 | Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman |  |
9
MOONRISE IN MAY.
Long lights gleam o'er the western wold,
Kindling the brown moss into gold;
The bright day fades into the blue
Of the far hollows, dim with dew;
The breeze comes laden with perfume
From many an orchard white with bloom,
And all the mellow air is fraught
With beauty beyond Fancy's thought.
Kindling the brown moss into gold;
The bright day fades into the blue
Of the far hollows, dim with dew;
The breeze comes laden with perfume
From many an orchard white with bloom,
And all the mellow air is fraught
With beauty beyond Fancy's thought.
Outspread beneath me, breathing balm
Into the evening's golden calm,
Lie trellised gardens, thickly sown
With nodding lilacs, newly blown;
Borders with hyacinthus plumed,
And beds with purple pansies gloomed;
Cold snow-drops, jonquils pale and prim,
And flamy tulips, burning dim
In the cool twilight, till they fold
In sleep their oriflammes of gold.
Into the evening's golden calm,
Lie trellised gardens, thickly sown
With nodding lilacs, newly blown;
Borders with hyacinthus plumed,
And beds with purple pansies gloomed;
Cold snow-drops, jonquils pale and prim,
And flamy tulips, burning dim
In the cool twilight, till they fold
In sleep their oriflammes of gold.
10
With many a glimmering interchange
Of moss and flowers and terraced range,
The pleasant garden slopes away
Into the gloom of shadows gray,
Where, darkly green, the church-yard lies,
With all its silent memories:
There the first violets love to blow
About the head-stones, leaning low;
There, from the golden willows, swing
The first green garlands of the spring;
And the first bluebird builds her nest
By the old belfry's umbered crest.
Of moss and flowers and terraced range,
The pleasant garden slopes away
Into the gloom of shadows gray,
Where, darkly green, the church-yard lies,
With all its silent memories:
There the first violets love to blow
About the head-stones, leaning low;
There, from the golden willows, swing
The first green garlands of the spring;
And the first bluebird builds her nest
By the old belfry's umbered crest.
Beyond, where groups of stately trees,
Waiting their vernal draperies,
Stand outlined on the evening sky,
The golden lakes of sunset lie;
With many-colored isles of light,
Purple and pearl and chrysolite,
And realms of cloud-land, floating far
Beyond the horizon's dusky bar,—
Now fading from the lurid bloom
Of twilight to a silver gloom,
As the fair moon's ascending beam
Melts all things to a holy dream.
Waiting their vernal draperies,
Stand outlined on the evening sky,
The golden lakes of sunset lie;
With many-colored isles of light,
Purple and pearl and chrysolite,
And realms of cloud-land, floating far
Beyond the horizon's dusky bar,—
Now fading from the lurid bloom
Of twilight to a silver gloom,
As the fair moon's ascending beam
Melts all things to a holy dream.
So fade the cloud-wreaths from my soul
Beneath thy solemn, soft control,
Enchantress of the stormy seas,
Priestess of Night's high mysteries!
Thy ray can pale the north light's plume,
And, where the throbbing stars illume
With their far-palpitating light
The holy cloisters of the night,
Thy presence can entrance their beams,
And lull them to diviner dreams.
To thee belong the silent spheres
Of memory,—the enchanted years
Of the dead Past,—the shrouded woes
That sleep in sculptural repose.
Beneath thy solemn, soft control,
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Priestess of Night's high mysteries!
Thy ray can pale the north light's plume,
And, where the throbbing stars illume
With their far-palpitating light
The holy cloisters of the night,
Thy presence can entrance their beams,
And lull them to diviner dreams.
To thee belong the silent spheres
Of memory,—the enchanted years
Of the dead Past,—the shrouded woes
That sleep in sculptural repose.
Thy solemn light doth interfuse
The magic world wherein I muse
With something too divinely fair
For earthly hope to harbor there;
A faith that reconciles the will
Life's mystic sorrow to fulfill;
A benison of love that falls
From the serene and silent halls
Of night, till through the lonely room
A heavenly odor seems to bloom,
And lilies of eternal peace
Glow through the moonlight's golden fleece.
The magic world wherein I muse
With something too divinely fair
For earthly hope to harbor there;
A faith that reconciles the will
Life's mystic sorrow to fulfill;
A benison of love that falls
From the serene and silent halls
Of night, till through the lonely room
A heavenly odor seems to bloom,
And lilies of eternal peace
Glow through the moonlight's golden fleece.
| Poems by Sarah Helen Whitman | |