 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
346
LATER POEMS
A MORNING THOUGHT
What if some morning, when the stars were paling,
And the dawn whitened, and the East was clear,
Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence
Of a benignant Spirit standing near:
And the dawn whitened, and the East was clear,
Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence
Of a benignant Spirit standing near:
And I should tell him, as he stood beside me,
“This is our Earth—most friendly Earth, and fair;
Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow
Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air:
“This is our Earth—most friendly Earth, and fair;
Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow
Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air:
“There is blest living here, loving and serving,
And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear;
But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer,—
His name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here!”
And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear;
But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer,—
His name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here!”
And what if then, while the still morning brightened,
And freshened in the elm the Summer's breath,
Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel
And take my hand and say, “My name is Death!”
And freshened in the elm the Summer's breath,
Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel
And take my hand and say, “My name is Death!”
347
STRANGE
He died at night. Next day they came
To weep and praise him: sudden fame
These suddenly warm comrades gave.
They called him pure, they called him brave;
One praised his heart, and one his brain;
All said, You 'd seek his like in vain,—
Gentle, and strong, and good: none saw
In all his character a flaw.
To weep and praise him: sudden fame
These suddenly warm comrades gave.
They called him pure, they called him brave;
One praised his heart, and one his brain;
All said, You 'd seek his like in vain,—
Gentle, and strong, and good: none saw
In all his character a flaw.
At noon he wakened from his trance,
Mended, was well! They looked askance;
Took his hand coldly; loved him not,
Though they had wept him; quite forgot
His virtues; lent an easy ear
To slanderous tongues; professed a fear
He was not what he seemed to be;
Thanked God they were not such as he;
Gave to his hunger stones for bread;
And made him, living, wish him dead.
Mended, was well! They looked askance;
Took his hand coldly; loved him not,
Though they had wept him; quite forgot
His virtues; lent an easy ear
To slanderous tongues; professed a fear
He was not what he seemed to be;
Thanked God they were not such as he;
Gave to his hunger stones for bread;
And made him, living, wish him dead.
348
MOODS
Dawn has blossomed: the sun is nigh:
Pearl and rose in the wimpled sky,
Rose and pearl on a brightening blue.
(She is true, and she is true!)
Pearl and rose in the wimpled sky,
Rose and pearl on a brightening blue.
(She is true, and she is true!)
The noonday lies all warm and still
And calm, and over sleeping hill
And wheatfields falls a dreamy hue.
(If she be true—if she be true!)
And calm, and over sleeping hill
And wheatfields falls a dreamy hue.
(If she be true—if she be true!)
The patient evening comes, most sad and fair:
Veiled are the stars; the dim and quiet air
Breathes bitter scents of hidden myrrh and rue.
(If she were true—if she were only true!)
Veiled are the stars; the dim and quiet air
Breathes bitter scents of hidden myrrh and rue.
(If she were true—if she were only true!)
349
THE BOOK OF HOURS
As one who reads a tale writ in a tongueHe only partly knows,—runs over it
And follows but the story, losing wit
And charm, and half the subtle links among
The haps and harms that the book's folk beset,—
So do we with our life. Night comes, and morn:
I know that one has died and one is born;
That this by love and that by hate is met.
But all the grace and glory of it fail
To touch me, and the meanings they enfold.
The Spirit of the World hath told the tale,
And tells it: and 't is very wise and old.
But o'er the page there is a mist and veil:
I do not know the tongue in which 't is told.
350
“WORDS, WORDS, WORDS”
TO ONE WHO FLOUTED THEM AS VAIN
I
Am I not weary of them as your heart
Or ever Hamlet's was?—the empty ones,
Mere breath of passing air, mere hollow tones
That idle winds to broken reeds impart.
Or ever Hamlet's was?—the empty ones,
Mere breath of passing air, mere hollow tones
That idle winds to broken reeds impart.
Have they not cursed my life?—sounds I mistook
For sacred verities,—love, faith, delight,
And the sweet tales that women tell at night,
When darkness hides the falsehood of the look.
For sacred verities,—love, faith, delight,
And the sweet tales that women tell at night,
When darkness hides the falsehood of the look.
I was the one of all Ulysses' crew
(What time he stopped their ears) that leaped and fled
Unto the sirens, for the honey-dew
(What time he stopped their ears) that leaped and fled
Unto the sirens, for the honey-dew
Of their dear songs. The poets me have fed
With the same poisoned fruit. And even you,—
Did you not pluck them for me in days dead?
With the same poisoned fruit. And even you,—
Did you not pluck them for me in days dead?
II
Nay, they do bear a blessing and a power,—
Great words and true, that bridge from soul to soul
The awful cloud-depths that betwixt us roll.
I will not have them so blasphemed. This hour,
This little hour of life, this lean to-day,—
What were it worth but for those mighty dreams
That sweep from down the past on sounding streams
Of such high-thoughted words as poets say?
Great words and true, that bridge from soul to soul
The awful cloud-depths that betwixt us roll.
I will not have them so blasphemed. This hour,
351
What were it worth but for those mighty dreams
That sweep from down the past on sounding streams
Of such high-thoughted words as poets say?
What, but for Shakespeare's and for Homer's lay,
And bards whose sacred names all lips repeat?
Words,—only words; yet, save for tongue and pen
And bards whose sacred names all lips repeat?
Words,—only words; yet, save for tongue and pen
Of those great givers of them unto men,
And burdens they still bear of grave or sweet,
This world were but for beasts, a darkling den.
And burdens they still bear of grave or sweet,
This world were but for beasts, a darkling den.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |