other tossed a blossom high
To lure a wandering butterfly.
'T was easy to imagine there
In that round frame of rippling hair
The wanting face, all bright and fair.
A sadder artist came that day,
Looked at the picture where it lay,
And, sitting in the painter's place,
He painted in the missing face.
From his own heart the lines he took—
Lo! what a wan and woeful look!
Under the mocking wreath of flowers,
A brow worn old with weary hours:
A face, once seen, one still must see;
Wise, awful-eyed solemnity,
Lips long ago too tired to hide
The torture-lines where love had died;
The look of a despair too late,
Too dead even to be desperate;
A face for which so far away
The struggle and the protest lay,
No memory of it more could stay.
Repulsed and reckless, withered, wild,
It stared above the dancing child.
Looked at the picture where it lay,
And, sitting in the painter's place,
He painted in the missing face.
From his own heart the lines he took—
Lo! what a wan and woeful look!
Under the mocking wreath of flowers,
A brow worn old with weary hours:
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Wise, awful-eyed solemnity,
Lips long ago too tired to hide
The torture-lines where love had died;
The look of a despair too late,
Too dead even to be desperate;
A face for which so far away
The struggle and the protest lay,
No memory of it more could stay.
Repulsed and reckless, withered, wild,
It stared above the dancing child.
At night a musing poet came
And, shuddering, wrote beneath its name.
And, shuddering, wrote beneath its name.
159
FOR THE GIFTS OF THE SPIRIT
Send down thy truth, O God!
Too long the shadows frown;
Too long the darkened way we 've trod:
Thy truth, O Lord, send down!
Too long the shadows frown;
Too long the darkened way we 've trod:
Thy truth, O Lord, send down!
Send down thy Spirit free,
Till wilderness and town
One temple for thy worship be:
Thy Spirit, oh, send down!
Till wilderness and town
One temple for thy worship be:
Thy Spirit, oh, send down!
Send down thy love, thy life,
Our lesser lives to crown,
And cleanse them of their hate and strife:
Thy living love send down!
Our lesser lives to crown,
And cleanse them of their hate and strife:
Thy living love send down!
Send down thy peace, O Lord!
Earth's bitter voices drown
In one deep ocean of accord:
Thy peace, O God, send down!
Earth's bitter voices drown
In one deep ocean of accord:
Thy peace, O God, send down!
160
THE TWO WAYS
'T was Sabbath; and, with clang on clang,
A deafening crash of church bells rang:
The day for penance and for dole,
For sackcloth and an ashen soul—
So had my childhood learned in fear.
And forth I fared, with mood severe,
Clad in my soberest and best,
With God's own world to keep his Rest.
Through orchard, field, and wood I paced,
Rasping a dry thought, solemn-faced.
But suddenly, “What is this?” I thought;
“Does Earth keep Sabbath as she ought?”
And looking round about, I sought
Some comrade with me, on my way,
In woeful weeds to drape the day.
—All nature given o'er to glee!
No psalms, no dirge, no minor key;
Each grass-blade nodding to the rest,
As one who knows a hidden jest;
The thrush still hurrying, loud and gay,
To find the lost thread of his lay;
And chasing, as he flies along,
The fleeing ripple of his song,
The giddy bluebird flits and sings—
A bit of azure sky on wings.
Down the tree-trunks the shadows trace
The tremble of their dancing lace;
The drifting apple-blossoms meek
Brush their white kisses by my cheek;
The bobolink bubbles o'er with glee
In tumbling, headlong melody;
And from the catbird's hedge is sent
His quick, low chuckle of content.
A deafening crash of church bells rang:
The day for penance and for dole,
For sackcloth and an ashen soul—
So had my childhood learned in fear.
And forth I fared, with mood severe,
Clad in my soberest and best,
With God's own world to keep his Rest.
Through orchard, field, and wood I paced,
Rasping a dry thought, solemn-faced.
But suddenly, “What is this?” I thought;
“Does Earth keep Sabbath as she ought?”
And looking round about, I sought
Some comrade with me, on my way,
In woeful weeds to drape the day.
—All nature given o'er to glee!
No psalms, no dirge, no minor key;
Each grass-blade nodding to the rest,
As one who knows a hidden jest;
The thrush still hurrying, loud and gay,
To find the lost thread of his lay;
And chasing, as he flies along,
The fleeing ripple of his song,
The giddy bluebird flits and sings—
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Down the tree-trunks the shadows trace
The tremble of their dancing lace;
The drifting apple-blossoms meek
Brush their white kisses by my cheek;
The bobolink bubbles o'er with glee
In tumbling, headlong melody;
And from the catbird's hedge is sent
His quick, low chuckle of content.
In all that choral symphony
Of flower, and bird, and waving tree,
And happy sky, and laughing sun,
I found in holy woe not one.
—Save only, through the churchyard gloom
Returning, at a new-made tomb
A bitter mourner, black-arrayed,
Whom fools in robes had faithless made,
Wept the lost angel he had wed
As though her soul—and God—were dead.
Him only; and, as evening fell,
An owl, that sought some mate as well,
Was hooting from his hollow tree—
“Will none be doleful now with me,
Will none with me sad penance do?”
And still he hooted: “Who?—who, who?”
Of flower, and bird, and waving tree,
And happy sky, and laughing sun,
I found in holy woe not one.
—Save only, through the churchyard gloom
Returning, at a new-made tomb
A bitter mourner, black-arrayed,
Whom fools in robes had faithless made,
Wept the lost angel he had wed
As though her soul—and God—were dead.
Him only; and, as evening fell,
An owl, that sought some mate as well,
Was hooting from his hollow tree—
“Will none be doleful now with me,
Will none with me sad penance do?”
And still he hooted: “Who?—who, who?”
162
THE CLOCKS OF GNOSTER-TOWN
It was ever so many years ago,
In the days when few were wise, and so
All thought they were wiser than any, you know,
In the kingdom of Mhundus over the sea,
The town of Gnoster used to be;
And on a day which is known to me
Yunus, a small man, bald and brown,
Came to dwell in this Gnoster-town.
In the days when few were wise, and so
All thought they were wiser than any, you know,
In the kingdom of Mhundus over the sea,
The town of Gnoster used to be;
And on a day which is known to me
Yunus, a small man, bald and brown,
Came to dwell in this Gnoster-town.
'T was a queer little village, getting full
Already when Yunus arrived; quite dull,
Or a little stupid, you might say,
For the Now was ruled by the Yesterday,
And highly indecorous it was deemed
To differ from what one's neighbors seemed,
So the average ran rather low,
Respectable though, as majorities go,
And the social tone was safe, but slow.
Already when Yunus arrived; quite dull,
Or a little stupid, you might say,
For the Now was ruled by the Yesterday,
And highly indecorous it was deemed
To differ from what one's neighbors seemed,
So the average ran rather low,
Respectable though, as majorities go,
And the social tone was safe, but slow.
All over Mhundus time was law;
'T was the promptest kingdom ever you saw,
The royal rule was, “Follow the sun;
Do what you do when 't is time 't was done.
Do with your might; seek wisdom, pursue it;
Don't wait for the licensed venders to do it.”
'T was the promptest kingdom ever you saw,
The royal rule was, “Follow the sun;
Do what you do when 't is time 't was done.
Do with your might; seek wisdom, pursue it;
Don't wait for the licensed venders to do it.”
So Gnoster, too, went in for time
In its feeble way, and thought the chime
Of its thousand clocks pealed out so far
That they kept the hour for the furtherest star;
And many a citizen demure
Slept sound and sweet, in the thought secure
That Caph and Phad could scarce go wrong
While Gnoster clocks beat staunch and strong.
163
Of its thousand clocks pealed out so far
That they kept the hour for the furtherest star;
And many a citizen demure
Slept sound and sweet, in the thought secure
That Caph and Phad could scarce go wrong
While Gnoster clocks beat staunch and strong.
A thousand clocks! But for setting them going
The village a terrible tax was owing.
Not to mention the cost and care
Of keeping them all in good repair;
For the clock-tinker's trade, all up and down,
Was one of the very best in town.
The village a terrible tax was owing.
Not to mention the cost and care
Of keeping them all in good repair;
For the clock-tinker's trade, all up and down,
Was one of the very best in town.
There was the clock on the great town-hall,
Frowning over its spike-toothed wall.
It made the base for a liberty-pole,
Whose crest meant, Everybody had stole
Somebody's cap, and gilded it so
That the owner never his own could know.
Hugging the dial with bent arm bone
Sat a figure of Justice, asleep in stone;
Her broken sword had been crooked, at best;
In one of her scales was a hornet's nest;
And the bandage over her stony eyes,
What with the weather, and what with the flies,
A pair of gold spectacles you would think,
With one eye screwed in a pleasant wink.
Frowning over its spike-toothed wall.
It made the base for a liberty-pole,
Whose crest meant, Everybody had stole
Somebody's cap, and gilded it so
That the owner never his own could know.
Hugging the dial with bent arm bone
Sat a figure of Justice, asleep in stone;
Her broken sword had been crooked, at best;
In one of her scales was a hornet's nest;
And the bandage over her stony eyes,
What with the weather, and what with the flies,
A pair of gold spectacles you would think,
With one eye screwed in a pleasant wink.
There was the clock at the factory yard,
Ticking and clicking sharp and hard,
With a dingy little iron face,
And a bell that banged the hours apace.
The dial was flat, the figures were lean
As if half-starved—all cheap and mean;
And a timid flower, in a chink forlorn,
The hands had scissored and dropped in scorn.
Ticking and clicking sharp and hard,
164
And a bell that banged the hours apace.
The dial was flat, the figures were lean
As if half-starved—all cheap and mean;
And a timid flower, in a chink forlorn,
The hands had scissored and dropped in scorn.
On an ancient, somewhat ruined building
Was a college clock; no paint or gilding,
Stern and classic, dreary and dread,
And the ivy on it was dead—all dead.
Some cherubs were sculptured around in places,
But the moss was growing on their faces,
And the dial was propped by an angel which
Had been clipped in the wings to fit its niche.
In the old stone belfry's chinks and loops,
With coo and flutter the soft white troops
Of the doves were just beginning to come,
With a breath of purity and home.
Was a college clock; no paint or gilding,
Stern and classic, dreary and dread,
And the ivy on it was dead—all dead.
Some cherubs were sculptured around in places,
But the moss was growing on their faces,
And the dial was propped by an angel which
Had been clipped in the wings to fit its niche.
In the old stone belfry's chinks and loops,
With coo and flutter the soft white troops
Of the doves were just beginning to come,
With a breath of purity and home.
Hundreds such secular ones he saw,
But the great church clocks laid down the law.
Throned on the stone cathedral's tower,
A huge old time-piece thundered the hour.
Its face like a face in a mask appeared,
For above, it scowled, and below, it leered.
The dial figures were shrunken men,
And Peter's keys made the X for ten.
The hour-hand clawed as an invitation
Beckoning every tribe and nation,
But a trick of perspective made you suppose
The finger was laid aside of the nose.
The wheels all creaked and groaned as they went;
It would soon run down, that was evident.
But the great church clocks laid down the law.
Throned on the stone cathedral's tower,
A huge old time-piece thundered the hour.
Its face like a face in a mask appeared,
For above, it scowled, and below, it leered.
The dial figures were shrunken men,
And Peter's keys made the X for ten.
The hour-hand clawed as an invitation
Beckoning every tribe and nation,
But a trick of perspective made you suppose
165
The wheels all creaked and groaned as they went;
It would soon run down, that was evident.
Close on the great cathedral's toes
A spick-span little building rose,
With a door like the arch of a Roman nose.
Its Gothic windows were stained so thick
That scant was the light that could through them prick.
Around on the spires were a dozen clocks,
As though they had settled there in flocks—
A brood from its neighbor's single tower;
And whenever the old clock struck the hour,
These little gilt ones with all their power
Chimed hurriedly in. They were all so made
That lively Italian tunes they played,
And odd little figures, all arrayed
In patch-work petticoats, trotted out
(Moved by machinery, no doubt),
And bobbed, and trotted in again,
Every time that the hands said when.
In place of Peter's keys for ten
Was a fat St. Timothy, going to take
A little wine for his stomach's sake.
A spick-span little building rose,
With a door like the arch of a Roman nose.
Its Gothic windows were stained so thick
That scant was the light that could through them prick.
Around on the spires were a dozen clocks,
As though they had settled there in flocks—
A brood from its neighbor's single tower;
And whenever the old clock struck the hour,
These little gilt ones with all their power
Chimed hurriedly in. They were all so made
That lively Italian tunes they played,
And odd little figures, all arrayed
In patch-work petticoats, trotted out
(Moved by machinery, no doubt),
And bobbed, and trotted in again,
Every time that the hands said when.
In place of Peter's keys for ten
Was a fat St. Timothy, going to take
A little wine for his stomach's sake.
Up a street that was always choked with people
Was a great, thick clock, on a great, thick steeple.
'T was a wooden building, big and bare,
With not much light, but plenty of air,
And a dead-earnest look, as if the man
That made it had understood his plan.
'T was a thumping, whacking clock, that would chase
All sensitive birds away from the place,
And it seemed to have struck itself red in the face.
Was a great, thick clock, on a great, thick steeple.
'T was a wooden building, big and bare,
With not much light, but plenty of air,
And a dead-earnest look, as if the man
That made it had understood his plan.
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All sensitive birds away from the place,
And it seemed to have struck itself red in the face.
One clock, on a building of colors various,
Had beside it a statue of St. Arius.
The dial-face seemed made of shell,
It shifted its changeable hues so well.
Its figure three had been whittled away,
And it wore a smile which seemed to say
That all was sweet and nothing vile,
And the universe made of sugar and style;
That this hitherto troublesome mortal coil
Could be made quite smooth with honey and oil.
'T was really a little hard to say,
In spite of its air of being au fait,
Exactly what was its time of day;
Its pointers were stretched so far from the dial,
That you gave it up, on the second trial,
For you saw at once it depended rather
Which side you stood, and how near it, whether
The hand and a figure fell together.
Had beside it a statue of St. Arius.
The dial-face seemed made of shell,
It shifted its changeable hues so well.
Its figure three had been whittled away,
And it wore a smile which seemed to say
That all was sweet and nothing vile,
And the universe made of sugar and style;
That this hitherto troublesome mortal coil
Could be made quite smooth with honey and oil.
'T was really a little hard to say,
In spite of its air of being au fait,
Exactly what was its time of day;
Its pointers were stretched so far from the dial,
That you gave it up, on the second trial,
For you saw at once it depended rather
Which side you stood, and how near it, whether
The hand and a figure fell together.
But a positive clock, on a new French school,
Seemed to pride itself it was no such fool
To go groping around to follow the sun:
Why, who could prove there was any sun?
So its hands were nailed at half-past one,
And its wheels, all dust, in a crust of rust,
Were bound not to budge till 't was proved they must.
Seemed to pride itself it was no such fool
To go groping around to follow the sun:
Why, who could prove there was any sun?
So its hands were nailed at half-past one,
And its wheels, all dust, in a crust of rust,
Were bound not to budge till 't was proved they must.
167
Well, besides these and hundreds more,
Each man had a watch, and over his door
A family clock, and folks do say
That many a soul kept hidden away
In a secret pocket, innerly sewed,
A private watch that he never showed,
Which the maker and giver had begged might be
Kept with the great sun to agree.
But nobody trusted to these—not one.
It was too much trouble to take the sun,
And, besides, it would bring on knocks and shocks
From the public to differ with the clocks.
So by them they ate, drank, rose, and slept,
Blessed and cursed, rejoiced and wept.
Each man had a watch, and over his door
A family clock, and folks do say
That many a soul kept hidden away
In a secret pocket, innerly sewed,
A private watch that he never showed,
Which the maker and giver had begged might be
Kept with the great sun to agree.
But nobody trusted to these—not one.
It was too much trouble to take the sun,
And, besides, it would bring on knocks and shocks
From the public to differ with the clocks.
So by them they ate, drank, rose, and slept,
Blessed and cursed, rejoiced and wept.
And every clock thought: “Ho! my chime
Keeps the great world in tune and time!”
And every church thought: “Ho! my tower
Points upward, motionless, hour by hour—
Aims ever the same with steadfast power!”
And little they knew, as they watched the blue,
That round with the plump old earth they flew,
Eternally shifting to somewhere new;
Till there was n't a star in the dusted fire,
Eastern or western, lower or higher,
But had blinked along each silly spire.
Keeps the great world in tune and time!”
And every church thought: “Ho! my tower
Points upward, motionless, hour by hour—
Aims ever the same with steadfast power!”
And little they knew, as they watched the blue,
That round with the plump old earth they flew,
Eternally shifting to somewhere new;
Till there was n't a star in the dusted fire,
Eastern or western, lower or higher,
But had blinked along each silly spire.
So Yunus, the small man, bald and brown,
Entered this clock-ridden Gnoster-town.
His watch ran well; 't was a gift from the king;
A quaint, old-fashioned sort of thing,
With a rough and wrinkled leathern case,
As if it copied from his face
The parchment wrinkles there, well-earned,
The spectrum-lines where life had burned.
It seemed with salt-brine crusted dim,
But safe within the rusty rim
Its bright, clean wheels ran true and trim,
And steadily by the steady sun
With cheery tick their race went on.
No need had he that another tell
The hour which the deep sky told so well,
For still was the rough-faced watch kept true
By the golden furrow across the blue.
Entered this clock-ridden Gnoster-town.
His watch ran well; 't was a gift from the king;
A quaint, old-fashioned sort of thing,
168
As if it copied from his face
The parchment wrinkles there, well-earned,
The spectrum-lines where life had burned.
It seemed with salt-brine crusted dim,
But safe within the rusty rim
Its bright, clean wheels ran true and trim,
And steadily by the steady sun
With cheery tick their race went on.
No need had he that another tell
The hour which the deep sky told so well,
For still was the rough-faced watch kept true
By the golden furrow across the blue.
Through the gate and up the street
Trod Yunus with unresting feet.
'T was three o'clock; he was belated;
In Gnoster dinner never waited.
But lo! he stops in dumb amaze:
The swarm of clocks confronts his gaze.
Some ticked loud, and some ticked soft;
One seemed to wheeze, another coughed;
And their thousand hands gave out that soon
Their thousand throats would bellow noon.
Trod Yunus with unresting feet.
'T was three o'clock; he was belated;
In Gnoster dinner never waited.
But lo! he stops in dumb amaze:
The swarm of clocks confronts his gaze.
Some ticked loud, and some ticked soft;
One seemed to wheeze, another coughed;
And their thousand hands gave out that soon
Their thousand throats would bellow noon.
Then Yunus saw, what dazed him more,
That each man motionless stood by his door,
Holding his watch in his open hand,
As a carved tobacconist's man might stand,
Waiting breathlessly to see
If his time with the great town-clocks agree.
That each man motionless stood by his door,
Holding his watch in his open hand,
As a carved tobacconist's man might stand,
Waiting breathlessly to see
If his time with the great town-clocks agree.
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Then a silent laugh just pushed its way
Over Yunus' face of wrinkled clay,
Like a gleam of sun on a cloudy day.
And he asked of a citizen standing near,
“Pray, which is the standard time-piece here?”
“Oh! well, there 's a many of 'em,” quoth he,
“So we strike an average, and agree
Once a week, by majority.
If some seem getting rather slow,
Nor any progressive zeal can show,
We touch 'em up a little, you know;
And if some are ahead, and seem to lack
Conservative sense, we set 'em back.”
Over Yunus' face of wrinkled clay,
Like a gleam of sun on a cloudy day.
And he asked of a citizen standing near,
“Pray, which is the standard time-piece here?”
“Oh! well, there 's a many of 'em,” quoth he,
“So we strike an average, and agree
Once a week, by majority.
If some seem getting rather slow,
Nor any progressive zeal can show,
We touch 'em up a little, you know;
And if some are ahead, and seem to lack
Conservative sense, we set 'em back.”
Then Yunus stammered: “Should n't you say
That this was rather a dubious way?
And don't you really happen to know
That your time is at least three hours too slow?”
That this was rather a dubious way?
And don't you really happen to know
That your time is at least three hours too slow?”
The man winked wildly with both his eyes
In a kind of horrified surprise,
Gasped once or twice like a shower-bathed wight,
Then, utterly speechless, took to flight.
In a kind of horrified surprise,
Gasped once or twice like a shower-bathed wight,
Then, utterly speechless, took to flight.
And then to a boy: “My little lad,
Are these Gnoster people all stark mad?
Those clocks are three hours too slow!” he said.
But the frightened urchin screamed and ran,
And running he screamed that here was a man
Who doubted and flouted the Gnoster clocks.
And forth the populace rushed in flocks,
With threat and curse and club, pell-mell,
All eager to rout the infidel.
Are these Gnoster people all stark mad?
Those clocks are three hours too slow!” he said.
But the frightened urchin screamed and ran,
And running he screamed that here was a man
Who doubted and flouted the Gnoster clocks.
And forth the populace rushed in flocks,
170
All eager to rout the infidel.
Well, Yunus thought that his watch was right;
But, rather than make a scene, or fight,
He hid himself till the wrath died down,
Then hired him a lodging in Gnoster-town.
Yet he never could snatch a quiet walk
But the streets were hissing with muttered talk;
The urchins followed him with stones,
The elders filled the air with groans,
As they watched, those steady streets along,
The wretch who thought their clocks were wrong.
But, rather than make a scene, or fight,
He hid himself till the wrath died down,
Then hired him a lodging in Gnoster-town.
Yet he never could snatch a quiet walk
But the streets were hissing with muttered talk;
The urchins followed him with stones,
The elders filled the air with groans,
As they watched, those steady streets along,
The wretch who thought their clocks were wrong.
Then Yunus, taking himself to task,
Began to pluck his beard, and ask,
“O heretic, O hapless wight!
Can a thousand be wrong, and one be right?
O Yunus, Yunus! they must be true,
For there 's more of them than there is of you!”
Began to pluck his beard, and ask,
“O heretic, O hapless wight!
Can a thousand be wrong, and one be right?
O Yunus, Yunus! they must be true,
For there 's more of them than there is of you!”
Ofttimes he thought he would climb, next day,
To that mountain summit, high away,
Still, unvisited, cold, severe,
Like a soul that is far from earth, and near
To the starry spaces, vast and clear.
“And there, lift up alone,” thought he,
“That heaven's true hour mine eyes may see,
A dial I will build for me;
A marble cube, all carven square,
With a silver gnomon, white and fair,
Down which the good sun, calm and sure,
Shall point the hours with finger pure.
And power to my life that light shall bring
To beat with the wide world's rhythmic swing.”
To that mountain summit, high away,
Still, unvisited, cold, severe,
Like a soul that is far from earth, and near
To the starry spaces, vast and clear.
“And there, lift up alone,” thought he,
“That heaven's true hour mine eyes may see,
A dial I will build for me;
A marble cube, all carven square,
With a silver gnomon, white and fair,
Down which the good sun, calm and sure,
171
And power to my life that light shall bring
To beat with the wide world's rhythmic swing.”
But more and more it seemed to him
That his own conviction was a whim.
And yet, as it fell out, ere long,
In spite of their being a thousand strong,
His lonely thought was right, they wrong.
That his own conviction was a whim.
And yet, as it fell out, ere long,
In spite of their being a thousand strong,
His lonely thought was right, they wrong.
For weeks he slept when his own watch said
'T was the proper time for going to bed,
And he waked at the kiss of the dawn's first beams,
While the Gnoster people were deep in dreams.
'T was the proper time for going to bed,
And he waked at the kiss of the dawn's first beams,
While the Gnoster people were deep in dreams.
At first it was a pleasant thing
To hear the dawn's first preluding,
Till the tinkle of starlight died away,
And the golden trumpet-blast of day,
Clanging all up the eastern gray,
Broke on a hollow, silent world;
And to see the banneret flowers unfurled
From the battlements of the turf, and own
A new earth, lit for him alone.
His eyes were clear, his soul all free
To stand at Nature's mother-knee,
And greet, with reverent forehead bare,
His brothers of the sky and air.
To hear the dawn's first preluding,
Till the tinkle of starlight died away,
And the golden trumpet-blast of day,
Clanging all up the eastern gray,
Broke on a hollow, silent world;
And to see the banneret flowers unfurled
From the battlements of the turf, and own
A new earth, lit for him alone.
His eyes were clear, his soul all free
To stand at Nature's mother-knee,
And greet, with reverent forehead bare,
His brothers of the sky and air.
But slowly he had lost that tone;
'T was something still and ghostly grown,
And dull, to be up so long alone;
A little chilly, too, withal,
While each long shadow seemed a pall;
And being of too weak a mood
To feed on Nature as a food,
It turned him somewhat faint, at last,
To wait till the village broke its fast.
So the hollow goneness, hunger-lined,
His little courage undermined.
He gave it up, abjured, confessed,
Took him a business, made much pelf,
Laid by his watch on a dusty shelf,
And kept his squints at the sun to himself;
Even gained a place from the orthodox
As winder to one of the public clocks.
'T was something still and ghostly grown,
And dull, to be up so long alone;
A little chilly, too, withal,
172
And being of too weak a mood
To feed on Nature as a food,
It turned him somewhat faint, at last,
To wait till the village broke its fast.
So the hollow goneness, hunger-lined,
His little courage undermined.
He gave it up, abjured, confessed,
Took him a business, made much pelf,
Laid by his watch on a dusty shelf,
And kept his squints at the sun to himself;
Even gained a place from the orthodox
As winder to one of the public clocks.
So for many a day it ran;
He had changed his time, but it changed the man.
There were flesh-pots plenty and stoups of wine,
But no more solitudes divine—
No gaze towards the mountain height afar—
No friendship with the beckoning star.
He had changed his time, but it changed the man.
There were flesh-pots plenty and stoups of wine,
But no more solitudes divine—
No gaze towards the mountain height afar—
No friendship with the beckoning star.
“All very well,” you'll say, and take
The ground, “What difference does it make
What hour we eat, or sleep, or wake?”
But the Lord of Mhundus thought not so.
He had observed, with inward woe,
That, what with tobacco, wealth, and rum,
And natural heaviness with some,
Great sloth his realm had overcome.
So an edict, which was framed to fix
The rising hour at half-past six,
Throughout the land he caused to go;
And then, the law's success to know,
He took a trip incognito.
The ground, “What difference does it make
What hour we eat, or sleep, or wake?”
But the Lord of Mhundus thought not so.
He had observed, with inward woe,
That, what with tobacco, wealth, and rum,
And natural heaviness with some,
Great sloth his realm had overcome.
So an edict, which was framed to fix
The rising hour at half-past six,
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And then, the law's success to know,
He took a trip incognito.
You guess the sequel. Happening round
At Gnoster after nine, he found
The village sunk in sleep profound—
One choral snore the only sound;
Save where, o'erhead, the clocks, sedate,
Stupid and solemn, little and great,
Went ticking on, three hours too late.
At Gnoster after nine, he found
The village sunk in sleep profound—
One choral snore the only sound;
Save where, o'erhead, the clocks, sedate,
Stupid and solemn, little and great,
Went ticking on, three hours too late.
The royal wrath was deep and wide:
He called a magician to his side,
Who swift his hocus-pocus plied,
And laid a thrice-inwoven spell
On the Gnoster sleepers, deep and well.
Not a soul of them waked forevermore,
And some who are versed in ancient lore
Say when it thunders you hear them snore.
He called a magician to his side,
Who swift his hocus-pocus plied,
And laid a thrice-inwoven spell
On the Gnoster sleepers, deep and well.
Not a soul of them waked forevermore,
And some who are versed in ancient lore
Say when it thunders you hear them snore.
Ah! if only Yunus had held his own,
Though they were a thousand and he alone!
For had he been up, that morning bland,
He, faithful alone to the king's command,
Had risen a duke by the royal hand.
But he let it be as it was to be,
And was doomed with the great majority.
Though they were a thousand and he alone!
For had he been up, that morning bland,
He, faithful alone to the king's command,
Had risen a duke by the royal hand.
But he let it be as it was to be,
And was doomed with the great majority.
All the king's sages then searched to see
How in the world it could possibly be,
When the noon was so simple a thing to find,
That a town should stay three hours behind.
How in the world it could possibly be,
When the noon was so simple a thing to find,
That a town should stay three hours behind.
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It was found they had fetched the time of day
From a place three hundred leagues away—
An hour too slow, of course, nor thought
Of getting their own from the sky as they ought.
Then a timid bird, a poor scared thing,
Flying on panic-stricken wing
Past the clock on the great church tower,
Brushed back its hand another hour;
And at last, by their average method blind,
They had crept the third long hour behind.
From a place three hundred leagues away—
An hour too slow, of course, nor thought
Of getting their own from the sky as they ought.
Then a timid bird, a poor scared thing,
Flying on panic-stricken wing
Past the clock on the great church tower,
Brushed back its hand another hour;
And at last, by their average method blind,
They had crept the third long hour behind.
To finish the story, let me say
What the court preacher preached next day.
What the court preacher preached next day.
“Don't borrow a creed from other people,
Nor hang most faith on the stoutest steeple.
Look up for your law, but oh! look higher
Than the hands on any human spire.
If ten think alike, and you think alone,
That never proves 't is ten to one
They are right, you wrong; for truth, you see,
Is not a thing of majority.
It never can make you false, them true,
That there 's more of them than there is of you:
If your touch is on Truth's garment's hem,
There is more of you than a world of them.
'T is not alone in the Orient region
That a certain hero's name is Legion.
Nor was it only for once to be
That the whole herd together ran down to the sea.
Your zenith for no man else is true;
Your beam from the sun comes alone to you;
And the thought the great God gave your brain,
Is your own for the world, or the world's in vain.”
Nor hang most faith on the stoutest steeple.
Look up for your law, but oh! look higher
Than the hands on any human spire.
If ten think alike, and you think alone,
That never proves 't is ten to one
They are right, you wrong; for truth, you see,
Is not a thing of majority.
It never can make you false, them true,
That there 's more of them than there is of you:
If your touch is on Truth's garment's hem,
There is more of you than a world of them.
'T is not alone in the Orient region
That a certain hero's name is Legion.
Nor was it only for once to be
That the whole herd together ran down to the sea.
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Your beam from the sun comes alone to you;
And the thought the great God gave your brain,
Is your own for the world, or the world's in vain.”
Horae pereunt et imputantur.
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THE LOST BIRD
What cared she for the free hearts? She would comfort
The prisoned one:
What recked I of the wanton other singers?
She sang for me alone—
Was all my own, my own!
The prisoned one:
What recked I of the wanton other singers?
She sang for me alone—
Was all my own, my own!
But when they loaded me with heavier fetters,
And chained I lay,
How could she know I longed to reach her window?
Athirst the livelong day,
At eve she fled away.
And chained I lay,
How could she know I longed to reach her window?
Athirst the livelong day,
At eve she fled away.
Still stands her cage wide open at the casement,
In sun and rain,
Though years have gone, and rust has thickly gathered,—
My watching all in vain;
She will not come again.
In sun and rain,
Though years have gone, and rust has thickly gathered,—
My watching all in vain;
She will not come again.
Against its wires I strum with idle fingers
From morn to noon;
I swing the door with loitering touch, and listen
To hear that old-time tune,
Sweet as the soul of June.
From morn to noon;
I swing the door with loitering touch, and listen
To hear that old-time tune,
Sweet as the soul of June.
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My bird, my silver voice that cheered my prison,
Hushed, lost to me:
And still I wait for death, in chains, forsaken,
(Soon may the summons be!)
But she is free.
—“Is free?”
Hushed, lost to me:
And still I wait for death, in chains, forsaken,
(Soon may the summons be!)
But she is free.
—“Is free?”
Nay, in the palace porches caught and hanging,
Who says 't is gay,
The song the false prince hears? who says her singing,
From day to summer day,
Grieves not her heart away?
Who says 't is gay,
The song the false prince hears? who says her singing,
From day to summer day,
Grieves not her heart away?
But when my dream comes true in that last sleeping,
And death makes free,
Against the blue shall snowy wings come sweeping,
My bird flown back to me,
Mine for eternity!
And death makes free,
Against the blue shall snowy wings come sweeping,
My bird flown back to me,
Mine for eternity!
178
SUMMER RAIN
I said, “Blue heaven” (Oh, it was beautiful!)
“Send me a tent to shut me to myself:
I am all lonely for my soul, that wanders
Weary, bewildered, beckoned by thy depths;
Thy white, round clouds, great bubbles of creamy snow;
Thy luscious sunshine, like some ripe, gold fruit;
Thy songs of birds, and wind warm with the flowers.”
“Send me a tent to shut me to myself:
I am all lonely for my soul, that wanders
Weary, bewildered, beckoned by thy depths;
Thy white, round clouds, great bubbles of creamy snow;
Thy luscious sunshine, like some ripe, gold fruit;
Thy songs of birds, and wind warm with the flowers.”
And there swept down (Oh, it was beautiful!)
A tent of silver rain, that fell like a veil
Shutting me in to think all quiet thoughts,
And feel the vibrant thrill of shadowy wings
That fluttered, checking their swift flight, and hear,
Though with no syllable of earthly music,
A voice of melody unutterable.
A tent of silver rain, that fell like a veil
Shutting me in to think all quiet thoughts,
And feel the vibrant thrill of shadowy wings
That fluttered, checking their swift flight, and hear,
Though with no syllable of earthly music,
A voice of melody unutterable.
179
THE BELLOWS-BOY
I blow the organ at St. Timothy's.
Did you know 't was not the master, after all,
(I used to think so, too) that speaks the great
Sweet sounds? He only beckons at the keys,
And God's winds come and sing for him; while I,
I draw the great winds in from up the air.
'T is hard, I tell you! Sometimes they hold back,
And make me tug and strain to draw them in.
But then they always come: all except once,
When I forgot to do my work.
Did you know 't was not the master, after all,
(I used to think so, too) that speaks the great
Sweet sounds? He only beckons at the keys,
And God's winds come and sing for him; while I,
I draw the great winds in from up the air.
'T is hard, I tell you! Sometimes they hold back,
And make me tug and strain to draw them in.
But then they always come: all except once,
When I forgot to do my work.
You see,
'T was a wild night, and after church was done,
The dear old voices had been battling hard,
Near drowned in storm and sea, and had got forth
Out of the roar and whirl, and on the beach
Lay panting, while the waves died into sobs,
Leaving them lying, watching the soft foam.—
I fell to dreaming with them, listening
How the blue water plashed, quiet and far,
Till, of a sudden, a horrible, drawn wail,
Then silence, out of which I started, dazed,
At a fierce red face and raging whisper, “Blow!”
'T was a wild night, and after church was done,
The dear old voices had been battling hard,
Near drowned in storm and sea, and had got forth
Out of the roar and whirl, and on the beach
Lay panting, while the waves died into sobs,
Leaving them lying, watching the soft foam.—
I fell to dreaming with them, listening
How the blue water plashed, quiet and far,
Till, of a sudden, a horrible, drawn wail,
Then silence, out of which I started, dazed,
At a fierce red face and raging whisper, “Blow!”
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They took my work away, for that; but soon
I begged and begged it back again, and now
I try to tug so hard as not to hear.
I begged and begged it back again, and now
I try to tug so hard as not to hear.
Sometimes I creep round nights, when the choir is gone,
And stealthily unlock the carved oak doors,
To flatten my hand along the ivory keys,
As smooth and chill as ice. They will not speak,—
The smooth white lips, yet always I hear tunes,
Back in the empty dark, and over me
In the gold pipes: it may be my own thoughts,
Playing at music. One I always hear
That hangs in the dark like a great white flower, and there
It grows and fades.
And stealthily unlock the carved oak doors,
To flatten my hand along the ivory keys,
As smooth and chill as ice. They will not speak,—
The smooth white lips, yet always I hear tunes,
Back in the empty dark, and over me
In the gold pipes: it may be my own thoughts,
Playing at music. One I always hear
That hangs in the dark like a great white flower, and there
It grows and fades.
For, once, the minister
(Him with the great high forehead), Christmas Day,
Walked down the alley, and stopped, and spoke to me
(Faith! but I shook, though, when his steady hand
Stayed on my head a minute), and he said
That even the master, and he, and every one—
Even the beautiful people in the choir—
Only did work like mine, moved hands or lips,
While the music all was God's, and came from Him.
(Him with the great high forehead), Christmas Day,
Walked down the alley, and stopped, and spoke to me
(Faith! but I shook, though, when his steady hand
Stayed on my head a minute), and he said
That even the master, and he, and every one—
Even the beautiful people in the choir—
Only did work like mine, moved hands or lips,
While the music all was God's, and came from Him.
181
So, ever since, it has come into my tunes,
That maybe in that world I can make sounds
Like the great, sweet ones, and may have white keys
All of my own, and not so cold and dumb,
Nights, when I touch them!
That maybe in that world I can make sounds
Like the great, sweet ones, and may have white keys
All of my own, and not so cold and dumb,
Nights, when I touch them!
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THE NEW YEAR
Go, minister of God,
To drowsy pews where nod
Your flock, who know so well
The empty tale you tell!
Some morning go and dare
Speak what your real thoughts are,—
See them awake, and stare!
Go, father, to your sons,—
Yea, to those milder ones,
The daughters, soft and meek;
And after sermon speak
No half-truths, told with tact,
But what you think is fact.
Go, wielder of the pen!
Write for your fellow-men
What you have hinted true
In whispers to a few.
To drowsy pews where nod
Your flock, who know so well
The empty tale you tell!
Some morning go and dare
Speak what your real thoughts are,—
See them awake, and stare!
Go, father, to your sons,—
Yea, to those milder ones,
The daughters, soft and meek;
And after sermon speak
No half-truths, told with tact,
But what you think is fact.
Go, wielder of the pen!
Write for your fellow-men
What you have hinted true
In whispers to a few.
But you must look to see
What present loss 't will be?
Ah, wielder of the pen,
They will not praise you then!
Ah, minister of—Whom?—
There will be sudden room
In every velvet pew,
If you but once speak true.
Shame on you, cowards all!
Is God's great throne to fall
Except you prop it round
With your poor empty sound?
Think ye you'll ne'er be fed
Unless, by Satan led,
You bid your stones be bread?
You think the universe
Goes on from bad to worse,
And with some glittering bait
You'll coax it from its fate?
You think all truth was given
To you from cautious heaven,
To keep beneath your thumb,
And dole out, crumb by crumb,
Lest haply, if once known,
The world were overthrown?
The world—O faithless clod!
Who made it,—you, or God?
Ah, well, this seems His way:
He made the cowards, too;
He leaves the false with true—
He leaves it till the day
When suddenly men shall say,
“What! you were one,—and you?
It was no scattered few?
Why not, if we all knew,
Have told each other so,
Openly, long ago?”
What present loss 't will be?
Ah, wielder of the pen,
They will not praise you then!
Ah, minister of—Whom?—
There will be sudden room
183
If you but once speak true.
Shame on you, cowards all!
Is God's great throne to fall
Except you prop it round
With your poor empty sound?
Think ye you'll ne'er be fed
Unless, by Satan led,
You bid your stones be bread?
You think the universe
Goes on from bad to worse,
And with some glittering bait
You'll coax it from its fate?
You think all truth was given
To you from cautious heaven,
To keep beneath your thumb,
And dole out, crumb by crumb,
Lest haply, if once known,
The world were overthrown?
The world—O faithless clod!
Who made it,—you, or God?
Ah, well, this seems His way:
He made the cowards, too;
He leaves the false with true—
He leaves it till the day
When suddenly men shall say,
“What! you were one,—and you?
It was no scattered few?
Why not, if we all knew,
184
Openly, long ago?”
Yes: let us understand,
Now, on whose side we stand,—
The poor old man's at Rome,
Good but to feebly foam
At each new torch men light,
Encroaching on his night;
Or theirs, who find God's way
By no dark lantern's ray,
But in the light of day.
Now, on whose side we stand,—
The poor old man's at Rome,
Good but to feebly foam
At each new torch men light,
Encroaching on his night;
Or theirs, who find God's way
By no dark lantern's ray,
But in the light of day.
Of all the pillars fair
Holding the world in air,
Canst thou one shaft espy
Based on a crafty lie?
Is but one column there
A sham, an empty shell?
Not one? Then hew away,
All good right arms that may:
No falsehood we can fell
Holds up God's citadel.
For every cheat that falls,
The firmer stand the walls.
For all that 's cleared away
Of rubbish and decay,
The sounder stand and shine
The square-hewn walls divine.
O younger souls! for you
'T is easy to be true.
Dear spirit, far or near
Let this new-risen year
Be a new birth to thee;
Stand forth—be wholly free.
Count not what it shall cost,—
Given for the world—not lost,
Deep down within thy heart,
If thou dost feel it start,—
Some longing to be free,
Some fresh fidelity,
Some blush upon the cheek
For all the past, so weak;
Some manlier will to dare,—
If thou dost feel it stir,
Grieve not the messenger:
Thy better angel there
Thou hearest, unaware.
Holding the world in air,
Canst thou one shaft espy
Based on a crafty lie?
Is but one column there
A sham, an empty shell?
Not one? Then hew away,
All good right arms that may:
No falsehood we can fell
Holds up God's citadel.
For every cheat that falls,
The firmer stand the walls.
For all that 's cleared away
Of rubbish and decay,
The sounder stand and shine
The square-hewn walls divine.
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'T is easy to be true.
Dear spirit, far or near
Let this new-risen year
Be a new birth to thee;
Stand forth—be wholly free.
Count not what it shall cost,—
Given for the world—not lost,
Deep down within thy heart,
If thou dost feel it start,—
Some longing to be free,
Some fresh fidelity,
Some blush upon the cheek
For all the past, so weak;
Some manlier will to dare,—
If thou dost feel it stir,
Grieve not the messenger:
Thy better angel there
Thou hearest, unaware.
186
THE TRUANT
“Sent out, was I, to turn the sod?
What waste of such a day!
Who would not, under blue like that,
Fling the old spade away?
If they but knew the ripples' plash,
And loved the lark as I!
How could one dig, and half the time
Gaze at the luscious sky?
Better to watch my dipping kite
Go swaying up the cloud,
Or mock the tireless thrush, or shout
My own free songs aloud.”
What waste of such a day!
Who would not, under blue like that,
Fling the old spade away?
If they but knew the ripples' plash,
And loved the lark as I!
How could one dig, and half the time
Gaze at the luscious sky?
Better to watch my dipping kite
Go swaying up the cloud,
Or mock the tireless thrush, or shout
My own free songs aloud.”
So half the day he gazed, and wished
The tugging kite to be,
And wondered if that endless sky
Was not eternity.
Or, tossing snowy pebbles out
Beyond the lake's gray rim,
He stood to watch the ripple-ranks
Come ringing back to him.
The tugging kite to be,
And wondered if that endless sky
Was not eternity.
Or, tossing snowy pebbles out
Beyond the lake's gray rim,
He stood to watch the ripple-ranks
Come ringing back to him.
Was it, I wonder, loitering there
Only an idle boy?
Or was it a poet, claiming so
His heritage of joy?
Who watched above the rounded world
His fancy float and swim,
Or tossed his dreams out, watching men's
Brave deeds ring back to him.
Only an idle boy?
187
His heritage of joy?
Who watched above the rounded world
His fancy float and swim,
Or tossed his dreams out, watching men's
Brave deeds ring back to him.
188
SPRING
When is it Spring? When spirits rise,
Pure crocus-buds, where the snow dies;
When children play outdoors till dark;
When the sap trickles up the bark;
When bits of blue sky flit and sing,
Playing at birds—then is it Spring?
Pure crocus-buds, where the snow dies;
When children play outdoors till dark;
When the sap trickles up the bark;
When bits of blue sky flit and sing,
Playing at birds—then is it Spring?
When is it Spring? When the bee hums;
When through the opened window comes
The breeze, and summer-license claims
To swing and toss the picture frames;
When the walk dries; the robins call;
The brown hens doze by the sunny wall,
One foot drawn up to warm, or sing,
With half-filmed eyes—then is it Spring?
When through the opened window comes
The breeze, and summer-license claims
To swing and toss the picture frames;
When the walk dries; the robins call;
The brown hens doze by the sunny wall,
One foot drawn up to warm, or sing,
With half-filmed eyes—then is it Spring?
Nay, each might prove a treacherous sign:
But when old waters seem new wine;
When all our mates are half divine;
When love comes easier than hate;
When we have no more shrugs at Fate,
But think sometimes of God, and late
Our swiftest serving seems to be;
When bright ways numberless we see,
And thoughts spring up, and hopes run free,
And wild new dreams are all on wing,
Till we must either fly or sing
With riotous life—be sure 't is Spring.
But when old waters seem new wine;
When all our mates are half divine;
When love comes easier than hate;
When we have no more shrugs at Fate,
But think sometimes of God, and late
Our swiftest serving seems to be;
When bright ways numberless we see,
189
And wild new dreams are all on wing,
Till we must either fly or sing
With riotous life—be sure 't is Spring.
190
TRANQUILLITY
Weary, and marred with care and pain
And bruising days, the human brain
Draws wounded inward,—it might be
Some delicate creature of the sea,
That, shuddering, shrinks its lucent dome,
And coils its azure tendrils home,
And folds its filmy curtains tight
At jarring contact, e'er so light;
But let it float away all free,
And feel the buoyant, supple sea
Among its tinted streamers swell,
Again it spreads its gauzy wings,
And, waving its wan fringes, swings
With rhythmic pulse its crystal bell.
And bruising days, the human brain
Draws wounded inward,—it might be
Some delicate creature of the sea,
That, shuddering, shrinks its lucent dome,
And coils its azure tendrils home,
And folds its filmy curtains tight
At jarring contact, e'er so light;
But let it float away all free,
And feel the buoyant, supple sea
Among its tinted streamers swell,
Again it spreads its gauzy wings,
And, waving its wan fringes, swings
With rhythmic pulse its crystal bell.
So let the mind, with care o'erwrought,
Float down the tranquil tides of thought:
Calm visions of unending years
Beyond this little moment's fears;
Of boundless regions far from where
The girdle of the azure air
Binds to the earth the prisoned mind.
Set free the fancy, till it find
Beyond our world a vaster place
To thrill and vibrate out through space,—
As some auroral banner streams
Up through the night in pulsing gleams,
And floats and flashes o'er our dreams;
There let the whirling planet fall
Down—down, till but a glimmering ball,
A misty star: and dwindled so,
There is no room for care, or woe,
Or wish, apart from that one Will
That doth the worlds with music fill.
Float down the tranquil tides of thought:
Calm visions of unending years
Beyond this little moment's fears;
Of boundless regions far from where
The girdle of the azure air
Binds to the earth the prisoned mind.
Set free the fancy, till it find
Beyond our world a vaster place
191
As some auroral banner streams
Up through the night in pulsing gleams,
And floats and flashes o'er our dreams;
There let the whirling planet fall
Down—down, till but a glimmering ball,
A misty star: and dwindled so,
There is no room for care, or woe,
Or wish, apart from that one Will
That doth the worlds with music fill.
192
IN A FAR COUNTRY
Once, in a dream, in a bleak, sea-blown land,
A man wreck-stranded many a month before
Saw for a moment—not the broken oar,
Nor sand-sunk keel; nor wild men that would stand
With uncouth gibberish on either hand
If he walked forth, or peered about the door
Where stretched he lay on his rude hut's beach-floor;
Nor heard the dull waves fretting at the sand:
A man wreck-stranded many a month before
Saw for a moment—not the broken oar,
Nor sand-sunk keel; nor wild men that would stand
With uncouth gibberish on either hand
If he walked forth, or peered about the door
Where stretched he lay on his rude hut's beach-floor;
Nor heard the dull waves fretting at the sand:
But heard once more, this blessed dream within,
The mother-tongue heard not these many years,
And old familiar motions had their power;
Saw, for once more, the faces of his kin,
And took their hands, half-laughing, half in tears,
And it was home, home, home, for this one hour.
The mother-tongue heard not these many years,
And old familiar motions had their power;
Saw, for once more, the faces of his kin,
And took their hands, half-laughing, half in tears,
And it was home, home, home, for this one hour.
193
THE WONDERFUL THOUGHT
It comes upon me in the woods,
Of all the days, this day in May:
When wind and rain can never think
Whose turn 't is now to have its way.
Of all the days, this day in May:
When wind and rain can never think
Whose turn 't is now to have its way.
It finds me as I lie along,
Blinking up through the swaying trees,
Half wondering if a man who reads
“Blue sky” in books that color sees,—
Blinking up through the swaying trees,
Half wondering if a man who reads
“Blue sky” in books that color sees,—
So fathomless and pure: as if
All loveliest azure things have gone
To heaven that way,—the flowers, the sea,—
And left their color there alone.
All loveliest azure things have gone
To heaven that way,—the flowers, the sea,—
And left their color there alone.
Hark! leaning on each other's arms,
The pines are whispering in the breeze,
Whispering,—then hushing, half in awe
Their legends of primeval seas.
The pines are whispering in the breeze,
Whispering,—then hushing, half in awe
Their legends of primeval seas.
The wild things of the wood come out,
And stir or hide, as wild things will,
Like thoughts that may not be pursued,
But come if one is calm and still.
And stir or hide, as wild things will,
Like thoughts that may not be pursued,
But come if one is calm and still.
194
Deep hemlocks down the gorge shut in
Their caves with hollow shadow filled,
Where little feathered anchorites
Behind a sunlit lattice build.
Their caves with hollow shadow filled,
Where little feathered anchorites
Behind a sunlit lattice build.
And glimmering through that lace of boughs,
Dancing, while they hang darker still,
Along the restful river shines
The restless light's incessant thrill:
Dancing, while they hang darker still,
Along the restful river shines
The restless light's incessant thrill:
As in some sober, silent soul,
Whose life appears a tranquil stream,
Through some unguarded rift you catch
The wildest wishes, all agleam.
Whose life appears a tranquil stream,
Through some unguarded rift you catch
The wildest wishes, all agleam.
But to my thought—so wonderful!
I know if once 't were told, all men
Would feel it warm at heart, and life
Be more than it had ever been.
I know if once 't were told, all men
Would feel it warm at heart, and life
Be more than it had ever been.
'T would make these flowerless woods laugh out
With every garden-color bright,
Where only, now, the dogwood hangs
Its scattered cloud of ghostly white.
With every garden-color bright,
Where only, now, the dogwood hangs
Its scattered cloud of ghostly white.
Those birds would hold no more aloof:—
How know they I am here, so well?
'T is yon woodpecker's warning note;
He is their seer and sentinel.
How know they I am here, so well?
'T is yon woodpecker's warning note;
He is their seer and sentinel.
195
They use him, but his faithfulness
Perchance in human fashion pay,—
Laugh in their feathers at his voice,
And ridicule his stumbling way.
Perchance in human fashion pay,—
Laugh in their feathers at his voice,
And ridicule his stumbling way.
That far-off flute-note—hours in vain
I 've followed it, so shy and fleet;
But if I found him, well I know
His song would seem not half so sweet.
I 've followed it, so shy and fleet;
But if I found him, well I know
His song would seem not half so sweet.
The swift, soft creatures,—how I wish
They 'd trust me, and come perch upon
My shoulders! Do they guess that then
Their charm would be forever gone?
They 'd trust me, and come perch upon
My shoulders! Do they guess that then
Their charm would be forever gone?
But still I prate of sight and sound;
Ah, well, 't is always so in rhyme;
The idle fancies find a voice,
The wise thought waits—another time.
Ah, well, 't is always so in rhyme;
The idle fancies find a voice,
The wise thought waits—another time.
196
TO “THE RADICAL”
1871
After sleep, the waking;After night, dawn breaking;
After silence long,
A burst of song.
We knew thou wert not gone,
To leave us without champion—
Our first free voice 'mid servile tongues
And secret sneers and bigot wrongs:
With good Thor-hammer beating down
The tyrant lie with tinsel crown;
With message, now unsealed again,
Of love to God in love to men.
Who calls thy manner cold as snow?
Can pure spring have the summer's glow,
Or crocus-buds like roses blow?
Who says the dawn is vague and gray?
So clear, the sight can reach away
To stainless peaks that shine afar
And dim beyond the morning star.
Choose who may the summer noon,
Longing to be let alone,—
Force unstrung, and vigor gone.
197
Morning air to tempt the wing;
Distance, cool and clear and still,
For the eye to pierce at will.
Welcome, O vanward voice!
Sound on! Be strong! Rejoice!
And so, in thy fresh history,
Foretell the world-old mystery,
Hinting what is to be
For us, as now for thee.
After sleep, the waking;
After night, dawn breaking;
After silence long,
A burst of song.
198
THE INVISIBLE
If there is naught but what we see,
What is the wide world worth to me?
But is there naught save what we see?
A thousand things on every hand
My sense is numb to understand:
I know we eddy round the sun;
When has it dizzied any one?
I know the round worlds draw from far,
Through hollow systems, star to star;
But who has e'er upon a strand
Of those great cables laid his hand?
What reaches up from room to room
Of chambered earth, through glare or gloom,
Through molten flood and fiery blast,
And binds our hurrying feet so fast?
'T is the earth-mother's love, that well
Will hold the motes that round her dwell:
Through granite hills you feel it stir
As lightly as through gossamer:
Its grasp unseen by mortal eyes,
Its grain no lens can analyze.
What is the wide world worth to me?
But is there naught save what we see?
A thousand things on every hand
My sense is numb to understand:
I know we eddy round the sun;
When has it dizzied any one?
I know the round worlds draw from far,
Through hollow systems, star to star;
But who has e'er upon a strand
Of those great cables laid his hand?
What reaches up from room to room
Of chambered earth, through glare or gloom,
Through molten flood and fiery blast,
And binds our hurrying feet so fast?
'T is the earth-mother's love, that well
Will hold the motes that round her dwell:
Through granite hills you feel it stir
As lightly as through gossamer:
Its grasp unseen by mortal eyes,
Its grain no lens can analyze.
199
If there is naught but what we see,
The friend I loved is lost to me:
He fell asleep; who dares to say
His spirit is so far away?
Who knows what wings are round about?
These thoughts—who proves but from without
They still are whispered? Who can think
They rise from morning's food and drink!
These thoughts that stream on like the sea,
And darkly beat incessantly
The feet of some great hope, and break,
And only broken glimmers make,
Nor ever climb the shore, to lie
And calmly mirror the far sky,
And image forth in tranquil deeps
The secret that its silence keeps.
The friend I loved is lost to me:
He fell asleep; who dares to say
His spirit is so far away?
Who knows what wings are round about?
These thoughts—who proves but from without
They still are whispered? Who can think
They rise from morning's food and drink!
These thoughts that stream on like the sea,
And darkly beat incessantly
The feet of some great hope, and break,
And only broken glimmers make,
Nor ever climb the shore, to lie
And calmly mirror the far sky,
And image forth in tranquil deeps
The secret that its silence keeps.
Because he never comes, and stands
And stretches out to me both hands,
Because he never leans before
The gate, when I set wide the door
At morning, nor is ever found
Just at my side when I turn round,
Half thinking I shall meet his eyes,
From watching the broad moon-globe rise,—
For all this, shall I homage pay
To Death, grow cold of heart, and say,
“He perished, and has ceased to be;
Another comes, but never he”?
Nay, by our wondrous being, nay!
Although his face I never see
Through all the infinite To Be,
I know he lives and cares for me.
And stretches out to me both hands,
Because he never leans before
The gate, when I set wide the door
At morning, nor is ever found
Just at my side when I turn round,
Half thinking I shall meet his eyes,
From watching the broad moon-globe rise,—
For all this, shall I homage pay
To Death, grow cold of heart, and say,
“He perished, and has ceased to be;
200
Nay, by our wondrous being, nay!
Although his face I never see
Through all the infinite To Be,
I know he lives and cares for me.
201
A DRIFTING CLOUD
Born of the shadows that it passes through,
Incessantly becoming and destroyed,
Its form unchanged, its substance ever new,
Builded from its own largess to the void;
Of steady purpose innerly aware,
Yet blindly borne upon the streaming air,—
Incessantly becoming and destroyed,
Its form unchanged, its substance ever new,
Builded from its own largess to the void;
Of steady purpose innerly aware,
Yet blindly borne upon the streaming air,—
Giving itself away, distributing
Its own abundant heart in splendid showers,
But not impoverished, since its losses bring
Perpetual renewing all the hours:
Drifting, sunlit or shadowed, to the sea,—
O cloud, thou hast a human destiny!
Its own abundant heart in splendid showers,
But not impoverished, since its losses bring
Perpetual renewing all the hours:
Drifting, sunlit or shadowed, to the sea,—
O cloud, thou hast a human destiny!
202
A REPLY
To the mother of the world,
Not for help or light or grace,
Basely I for comfort came:
And I brought my craven fears,
Late amends of useless tears,
Brought my stumbling feet so lame,
Hopes with weary pinions furled,
Every longing unattained,
All my love with self-love stained,—
Told them to her grave, mild face.
Not for help or light or grace,
Basely I for comfort came:
And I brought my craven fears,
Late amends of useless tears,
Brought my stumbling feet so lame,
Hopes with weary pinions furled,
Every longing unattained,
All my love with self-love stained,—
Told them to her grave, mild face.
And the mother of the world
Spake, and answered unto me,
In the brook that past me purled;
In the bluebird's heavenly hue,
When beyond his downward swerve
Up he glanced, a sweep of blue;
In the sunshine's shifting spray,
Drifted in beneath the tree
Where I sheltered, lest its flood
There outside should drown my blood;
In the cloud-pearl's melting curve;
In the little odorous thrill
Trembling from each blossom-bell;
In the silence of the sky,
And the thoughts that from it fell,
Floating as a snowflake will,—
So the mother answered me:
Spake, and answered unto me,
In the brook that past me purled;
In the bluebird's heavenly hue,
When beyond his downward swerve
Up he glanced, a sweep of blue;
In the sunshine's shifting spray,
Drifted in beneath the tree
Where I sheltered, lest its flood
There outside should drown my blood;
In the cloud-pearl's melting curve;
In the little odorous thrill
Trembling from each blossom-bell;
203
And the thoughts that from it fell,
Floating as a snowflake will,—
So the mother answered me:
“Child! it is not thine to see
Why at all thy life should be,
Wherefore thou must thus abide,
Foiled, repulsed, unsatisfied.
Thou hast not to prove thy right
To the earth-room and the light.
Thou hast not to justify
Thought of mine to human eye.
I have borne thee! Trust to me!
Strength and help are in thy deed;
Comfort thou shalt scorn to need.
Careless what shall come to thee,
Look but what thy work shall be.”
Why at all thy life should be,
Wherefore thou must thus abide,
Foiled, repulsed, unsatisfied.
Thou hast not to prove thy right
To the earth-room and the light.
Thou hast not to justify
Thought of mine to human eye.
I have borne thee! Trust to me!
Strength and help are in thy deed;
Comfort thou shalt scorn to need.
Careless what shall come to thee,
Look but what thy work shall be.”
204
THE SCHOOLHOUSE WINDOWS
Hope builded herself a palace
At the heart of the oak-roofed town,
And out of its airy windows
Her happy eyes looked down:
At the heart of the oak-roofed town,
And out of its airy windows
Her happy eyes looked down:
Her eyes—the beautiful eyes of Hope—
All day were shining there,
And the morning heard her merry songs
Ring out on the fresh sea-air.
All day were shining there,
And the morning heard her merry songs
Ring out on the fresh sea-air.
Full many a changing face has she
For the changing earth below,
And to each the magical windows
A different picture show.
For the changing earth below,
And to each the magical windows
A different picture show.
As when you stand in the twilight
And watch through the darkling pane,
Till the image of your face appears
Against the fading plain,
And watch through the darkling pane,
Till the image of your face appears
Against the fading plain,
And a wider world is opened,—
The ghost of the firelit room
That wavers and glows and glimmers
Beyond in the hollow gloom,—
The ghost of the firelit room
That wavers and glows and glimmers
Beyond in the hollow gloom,—
205
Till, out through the mirrored phantoms,
The stars and the spectral trees
Are the dim and columned corridors
Of wonderful palaces,
The stars and the spectral trees
Are the dim and columned corridors
Of wonderful palaces,
So each of the childish faces
That looks out into the air,
Through an image of itself must see
That colors all things there;
That looks out into the air,
Through an image of itself must see
That colors all things there;
And the hill and the azure water
Can never be twice the same,
For the hue of the seeing eye will tint
Its vision in dust or flame.
Can never be twice the same,
For the hue of the seeing eye will tint
Its vision in dust or flame.
Our lives are but what we see them;
Bright, if the eye-beams are:—
Not what shines in, but what shines out,
Makes every world a star.
Bright, if the eye-beams are:—
Not what shines in, but what shines out,
Makes every world a star.
So when at the schoolhouse windows
They stand, the guileless wise,
I peer o'er the clustered shoulders,
And see with their own bright eyes.
They stand, the guileless wise,
I peer o'er the clustered shoulders,
And see with their own bright eyes.
Then the vanishing mists of morning
Like airy portals ope,
And the hills that lift their slopes beyond
Are the boundless realms of Hope.
Like airy portals ope,
And the hills that lift their slopes beyond
Are the boundless realms of Hope.
206
The slim ships, out of the western haze,
Come moving, dim and still,
As if the sights of the solemn sea
Had awed them like a spell.
Come moving, dim and still,
As if the sights of the solemn sea
Had awed them like a spell.
And as a quiet, land-locked bay
Their schooldays seem to be,
And they long, through the gate of golden years,
To pass to the world's wide sea.
Their schooldays seem to be,
And they long, through the gate of golden years,
To pass to the world's wide sea.
Then we look from the sunny windows
On the lives that plod below,
Who guess not how, to us, their ways
'Twixt blooming gardens go;
On the lives that plod below,
Who guess not how, to us, their ways
'Twixt blooming gardens go;
And we see how every toiling life
May look serene and fair,
If the soul but climb above itself
And gaze from the upper air.
May look serene and fair,
If the soul but climb above itself
And gaze from the upper air.
But the master, after school is done,
And the children are all away,
He reads in the window-panes the thoughts
That have winged from them all day.
And the children are all away,
He reads in the window-panes the thoughts
That have winged from them all day.
As he watches the loud troop homeward,
Till the pattering feet are still,
He reads the innocent musings
That the crystal tablets fill.
Till the pattering feet are still,
He reads the innocent musings
That the crystal tablets fill.
207
There one had leaned and listened,
And heard in the empty air
Invisible armies marching
To the soundless trumpet's blare.
And heard in the empty air
Invisible armies marching
To the soundless trumpet's blare.
