 | The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich |  |
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INTERLUDES
PRESCIENCE
The new moon hung in the sky,
The sun was low in the west,
And my betrothed and I
In the churchyard paused to rest—
Happy maiden and lover,
Dreaming the old dream over:
The light winds wandered by,
And robins chirped from the nest.
The sun was low in the west,
And my betrothed and I
In the churchyard paused to rest—
Happy maiden and lover,
Dreaming the old dream over:
The light winds wandered by,
And robins chirped from the nest.
And lo! in the meadow-sweet
Was the grave of a little child,
With a crumbling stone at the feet,
And the ivy running wild—
Tangled ivy and clover
Folding it over and over:
Close to my sweetheart's feet
Was the little mound up-piled.
Was the grave of a little child,
With a crumbling stone at the feet,
And the ivy running wild—
Tangled ivy and clover
Folding it over and over:
Close to my sweetheart's feet
Was the little mound up-piled.
Stricken with nameless fears,
She shrank and clung to me,
And her eyes were filled with tears
For a sorrow I did not see:
Lightly the winds were blowing,
Softly her tears were flowing—
Tears for the unknown years
And a sorrow that was to be!
She shrank and clung to me,
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For a sorrow I did not see:
Lightly the winds were blowing,
Softly her tears were flowing—
Tears for the unknown years
And a sorrow that was to be!
MEMORY
My mind lets go a thousand things,Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
And yet recalls the very hour—
'T was noon by yonder village tower,
And on the last blue noon in May—
The wind came briskly up this way,
Crisping the brook beside the road;
Then, pausing here, set down its load
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
A MOOD
A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness—Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness;
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A sense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence;
A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken—
Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.
ACT V
[Midnight]
First, two white arms that held him very close,And ever closer as he drew him back
Reluctantly, the unbound golden hair
A thousand delicate fibres reaching out
Still to detain him; then some twenty steps
Of iron staircase winding round and down,
And ending in a narrow gallery hung
With Gobelin tapestries—Andromeda
Rescued by Perseus, and the sleek Diana
With her nymphs bathing; at the farther end
A door that gave upon a starlit grove
Of citron and dwarf cypress; then a path
As bleached as moonlight, with the shadow of leaves
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Of solid masonry; and last of all
A Gothic archway packed with night, and then—
A sudden gleaming dagger through his heart.
GUILIELMUS REX
The folk who lived in Shakespeare's day
And saw that gentle figure pass
By London Bridge, his frequent way—
They little knew what man he was.
And saw that gentle figure pass
By London Bridge, his frequent way—
They little knew what man he was.
The pointed beard, the courteous mien,
The equal port to high and low,
All this they saw or might have seen—
But not the light behind the brow!
The equal port to high and low,
All this they saw or might have seen—
But not the light behind the brow!
The doublet's modest gray or brown,
The slender sword-hilt's plain device,
What sign had these for prince or clown?
Few turned, or none, to scan him twice.
The slender sword-hilt's plain device,
What sign had these for prince or clown?
Few turned, or none, to scan him twice.
Yet 't was the king of England's kings!
The rest with all their pomps and trains
Are mouldered, half-remembered things—
'T is he alone that lives and reigns!
The rest with all their pomps and trains
Are mouldered, half-remembered things—
'T is he alone that lives and reigns!
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A DEDICATION
Take these rhymes into thy grace,
Since they are of thy begetting,
Lady, that dost make each place
Where thou art a jewel's setting.
Since they are of thy begetting,
Lady, that dost make each place
Where thou art a jewel's setting.
Some such glamour lend this Book:
Let it be thy poet's wages
That henceforth thy gracious look
Lies reflected on its pages.
Let it be thy poet's wages
That henceforth thy gracious look
Lies reflected on its pages.
“PILLARED ARCH AND SCULPTURED TOWER”
Pillared arch and sculptured towerOf Ilium have had their hour;
The dust of many a king is blown
On the winds from zone to zone;
Many a warrior sleeps unknown.
Time and Death hold each in thrall,
Yet is Love the lord of all;
Still does Helen's beauty stir
Because a poet sang of her!
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THRENODY
H. H. B.
I
Upon your hearse this flower I lay.Brief be your sleep! You shall be known
When lesser men have had their day;
Fame blossoms where true seed is sown,
Or soon or late, let Time wrong what it may.
II
Unvexed by any dream of fame,You smiled, and bade the world pass by;
But I—I turned, and saw a name
Shaping itself against the sky—
White star that rose amid the battle's flame!
III
Brief be your sleep, for I would seeYour laurels—ah, how trivial now
To him must earthly laurel be
Who wears the amaranth on his brow!
How vain the voices of mortality!
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SESTET
(Sent to a friend with a volume of Tennyson)
Wouldst know the clash of knightly steel on steel?Or list the throstle singing loud and clear?
Or walk at twilight by some haunted mere
In Surrey; or in throbbing London feel
Life's pulse at highest—hark, the minster's peal! ...
Turn but the page, that various world is here!
NECROMANCY
Through a chance fissure of the churchyard wallA creeping vine puts forth a single spray,
At whose slim end a starry blossom droops
Full to the soft vermilion of a rose
That reaches up on tiptoe for the kiss.
Not them the wren disturbs, nor the loud bee
That buzzes homeward with his load of sweets;
And thus they linger, flowery lip to lip,
Heedless of all, in rapturous mute embrace.
Some necromancy here! These two, I think,
Were once unhappy lovers upon earth.
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FOREVER AND A DAY
SONG
I
I little know or careIf the blackbird on the bough
Is filling all the air
With his soft crescendo now;
For she is gone away,
And when she went she took
The springtime in her look,
The peachblow on her cheek,
The laughter from the brook,
The blue from out the May—
And what she calls a week
Is forever and a day!
II
It's little that I mindHow the blossoms, pink or white,
At every touch of wind
Fall a-trembling with delight;
For in the leafy lane,
Beneath the garden-boughs,
And through the silent house
One thing alone I seek.
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The May is not the May,
And what she calls a week
Is forever and a day!
A TOUCH OF NATURE
When first the crocus thrusts its point of goldUp through the still snow-drifted garden mould,
And folded green things in dim woods unclose
Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes
Into my veins and makes me kith and kin
To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows.
Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire,
Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din,
Far from the brambly paths I used to know,
Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine
Where the Neponset alders take their glow,
I share the tremulous sense of bud and brier
And inarticulate ardors of the vine.
“I'LL NOT CONFER WITH SORROW”
I'll not confer with Sorrow
Till to-morrow;
But Joy shall have her way
This very day.
Till to-morrow;
But Joy shall have her way
This very day.
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Ho, eglantine and cresses
For her tresses!—
Let Care, the beggar, wait
Outside the gate.
For her tresses!—
Let Care, the beggar, wait
Outside the gate.
Tears if you will—but after
Mirth and laughter;
Then, folded hands on breast
And endless rest.
Mirth and laughter;
Then, folded hands on breast
And endless rest.
IN THE BELFRY OF THE NIEUWE KERK
(AMSTERDAM)
Not a breath in the stifled, dingy street!
On the Stadhuis tiles the sun's deep glow
Lies like a kind of golden snow;
In the square one almost sees the heat.
The mottled tulips over there
By the open casement pant for air.
Grave, portly burghers, with their vrouws,
Go hat in hand to cool their brows.
On the Stadhuis tiles the sun's deep glow
Lies like a kind of golden snow;
In the square one almost sees the heat.
The mottled tulips over there
By the open casement pant for air.
Grave, portly burghers, with their vrouws,
Go hat in hand to cool their brows.
But high in the fretted steeple, where
The sudden chimes burst forth and scare
The lazy rooks from the belfry rail,
Up here, behold! there blows a gale—
Such a wind as bends the forest tree,
And rocks the great ships out at sea!
The sudden chimes burst forth and scare
The lazy rooks from the belfry rail,
Up here, behold! there blows a gale—
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And rocks the great ships out at sea!
Plain simple folk, who come and go
On humble levels of life below,
Little dream of the gales that smite
Mortals dwelling upon the height.
On humble levels of life below,
Little dream of the gales that smite
Mortals dwelling upon the height.
NO SONGS IN WINTER
The sky is gray as gray may be,
There is no bird upon the bough,
There is no leaf on vine or tree.
There is no bird upon the bough,
There is no leaf on vine or tree.
In the Neponset marshes now
Willow-stems, rosy in the wind,
Shiver with hidden sense of snow.
Willow-stems, rosy in the wind,
Shiver with hidden sense of snow.
So too 't is winter in my mind,
No light-winged fancy comes and stays:
A season churlish and unkind.
No light-winged fancy comes and stays:
A season churlish and unkind.
Slow creep the hours, slow creep the days,
The black ink crusts upon the pen—
Wait till the bluebirds and the jays
And golden orioles come again!
The black ink crusts upon the pen—
Wait till the bluebirds and the jays
And golden orioles come again!
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A PARABLE
One went East, and one went WestAcross the wild sea-foam,
And both were on the self-same quest.
Now one there was who cared for naught,
So stayed at home:
Yet of the three 't was only he
Who reached the goal—by him unsought.
INSOMNIA
Slumber, hasten down this way,
And, ere midnight dies,
Silence lay upon my lips,
Darkness on my eyes.
And, ere midnight dies,
Silence lay upon my lips,
Darkness on my eyes.
Send me a fantastic dream;
Fashion me afresh;
Into some celestial thing
Change this mortal flesh.
Fashion me afresh;
Into some celestial thing
Change this mortal flesh.
Well I know one may not choose;
One is helpless still
In the purple realm of Sleep:
Use me as you will.
One is helpless still
In the purple realm of Sleep:
Use me as you will.
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Let me be a frozen pine
In dead glacier lands;
Let me pant, a leopard stretched
On the Libyan sands.
In dead glacier lands;
Let me pant, a leopard stretched
On the Libyan sands.
Silver fin or scarlet wing
Grant me, either one;
Sink me deep in emerald glooms,
Lift me to the sun.
Grant me, either one;
Sink me deep in emerald glooms,
Lift me to the sun.
Or of me a gargoyle make,
Face of ape or gnome,
Such as frights the tavern-boor
Reeling drunken home.
Face of ape or gnome,
Such as frights the tavern-boor
Reeling drunken home.
Work on me your own caprice,
Give me any shape;
Only, Slumber, from myself
Let myself escape!
Give me any shape;
Only, Slumber, from myself
Let myself escape!
SEEMING DEFEAT
The woodland silence, one time stirred
By the soft pathos of some passing bird,
Is not the same it was before.
The spot where once, unseen, a flower
Has held its fragile chalice to the shower,
Is different for evermore.
Unheard, unseen
A spell has been!
By the soft pathos of some passing bird,
Is not the same it was before.
The spot where once, unseen, a flower
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Is different for evermore.
Unheard, unseen
A spell has been!
O thou that breathest year by year
Music that falls unheeded on the ear,
Take heart, fate has not baffled thee!
Thou that with tints of earth and skies
Fillest thy canvas for unseeing eyes,
Thou hast not labored futilely.
Unheard, unseen
A spell has been!
Music that falls unheeded on the ear,
Take heart, fate has not baffled thee!
Thou that with tints of earth and skies
Fillest thy canvas for unseeing eyes,
Thou hast not labored futilely.
Unheard, unseen
A spell has been!
“LIKE CRUSOE, WALKING BY THE LONELY STRAND”
Like Crusoe, walking by the lonely strandAnd seeing a human footprint on the sand,
Have I this day been startled, finding here,
Set in brown mould and delicately clear,
Spring's footprint—the first crocus of the year!
O sweet invasion! Farewell solitude!
Soon shall wild creatures of the field and wood
Flock from all sides with much ado and stir,
And make of me most willing prisoner!
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KNOWLEDGE
Knowledge—who hath it? Nay, not thou,Pale student, pondering thy futile lore!
After a space it shall be thine, as now
'T is his whose funeral passes at thy door.
Couldst thou but see with those deep-sealèd eyes,
What lore were thine! The Dead alone are wise.
THE LETTER
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887
I held his letter in my hand,
And even while I read
The lightning flashed across the land
The word that he was dead.
And even while I read
The lightning flashed across the land
The word that he was dead.
How strange it seemed! His living voice
Was speaking from the page
Those courteous phrases, tersely choice,
Light-hearted, witty, sage.
Was speaking from the page
Those courteous phrases, tersely choice,
Light-hearted, witty, sage.
I wondered what it was that died!
The man himself was here,
His modesty, his scholar's pride,
His soul serene and clear.
The man himself was here,
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His soul serene and clear.
These neither death nor time shall dim,
Still this sad thing must be—
Henceforth I may not speak to him,
Though he can speak to me!
Still this sad thing must be—
Henceforth I may not speak to him,
Though he can speak to me!
“IN YOUTH, BESIDE THE LONELY SEA”
In youth, beside the lonely sea,
Voices and visions came to me.
Voices and visions came to me.
Titania and her furtive broods
Were my familiars in the woods.
Were my familiars in the woods.
From every flower that broke in flame
Some half-articulate whisper came.
Some half-articulate whisper came.
In every wind I felt the stir
Of some celestial messenger.
Of some celestial messenger.
Later, amid the city's din
And toil and wealth and want and sin,
And toil and wealth and want and sin,
They followed me from street to street,
The dreams that made my boyhood sweet.
The dreams that made my boyhood sweet.
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As in the silence-haunted glen,
So, mid the crowded ways of men,
So, mid the crowded ways of men,
Strange lights my errant fancy led,
Strange watchers watched beside my bed.
Strange watchers watched beside my bed.
Ill fortune had no shafts for me
In this aerial company.
In this aerial company.
Now one by one the visions fly,
And one by one the voices die;
And one by one the voices die;
More distantly the accents ring,
More frequent the receding wing.
More frequent the receding wing.
Full dark shall be the days in store,
When voice and vision come no more!
When voice and vision come no more!
“GREAT CAPTAIN, GLORIOUS IN OUR WARS”
Great Captain, glorious in our wars—
No meed of praise we hold from him;
About his brow we wreathe the stars
The coming ages shall not dim.
No meed of praise we hold from him;
About his brow we wreathe the stars
The coming ages shall not dim.
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The cloud-sent man! Was it not he
That from the hand of adverse fate
Snatched the white flower of victory?
He spoke no word, but saved the State.
That from the hand of adverse fate
Snatched the white flower of victory?
He spoke no word, but saved the State.
Yet History, as she brooding bends
Above the tablet on her knee,
The impartial stylus half suspends,
And fain would blot the cold decree:
Above the tablet on her knee,
The impartial stylus half suspends,
And fain would blot the cold decree:
“The iron hand and sleepless care
That stayed disaster scarce availed
To serve him when he came to wear
The civic laurel: there he failed.”
That stayed disaster scarce availed
To serve him when he came to wear
The civic laurel: there he failed.”
Who runs may read; but nothing mars
That nobler record unforgot.
Great Captain, glorious in our wars—
All else the heart remembers not.
That nobler record unforgot.
Great Captain, glorious in our wars—
All else the heart remembers not.
THE WINTER ROBIN
Sursum corda
Now is that sad time of year
When no flower or leaf is here;
When in misty Southern ways
Oriole and jay have flown,
And of all sweet birds, alone
The robin stays.
When no flower or leaf is here;
When in misty Southern ways
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And of all sweet birds, alone
The robin stays.
So give thanks at Christmas-tide;
Hopes of springtime yet abide!
See, in spite of darksome days,
Wind and rain and bitter chill,
Snow, and sleet-hung branches, still
The robin stays!
Hopes of springtime yet abide!
See, in spite of darksome days,
Wind and rain and bitter chill,
Snow, and sleet-hung branches, still
The robin stays!
A REFRAIN
High in a tower she sings,
I, passing by beneath,
Pause and listen, and catch
These words of passionate breath—
“Asphodel, flower of Life; amaranth, flower of Death!”
I, passing by beneath,
Pause and listen, and catch
These words of passionate breath—
“Asphodel, flower of Life; amaranth, flower of Death!”
Sweet voice, sweet unto tears!
What is this that she saith?
Poignant, mystical—hark!
Again with passionate breath—
“Asphodel, flower of Life; amaranth, flower of Death!”
What is this that she saith?
Poignant, mystical—hark!
Again with passionate breath—
“Asphodel, flower of Life; amaranth, flower of Death!”
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THE VOICE OF THE SEA
In the hush of the autumn night
I hear the voice of the sea,
In the hush of the autumn night
It seems to say to me—
Mine are the winds above,
Mine are the caves below,
Mine are the dead of yesterday
And the dead of long ago!
I hear the voice of the sea,
In the hush of the autumn night
It seems to say to me—
Mine are the winds above,
Mine are the caves below,
Mine are the dead of yesterday
And the dead of long ago!
And I think of the fleet that sailed
From the lovely Gloucester shore,
I think of the fleet that sailed
And came back nevermore;
My eyes are filled with tears,
And my heart is numb with woe—
It seems as if 't were yesterday,
And it all was long ago!
From the lovely Gloucester shore,
I think of the fleet that sailed
And came back nevermore;
My eyes are filled with tears,
And my heart is numb with woe—
It seems as if 't were yesterday,
And it all was long ago!
ART
“Let art be all in all,” one time I said,
And straightway stirred the hypercritic gall.
I said not, “Let technique be all in all,”
But art—a wider meaning. Worthless, dead—
The shell without its pearl, the corpse of things—
Mere words are, till the spirit lend them wings.
The poet who wakes no soul within his lute
Falls short of art: 't were better he were mute.
And straightway stirred the hypercritic gall.
I said not, “Let technique be all in all,”
But art—a wider meaning. Worthless, dead—
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Mere words are, till the spirit lend them wings.
The poet who wakes no soul within his lute
Falls short of art: 't were better he were mute.
The workmanship wherewith the gold is wrought
Adds yet a richness to the richest gold;
Who lacks the art to shape his thought, I hold,
Were little poorer if he lacked the thought.
The statue's slumber were unbroken still
In the dull marble, had the hand no skill.
Disparage not the magic touch that gives
The formless thought the grace whereby it lives!
Adds yet a richness to the richest gold;
Who lacks the art to shape his thought, I hold,
Were little poorer if he lacked the thought.
The statue's slumber were unbroken still
In the dull marble, had the hand no skill.
Disparage not the magic touch that gives
The formless thought the grace whereby it lives!
IMOGEN
LEONATUS POSTHUMUS speaks:Sorrow, make a verse for me
That shall breathe all human grieving;
Let it be love's exequy,
And the knell of all believing!
Let it such sweet pathos have
As a violet on a grave,
Or a dove's moan when his mate
Leaves the new nest desolate.
Sorrow, Sorrow, by this token,
Braid a wreath for Beauty's head. ...
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Should be woven with the rue.
Sorrow, Sorrow, all is spoken—
She is dead!
A BRIDAL MEASURE
FOR S. F.
Gifts
they sent her manifold,
Diamonds and pearls and gold.
One there was among the throng
Had not Midas' touch at need:
He against a sylvan reed
Set his lips and breathed a song.
Diamonds and pearls and gold.
One there was among the throng
Had not Midas' touch at need:
He against a sylvan reed
Set his lips and breathed a song.
Bid bright Flora, as she comes,
Snatch a spray of orange blooms
For a maiden's hair.
Snatch a spray of orange blooms
For a maiden's hair.
Let the Hours their aprons fill
With mignonette and daffodil,
And all that 's fair.
With mignonette and daffodil,
And all that 's fair.
For her bosom fetch the rose
That is rarest—
Not that either these or those
Could by any fortune be
That is rarest—
Not that either these or those
Could by any fortune be
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Ornaments to such as she;
They'll but show, when she is dressed,
She is fairer than the fairest
And out-betters what is best!
They'll but show, when she is dressed,
She is fairer than the fairest
And out-betters what is best!
CRADLE SONG
I
Ere the moon begins to riseOr a star to shine,
All the bluebells close their eyes—
So close thine,
Thine, dear, thine!
II
Birds are sleeping in the nestOn the swaying bough,
Thus, against the mother-breast—
So sleep thou,
Sleep, sleep, thou!
SANTO DOMINGO
After long days of angry sea and sky,The magic isle rose up from out the blue
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At first seen dimly through the mist, and then—
Groves of acacia; slender leaning stems
Of palm-trees weighted with their starry fronds;
Airs that, at dawn, had from their slumber risen
In bowers of spices; between shelving banks,
A river through whose limpid crystal gleamed,
Four fathoms down, the silvery, rippled sand;
Upon the bluff a square red tower, and roofs
Of cocoa-fibre lost among the boughs;
Hard by, a fort with crumbled parapet.
These took the fancy captive ere we reached
The longed-for shores; then swiftly in our thought
We left behind us the New World, and trod
The Old, and in a sudden vision saw
Columbus wandering from court to court,
A mendicant, with kingdoms in his hands.
AT A GRAVE
Valor, love, undoubting trust,Patience, and fidelity
Lie beneath this carven stone.
If the end of these be dust,
And their doom oblivion,
Then is life a mockery.
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RESURGAM
All silently, and soft as sleep
The snow fell, flake on flake.
The snow fell, flake on flake.
Slumber, spent Earth! and dream of flowers
Till springtime bid you wake.
Till springtime bid you wake.
Again the deadened bough shall bend
With blooms of sweetest breath.
With blooms of sweetest breath.
O miracle of miracles,
This Life that follows Death!
This Life that follows Death!
A PETITION
To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
Spice of the roses let the summer own.
Grant me this favor, Muse—all else withhold—
That I may not write verse when I am old.
Spice of the roses let the summer own.
Grant me this favor, Muse—all else withhold—
That I may not write verse when I am old.
And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time!
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
I beg you very gently break the news.
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
I beg you very gently break the news.
| The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | |