 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
POEM
It is an April morn—and rain
Is beating on the darkened pane;
The sleeping mist is on the hills,
And angry floods have swelled the rills,
Whose flow I loved so dearly when
Their summer music filled the glen—
The trees that I have gazed upon
When every bough that caught the sun
Was full of beauty, and whose shade
Fell coolly on the sunny glade,
Now rear against the clouded sky
Their bare proportions, dark and high,
And none, while sadly gazing now
On mossy trunk and naked bough,
Would dream that summer suns could dress
Such wasted forms in loveliness.
Is beating on the darkened pane;
The sleeping mist is on the hills,
And angry floods have swelled the rills,
Whose flow I loved so dearly when
Their summer music filled the glen—
The trees that I have gazed upon
When every bough that caught the sun
Was full of beauty, and whose shade
Fell coolly on the sunny glade,
Now rear against the clouded sky
Their bare proportions, dark and high,
And none, while sadly gazing now
On mossy trunk and naked bough,
185
Such wasted forms in loveliness.
I love the face of nature well,
Its quiet beauty hath a spell,
To waken joy in weary hours;
Like dew upon the drooping flowers
But in a dreary day like this
When nature boasts no loveliness,
When earth is mournful—and in the sky
The lazy clouds are rolling by;
I feel that such a time is not
Congenial with poetic thought,
And that each effort e'er its close
Would dwindle down to perfect prose.
Its quiet beauty hath a spell,
To waken joy in weary hours;
Like dew upon the drooping flowers
But in a dreary day like this
When nature boasts no loveliness,
When earth is mournful—and in the sky
The lazy clouds are rolling by;
I feel that such a time is not
Congenial with poetic thought,
And that each effort e'er its close
Would dwindle down to perfect prose.
Away! away! I will not look
On nature's dull and sombre book;
Since here a fairy landscape brings
The light of unforgotten things;
The memory of those hours which wear
The beauties of the changing year.
And though the spring of lofty thought,
From outward forms is vainly sought,
This silent view of scenes, which can
Yield gladness to the heart of man,
To me hath something of the power,
Revealed in nature's gentlest hour.
On nature's dull and sombre book;
Since here a fairy landscape brings
The light of unforgotten things;
The memory of those hours which wear
The beauties of the changing year.
And though the spring of lofty thought,
From outward forms is vainly sought,
This silent view of scenes, which can
Yield gladness to the heart of man,
To me hath something of the power,
Revealed in nature's gentlest hour.
The fading light—the sunset sky—
The broken clouds that float on high—
The winding stream—the forest shade
Along its gentle waters laid,
All speak of nature—and that rude
Old ruin hemmed with ancient wood,
Across whose grey and ivied walls
The latest gloom of evening falls,
Restores the dream of old romance,
The mailed knight—the levelled lance—
The tourney shout—the red wine's flow—
The minstrel's tale of joy or woe—
And all that once delighted me,
In tales of “aunciente chivalrie.”
The broken clouds that float on high—
The winding stream—the forest shade
Along its gentle waters laid,
All speak of nature—and that rude
Old ruin hemmed with ancient wood,
Across whose grey and ivied walls
The latest gloom of evening falls,
Restores the dream of old romance,
The mailed knight—the levelled lance—
The tourney shout—the red wine's flow—
The minstrel's tale of joy or woe—
And all that once delighted me,
In tales of “aunciente chivalrie.”
Boston Statesman, May 10, 1828
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