And one had caught the motion
Of the great world round the sun,
Till he felt on his face the rush of space
As the whirling Earth-ball spun.
Of the great world round the sun,
Till he felt on his face the rush of space
As the whirling Earth-ball spun.
The dream and the aspiration;
The glimpse of the higher home;
The noble scorn of the world that is,
And the worship of that to come:
The glimpse of the higher home;
The noble scorn of the world that is,
And the worship of that to come:
The thirst for a life diviner,
And the sigh of self-despair,
That rose through the blue to the gate of heaven
And was answered like a prayer.
And the sigh of self-despair,
That rose through the blue to the gate of heaven
And was answered like a prayer.
Ah, for him the panes are crowded
With the volumes of such lore,
And the children will catch, to-morrow,
The glimmers of days before;
With the volumes of such lore,
And the children will catch, to-morrow,
The glimmers of days before;
Till the dry and dreary lesson
In luminous letters shines,
Where the magical schoolhouse windows
Have written between the lines.
In luminous letters shines,
Where the magical schoolhouse windows
Have written between the lines.
208
But the brightest of all the windows
In the palace of Hope so fair,
Are the eyes where merry thoughts climb up
And beckon each other there.
In the palace of Hope so fair,
Are the eyes where merry thoughts climb up
And beckon each other there.
There are clear and sea-blue windows
Behind whose pencilled bars
The bright hours are all sunshine,
And the dark ones lit with stars:
Behind whose pencilled bars
The bright hours are all sunshine,
And the dark ones lit with stars:
And there are shady casements,
That gentle secrets keep,
And you seek in vain through the clouded pane
If the spirit wake or sleep:
That gentle secrets keep,
And you seek in vain through the clouded pane
If the spirit wake or sleep:
And oriels gray, where, cool and still,
The soul leans out to see,
As you shape for the prince the sword and crown
Of the king that is to be.
The soul leans out to see,
As you shape for the prince the sword and crown
Of the king that is to be.
The years of the unknown future
Even now are on the wing,
Like a flight of beautiful singing birds
From the distance hastening.
Even now are on the wing,
Like a flight of beautiful singing birds
From the distance hastening.
O children, O blind musicians,
With powers beyond your ken,
Moulding, but guessing not, the souls
That shall wear your faces then—
With powers beyond your ken,
Moulding, but guessing not, the souls
That shall wear your faces then—
209
Shall the look be clear with truth, or drear
And hollow with mocking days?
Shall the eyes be sweet with the love of man,
Or shrunk with the lust of praise?
And hollow with mocking days?
Shall the eyes be sweet with the love of man,
Or shrunk with the lust of praise?
And what, from those future windows,
Shall the magical pictures be?—
The scattered wrecks of fleets of care,
Or a blessed argosy?
Shall the magical pictures be?—
The scattered wrecks of fleets of care,
Or a blessed argosy?
Perchance when ye come and stand and muse
On the years that were half in vain,
A mist that is not of the ocean born
May be blurring the window-pane.
On the years that were half in vain,
A mist that is not of the ocean born
May be blurring the window-pane.
And one may sigh to remember
The old-time wishes there,
And the bows of empty promise
That have broken in the air.
The old-time wishes there,
And the bows of empty promise
That have broken in the air.
And some shall wonder and wonder,
As they think of the days of old,
How their world from the schoolhouse windows
Could have looked so bare and cold:
As they think of the days of old,
How their world from the schoolhouse windows
Could have looked so bare and cold:
For the mist that was thick at morning,
From the noon shall have risen and fled,
And the air shall be full of fragrance now,
From the blossoms that it fed.
From the noon shall have risen and fled,
And the air shall be full of fragrance now,
From the blossoms that it fed.
210
O friends, have the paths grown empty?
Do the winds play out of tune?
Have the early gleams of glory gone
From the sober afternoon?
Do the winds play out of tune?
Have the early gleams of glory gone
From the sober afternoon?
Then follow the little footprints
Out from your care and pain,
And the world from the schoolhouse windows
Will look all young again.
Out from your care and pain,
And the world from the schoolhouse windows
Will look all young again.
Oh, the never-forgotten schooldays!
Whose music, fresh and pure,
Is woven of hints of songs to come,
Like a beautiful overture—
Whose music, fresh and pure,
Is woven of hints of songs to come,
Like a beautiful overture—
When the spirit had not touched its bounds
Of weakness or of sin,
But the nebulous light was round it still
Of the soul it might have been.
Of weakness or of sin,
But the nebulous light was round it still
Of the soul it might have been.
Oh, the old earth will be Eden,
Fairer than that of yore,
When the young hearts all shall grow to be
What the good God meant them for!
Fairer than that of yore,
When the young hearts all shall grow to be
What the good God meant them for!
We are all but His schoolchildren,
And earth is our schoolhouse now,
Where duties are set for lessons—
Whose windows are midnight's blue.
And earth is our schoolhouse now,
Where duties are set for lessons—
Whose windows are midnight's blue.
211
And out through that starry casement,
Some night when the skies are clear,
We shall watch the mists of time lift up
And the hills of heaven appear.
Some night when the skies are clear,
We shall watch the mists of time lift up
And the hills of heaven appear.
212
A FOOLISH WISH
Why need I seek some burden small to bear
Before I go?
Will not a host of nobler souls be here,
Heaven's will to do?
Of stronger hands, unfailing, unafraid?
O silly soul! what matters my small aid
Before I go!
Before I go?
Will not a host of nobler souls be here,
Heaven's will to do?
Of stronger hands, unfailing, unafraid?
O silly soul! what matters my small aid
Before I go!
I tried to find, that I might show to them,
Before I go,
The path of purer lives: the light was dim,
I do not know
If I had found some footprints of the way;
It is too late their wandering feet to stay,
Before I go.
Before I go,
The path of purer lives: the light was dim,
I do not know
If I had found some footprints of the way;
It is too late their wandering feet to stay,
Before I go.
I would have sung the rest some song of cheer,
Before I go.
But still the chords rang false; some jar of fear,
Some jangling woe.
And at the end I cannot weave one chord
To float into their hearts my last warm word,
Before I go.
Before I go.
But still the chords rang false; some jar of fear,
Some jangling woe.
And at the end I cannot weave one chord
To float into their hearts my last warm word,
Before I go.
213
I would be satisfied if I might tell,
Before I go,
That one warm word,—how I have loved them well,
Could they but know!
And would have gained for them some gleam of good;
Have sought it long; still seek,—if but I could!
Before I go.
Before I go,
That one warm word,—how I have loved them well,
Could they but know!
And would have gained for them some gleam of good;
Have sought it long; still seek,—if but I could!
Before I go.
'T is a child's longing, on the beach at play:
“Before I go,”
He begs the beckoning mother, “Let me stay
One shell to throw!”
'T is coming night; the great sea climbs the shore,—
“Ah, let me toss one little pebble more,
Before I go!”
“Before I go,”
He begs the beckoning mother, “Let me stay
One shell to throw!”
'T is coming night; the great sea climbs the shore,—
“Ah, let me toss one little pebble more,
Before I go!”
214
THE SECRET
A tide of sun and song in beauty broke
Against a bitter heart, where no voice woke
Till thus it spoke:—
Against a bitter heart, where no voice woke
Till thus it spoke:—
What was it, in the old time that I know,
That made the world with inner beauty glow,
Now a vain show?
That made the world with inner beauty glow,
Now a vain show?
Still dance the shadows on the grass at play,
Still move the clouds like great, calm thoughts away,
Nor haste, nor stay.
Still move the clouds like great, calm thoughts away,
Nor haste, nor stay.
But I have lost that breath within the gale,
That light to which the daylight was a veil,
The star-shine pale.
That light to which the daylight was a veil,
The star-shine pale.
Still all the summer with its songs is filled,
But that delicious undertone they held—
Why is it stilled?
But that delicious undertone they held—
Why is it stilled?
Then I took heart that I would find again
The voices that had long in silence lain,
Nor live in vain.
The voices that had long in silence lain,
Nor live in vain.
215
I stood at noonday in the hollow wind,
Listened at midnight, straining heart and mind
If I might find!
Listened at midnight, straining heart and mind
If I might find!
But all in vain I sought, at eve and morn,
On sunny seas, in dripping woods forlorn,
Till tired and worn,
On sunny seas, in dripping woods forlorn,
Till tired and worn,
One day I left my solitary tent
And down into the world's bright garden went,
On labor bent.
And down into the world's bright garden went,
On labor bent.
The dew stars and the buds about my feet
Began their old bright message to repeat,
In odors sweet;
Began their old bright message to repeat,
In odors sweet;
And as I worked at weed and root in glee,
Now humming and now whistling cheerily,
It came to me,—
Now humming and now whistling cheerily,
It came to me,—
The secret of the glory that was fled
Shone like a sweep of sun all overhead,
And something said,—
Shone like a sweep of sun all overhead,
And something said,—
“The blessing came because it was not sought;
There was no care if thou were blest or not:
The beauty and the wonder all thy thought,—
Thyself forgot.”
There was no care if thou were blest or not:
The beauty and the wonder all thy thought,—
Thyself forgot.”
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |