 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
143
REVERIES.
145
AT THE VILLA CONTI.
What peace and quiet in this villa sleep!
Here let us pause, nor chase for pleasure on,
Nothing can be more exquisite than this—
Work, for the nonce farewell—this day we'll give
To fallow joys of perfect idleness.
Here let us pause, nor chase for pleasure on,
Nothing can be more exquisite than this—
Work, for the nonce farewell—this day we'll give
To fallow joys of perfect idleness.
See how the old house lifts its face of light
Against the pallid olives that behind
Throng up the hill.—Look down this vista's shade
Of dark square shaven ilexes, where spirts
The fountain's thin white thread, and blows away.
And mark! along the terraced balustrade
Two contadine stopping in the shade,
With copper vases poised upon their heads,
How their red jackets tell against the green!
Against the pallid olives that behind
Throng up the hill.—Look down this vista's shade
Of dark square shaven ilexes, where spirts
The fountain's thin white thread, and blows away.
And mark! along the terraced balustrade
Two contadine stopping in the shade,
With copper vases poised upon their heads,
How their red jackets tell against the green!
Old, all is old—what charm there is in age!
Do you believe this villa when 't was new
Was half so beautiful as now it seems?
Look at these balustrades of travertine,
Had they the charm when fresh and sharply carved
As now that they are stained and grayed with time
And mossed with lichens, every grim old mask
That grins upon their pillars bearded o'er
With waving sprays of slender maiden-hair?
Ah no! I cannot think it.—Things of art
Snatch nature's graces from the hand of Time.
Do you believe this villa when 't was new
Was half so beautiful as now it seems?
Look at these balustrades of travertine,
Had they the charm when fresh and sharply carved
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And mossed with lichens, every grim old mask
That grins upon their pillars bearded o'er
With waving sprays of slender maiden-hair?
Ah no! I cannot think it.—Things of art
Snatch nature's graces from the hand of Time.
Here will we sit and let the sleeping noon
Doze on and dream into the afternoon,
While all the mountains shake in opal light,
Forever shifting, till the sun's last glance
Transfigures with its splendor all our world.
Doze on and dream into the afternoon,
While all the mountains shake in opal light,
Forever shifting, till the sun's last glance
Transfigures with its splendor all our world.
Hark! the cicala crackles mid the trees,
How shrilly! and the toppling fountain spills
The music of its silvery rain, how soft!
Into the broad clear basin—zigzag darts
The sudden dragon-fly across, or hangs
Poised in the sun with shimmer of glazed wings.
How shrilly! and the toppling fountain spills
The music of its silvery rain, how soft!
Into the broad clear basin—zigzag darts
The sudden dragon-fly across, or hangs
Poised in the sun with shimmer of glazed wings.
And there the exquisite campagna lies
Dreaming what dreams of olden pomp and war,
Of Love, and Pain, and Joy that it has known!
Sadder, perhaps, but dearer than of yore,
With wild-flowers overstrewn, like some loved grave;
Its silent stretches haunted by vast trains
Of ghostly shapes, where stalks majestical,
Mid visionary pomp of vanished days,
The buried grandeur of imperial Rome;
Moaned over by great winds that from the sea
Sweep inland, and by wandering clouds of tears;
How it lies throbbing there beneath the sun,
So silent with its ruins on its breast!
There, far Soracte on the horizon piles
Its lonely peak—and gazes on the sea;
There Leonessa couches in repose,
And stern Gennaro rears its purple ridge,
And wears its ermine late into the spring.
When all beneath is one vast lush of flowers,
And poppies paint whole acres with one sweep
Of their rich scarlet, and entangling vines
Shroud the low walls, and drop from arch to arch
Of the far-running lessening aqueducts,
On his broad shoulders still the imperial robe
Of winter hangs—and leashed within his caves
The violent Tramontana lies in wait.
Dreaming what dreams of olden pomp and war,
Of Love, and Pain, and Joy that it has known!
Sadder, perhaps, but dearer than of yore,
With wild-flowers overstrewn, like some loved grave;
Its silent stretches haunted by vast trains
Of ghostly shapes, where stalks majestical,
Mid visionary pomp of vanished days,
The buried grandeur of imperial Rome;
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Sweep inland, and by wandering clouds of tears;
How it lies throbbing there beneath the sun,
So silent with its ruins on its breast!
There, far Soracte on the horizon piles
Its lonely peak—and gazes on the sea;
There Leonessa couches in repose,
And stern Gennaro rears its purple ridge,
And wears its ermine late into the spring.
When all beneath is one vast lush of flowers,
And poppies paint whole acres with one sweep
Of their rich scarlet, and entangling vines
Shroud the low walls, and drop from arch to arch
Of the far-running lessening aqueducts,
On his broad shoulders still the imperial robe
Of winter hangs—and leashed within his caves
The violent Tramontana lies in wait.
Dear, dear old Rome—well! nothing is like Rome;
Others may please me, her alone I love.
She is no place as other cities are—
But like a mother and a mistress too,
The soul of places, unto whom I give
How gladly all my heart, and wish it more,
That I might give more. After life with her,
With her sweet counsel, tender grace, large thought,
And great calm beauty, all seems trivial.
Ask me not why I love, nor count her faults;
Who ever gave a reason for his love?
Others may please me, her alone I love.
She is no place as other cities are—
But like a mother and a mistress too,
The soul of places, unto whom I give
How gladly all my heart, and wish it more,
That I might give more. After life with her,
With her sweet counsel, tender grace, large thought,
And great calm beauty, all seems trivial.
Ask me not why I love, nor count her faults;
Who ever gave a reason for his love?
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Let not this day go by unconsciously;
No! let us taste it—taste it as it goes,
Not gulp it at one draught like common wine,
But taste each drop, and say, “how exquisite!”
Stay, stay with us, oh! dear and lovely day,
Would we could hold you back forever here.
No! let us taste it—taste it as it goes,
Not gulp it at one draught like common wine,
But taste each drop, and say, “how exquisite!”
Stay, stay with us, oh! dear and lovely day,
Would we could hold you back forever here.
What long sweet respiration of delight
In these old places, and in this old world;
How dear this villa, with its crumbling pride,
Its time-wryed balustrades, its shadowy walks
Through the thick ilexes—its fountain stairs
Down which the sheeted water leaps alive
To heap the basin where the gold-fish hang.
Not half so dear to generations gone,
To those who planned the gardens and enslaved
The free stream of the mountain here to pour
When loosened from its prison into light,
Its mounting splendor and its cool sweet song
As unto us, who after Time hath laid
Its hand on all and given it a grace
No newness ever owned—here lie and muse.
In these old places, and in this old world;
How dear this villa, with its crumbling pride,
Its time-wryed balustrades, its shadowy walks
Through the thick ilexes—its fountain stairs
Down which the sheeted water leaps alive
To heap the basin where the gold-fish hang.
Not half so dear to generations gone,
To those who planned the gardens and enslaved
The free stream of the mountain here to pour
When loosened from its prison into light,
Its mounting splendor and its cool sweet song
As unto us, who after Time hath laid
Its hand on all and given it a grace
No newness ever owned—here lie and muse.
Here walked the Falconieri in their pride
Centuries ago—here the Colonna came,
Vittoria with them—Angelo himself,
Gazing upon her as she gravely moved
And sighing for her, while Fabrizio's sword
Clanged on the gravel—here the D'Este came,
From Tivoli where o'er dark cypresses
Their villa looks above the billowy land
Of the Campagna;—ah! how sweet their names
Sound, rousing pensive echoes in the heart.
Here woman in her first young budding grace
To manhood's earliest prime of passion pledged
The faith of innocent love, the while their hearts
Ran over into sweet Italian words—
Soft dropping vowels. They are now but dust;
But yet their imaged life re-lives in us
A charmed existence. Down such paths as these
Stole Romeo to his Juliet, when the moon
Looked at her quivering image in the cup
Of such broad fountain;—by such balustrade
Fair Beatrice, her wit scarce sheathed in Love,
Ran like a lapwing close unto the ground;—
Under the shadow of such deep green woods
Francesca read upon the fated day
That lives in Dante's rhyme;—Petrarca walked
Alone and thoughtful through such silent paths
Embalming Laura in his amber song—
Here Tasso roamed, and o'er such terraces
That happy group of dark-eyed women sat,
For whom Boccaccio told his charming tales.
Centuries ago—here the Colonna came,
Vittoria with them—Angelo himself,
Gazing upon her as she gravely moved
And sighing for her, while Fabrizio's sword
Clanged on the gravel—here the D'Este came,
From Tivoli where o'er dark cypresses
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Of the Campagna;—ah! how sweet their names
Sound, rousing pensive echoes in the heart.
Here woman in her first young budding grace
To manhood's earliest prime of passion pledged
The faith of innocent love, the while their hearts
Ran over into sweet Italian words—
Soft dropping vowels. They are now but dust;
But yet their imaged life re-lives in us
A charmed existence. Down such paths as these
Stole Romeo to his Juliet, when the moon
Looked at her quivering image in the cup
Of such broad fountain;—by such balustrade
Fair Beatrice, her wit scarce sheathed in Love,
Ran like a lapwing close unto the ground;—
Under the shadow of such deep green woods
Francesca read upon the fated day
That lives in Dante's rhyme;—Petrarca walked
Alone and thoughtful through such silent paths
Embalming Laura in his amber song—
Here Tasso roamed, and o'er such terraces
That happy group of dark-eyed women sat,
For whom Boccaccio told his charming tales.
Oh! sweet romantic memories, ye exhale
Your odorous breath amid these sylvan shades
To intoxicate the senses. Gentle forms
Ye rise like visions here among the trees,
In fair procession. In the fountain's dim
And whispering murmur are your voices hid.
Ye speak of Love—ye summon up again
Blind, sweet sensations, feelings dreamy, faint
As the prophetic light round the young moon;
Wild hopes that overflow Life's parapets
Rise at your voice, tempered and sobered down,
And with a haze of sadness—sadness full
Of tenderest joy and not to be exchanged
For all those wilder raptures—rise again
With trains of memories, forms that are no more,
And smiles of light that pierce Thought's shadowy wood.
Your odorous breath amid these sylvan shades
To intoxicate the senses. Gentle forms
Ye rise like visions here among the trees,
In fair procession. In the fountain's dim
And whispering murmur are your voices hid.
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Blind, sweet sensations, feelings dreamy, faint
As the prophetic light round the young moon;
Wild hopes that overflow Life's parapets
Rise at your voice, tempered and sobered down,
And with a haze of sadness—sadness full
Of tenderest joy and not to be exchanged
For all those wilder raptures—rise again
With trains of memories, forms that are no more,
And smiles of light that pierce Thought's shadowy wood.
Ah! were ye here with whom in Childhood's days,
Or in the season of expanding thought
I roamed and dreamed and shaped a thousand vague
Delicious fancies—were ye at my side!
Yet no! in vision only could we touch
That Future which is Present now to me—
Present in Time, but ah! how sadly changed
From what we painted. Not the ocean drear,
With its blind waste of washing, weltering waves
Yawns now between us,—finer line than thought
Can ever trace, yet not to be o'er-reached,
And vaster than the widest stretch of sea,
Is drawn between your life beyond and ours.
Or in the season of expanding thought
I roamed and dreamed and shaped a thousand vague
Delicious fancies—were ye at my side!
Yet no! in vision only could we touch
That Future which is Present now to me—
Present in Time, but ah! how sadly changed
From what we painted. Not the ocean drear,
With its blind waste of washing, weltering waves
Yawns now between us,—finer line than thought
Can ever trace, yet not to be o'er-reached,
And vaster than the widest stretch of sea,
Is drawn between your life beyond and ours.
Are these dreams nothing? are these idle hours
Loss to the soul? Believe it not, dear friend!
These fallow times enrich our choicest powers
And sweeten strength which else would grow too hard.
We will not take the joy we do not earn,
So vain are we—and yet these idle joys
That Nature offers we can never win—
Out of her grace she gives, but not for pay.
The charm of Beauty slips away from Work.
So let us live to-day, not as the bee
Bustling and busy at our nervous toil—
(Of all God's creatures most I hate the bee,
Heartless and selfish, and intent on gain,
Armed with a sting and banging rudely round
With irritated noise among the flowers,)
But float as lazy as the butterfly
Whose idle wings beauty is glad to paint,
The brother of the rose on which he lights.
To-morrow for the pictures we shall paint—
To-morrow for the statue we shall carve—
To-day we'll dream beneath the open sky
And take our color, as the flowers take theirs.
Loss to the soul? Believe it not, dear friend!
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And sweeten strength which else would grow too hard.
We will not take the joy we do not earn,
So vain are we—and yet these idle joys
That Nature offers we can never win—
Out of her grace she gives, but not for pay.
The charm of Beauty slips away from Work.
So let us live to-day, not as the bee
Bustling and busy at our nervous toil—
(Of all God's creatures most I hate the bee,
Heartless and selfish, and intent on gain,
Armed with a sting and banging rudely round
With irritated noise among the flowers,)
But float as lazy as the butterfly
Whose idle wings beauty is glad to paint,
The brother of the rose on which he lights.
To-morrow for the pictures we shall paint—
To-morrow for the statue we shall carve—
To-day we'll dream beneath the open sky
And take our color, as the flowers take theirs.
Hark! from the ilexes the nightingale
Begins its beating prelude, like the throbs
Of some quick heart, then pauses, then again
Bursts into fitful jets of gurgling song,
Then beats again; and listen! rising now
To its full rapture thrills the shadowy wood
With the delirious passion of its voice;
With dizzy trills, and low, deep, tearful notes,
And hurried heaping of voluptuous tones
That blent together in one intricate maze
Of sweet inextricable melodies,
Whirl on and up, and circling lift and lift,
And burst at last in scattered showers of notes,
And leave us the sweet, silent afternoon.
Begins its beating prelude, like the throbs
Of some quick heart, then pauses, then again
Bursts into fitful jets of gurgling song,
Then beats again; and listen! rising now
To its full rapture thrills the shadowy wood
With the delirious passion of its voice;
With dizzy trills, and low, deep, tearful notes,
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That blent together in one intricate maze
Of sweet inextricable melodies,
Whirl on and up, and circling lift and lift,
And burst at last in scattered showers of notes,
And leave us the sweet, silent afternoon.
Rome, July 5, 1852.
153
UNDER THE ILEXES.
DEDICATED TO A. I. T.
Dark ilexes above, dry sward below,
O'er which the flickering sunglobes come and go;
Beyond, the swooping valley roughed by lines
Ruled by the plough between the rows of vines;
O'er yellow sunburnt slopes the olives gray
Casting their rounded shadows; far away
A stately parliament of poised stone-pines;
Dark cypresses with golden balls bestrewn,
Each rocking to the breeze its solemn cone;
Dim mountains, veiled in dreamy mystery,
Sleeping upon the pale and tender sky;
And near, with softened shades of purple brown,
By distance hushed, the peaceful mellowed town,
Domes, roofs, and towers all sleeping tranced and still—
A painted city on a painted hill.
O'er which the flickering sunglobes come and go;
Beyond, the swooping valley roughed by lines
Ruled by the plough between the rows of vines;
O'er yellow sunburnt slopes the olives gray
Casting their rounded shadows; far away
A stately parliament of poised stone-pines;
Dark cypresses with golden balls bestrewn,
Each rocking to the breeze its solemn cone;
Dim mountains, veiled in dreamy mystery,
Sleeping upon the pale and tender sky;
And near, with softened shades of purple brown,
By distance hushed, the peaceful mellowed town,
Domes, roofs, and towers all sleeping tranced and still—
A painted city on a painted hill.
Here let me lie and my siesta take,
And gaze about me, dreaming, half awake.
And gaze about me, dreaming, half awake.
What peace is here! what rapt tranquillity!—
The far-off voices seem to lull the sense;
The cock's clear crow sounds faint and drowsily;
The sharp fly buzzing round the leafy fence;
The burning wasp, the bees that droning hum
Along the shining spires of withered grass;
The far cathedral bell's half-buried boom;
The leaves that whisper as the breezes come,
And talk a moment with them as they pass,
Break not the calm;—with half-shut dreaming eyes
I watch them, while my idle fancies stray,
Even as these noiseless yellow butterflies,
That poise on grass or flower, and drift away
Like wavering leaves in their perpetual play.
And all these sounds come vague to me and seem
Drowned in the air, like voices in a dream.
Look at this ilex-trunk's mosaic bark,
With all its myriad cracks, and seams, and squares!
See with what patient pains and happy cares
'T is painted o'er with lichens light and dark,
Rich brown, pale gray, and softest malachite,
And every hue that can the eye delight!
This moss of golden green that round it clings
Is a vast forest filled with noiseless things,
That 'neath its jungle make their secret lairs.
Here the black ant may hunt as in a park,
Here hosts of beetles come in burnished mail,
On secret errands bent from underground;
Some with vermilion corselets on their back,
Marked with black crosses, some with gold embrowned,
Some bronzed with shadowy green, some ribbed and black,
Splendid as mortal knight was never found.
Here creeps the torpid locust from his cell,
Deep at its roots, to shed his silvery shell,
Breaks the thin crust, and spreads his gauzy wings,
And in the shade his praise of summer sings.
Here, in the centre of his woven wheel,
That dimly glistening in the shadow shakes,
Hangs the fat spider, ready and aware,
Round the fierce fly that pertinacious there
Darts to and fro, his silvery coil to reel.
Here the slim dragon-fly her visit makes
On glassy vans that gleam with opal hues,
And waves her tail of green enamelled rings.
Here the black grillo burrows all day long;
And peeping forth when fall the twilight dews,
Trills to the night its little simmering song.
Here creep among the grass, at work, or game,
Swarms of strange life that scarcely own a name;
Here live, and love, and fight, and sleep, and die,
Plagued by no dreams of immortality.
World within world, the deeper that we gaze,
Life widens, death recedes, the mass inert
Moves into being; all this mould and dirt
Is living in its own mysterious ways.
The far-off voices seem to lull the sense;
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The sharp fly buzzing round the leafy fence;
The burning wasp, the bees that droning hum
Along the shining spires of withered grass;
The far cathedral bell's half-buried boom;
The leaves that whisper as the breezes come,
And talk a moment with them as they pass,
Break not the calm;—with half-shut dreaming eyes
I watch them, while my idle fancies stray,
Even as these noiseless yellow butterflies,
That poise on grass or flower, and drift away
Like wavering leaves in their perpetual play.
And all these sounds come vague to me and seem
Drowned in the air, like voices in a dream.
Look at this ilex-trunk's mosaic bark,
With all its myriad cracks, and seams, and squares!
See with what patient pains and happy cares
'T is painted o'er with lichens light and dark,
Rich brown, pale gray, and softest malachite,
And every hue that can the eye delight!
This moss of golden green that round it clings
Is a vast forest filled with noiseless things,
That 'neath its jungle make their secret lairs.
Here the black ant may hunt as in a park,
Here hosts of beetles come in burnished mail,
On secret errands bent from underground;
Some with vermilion corselets on their back,
Marked with black crosses, some with gold embrowned,
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Splendid as mortal knight was never found.
Here creeps the torpid locust from his cell,
Deep at its roots, to shed his silvery shell,
Breaks the thin crust, and spreads his gauzy wings,
And in the shade his praise of summer sings.
Here, in the centre of his woven wheel,
That dimly glistening in the shadow shakes,
Hangs the fat spider, ready and aware,
Round the fierce fly that pertinacious there
Darts to and fro, his silvery coil to reel.
Here the slim dragon-fly her visit makes
On glassy vans that gleam with opal hues,
And waves her tail of green enamelled rings.
Here the black grillo burrows all day long;
And peeping forth when fall the twilight dews,
Trills to the night its little simmering song.
Here creep among the grass, at work, or game,
Swarms of strange life that scarcely own a name;
Here live, and love, and fight, and sleep, and die,
Plagued by no dreams of immortality.
World within world, the deeper that we gaze,
Life widens, death recedes, the mass inert
Moves into being; all this mould and dirt
Is living in its own mysterious ways.
Which shall we dare most wonderful to call,
The infinite great, or not less infinite small?
Puzzled I gaze upon this spiring grass
That 'neath me lies, and ask,—can aught surpass
The wonder of this life minute that moves
Beneath my hand, and struggles, suffers, loves?
Are the vast worlds that darkness shows to night,
Or day enshrouds in its abyss of light,
More strange than this that hides from human eye
In the minuteness of its mystery?
The infinite great, or not less infinite small?
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That 'neath me lies, and ask,—can aught surpass
The wonder of this life minute that moves
Beneath my hand, and struggles, suffers, loves?
Are the vast worlds that darkness shows to night,
Or day enshrouds in its abyss of light,
More strange than this that hides from human eye
In the minuteness of its mystery?
No more! the shadows shrink; the prying sun
Hath found me out. The morning 's gone—how soon!
The far cathedral bell is striking noon.
This sketch, dear Annie, is for you—half done.
Hath found me out. The morning 's gone—how soon!
The far cathedral bell is striking noon.
This sketch, dear Annie, is for you—half done.
157
AUTUMN IN TUSCANY.
DEDICATED TO J. R. L.
These Autumn winds are growing chill,
They wander wailing o'er the hill,
And at the close-shut window cry
That summer opened lovingly;
But we can let them in no more,
And all the eve my heart is sore—
My heart is sore, I know not why.
They seem to say,
The summer day
Has past away,
And life goes with it silently.
They wander wailing o'er the hill,
And at the close-shut window cry
That summer opened lovingly;
But we can let them in no more,
And all the eve my heart is sore—
My heart is sore, I know not why.
They seem to say,
The summer day
Has past away,
And life goes with it silently.
Still o'er the mountain's darkening bar
We watch the new-born evening star,
That throbs and quivers in the sea
Of amber light—and musingly
We let our shaping fancy play
With those soft clouds of pearly gray,
That float along the silvery sky.
Ah woe! ah woe!
We all must go,
The chill winds blow,
And summer 's gone like a passing sigh.
We watch the new-born evening star,
That throbs and quivers in the sea
Of amber light—and musingly
We let our shaping fancy play
With those soft clouds of pearly gray,
That float along the silvery sky.
Ah woe! ah woe!
We all must go,
The chill winds blow,
And summer 's gone like a passing sigh.
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These Autumn morns when we may stray
Through chestnut woods, where glancing play
The checkered light and shadow thrown
O'er trunk, and grass, and mossy stone,
And lie beneath some spreading tree
And feel our own felicity,
How sweet if they would never fly—
But no! ah no!
'T is never so!
All good things go,
And thought pursues them with a sigh.
Through chestnut woods, where glancing play
The checkered light and shadow thrown
O'er trunk, and grass, and mossy stone,
And lie beneath some spreading tree
And feel our own felicity,
How sweet if they would never fly—
But no! ah no!
'T is never so!
All good things go,
And thought pursues them with a sigh.
All day the woods are redolent
And saddened with the steamy scent
The dewy rotting leaves exhale
That heap the hollows in the vale;
Then through the bonfire's quivering gas
The landscape shakes as it would pass,
And all is sad, we know not why;—
All seems to say
The summer day
Is past away,
Why linger ye to say Good-bye?
And saddened with the steamy scent
The dewy rotting leaves exhale
That heap the hollows in the vale;
Then through the bonfire's quivering gas
The landscape shakes as it would pass,
And all is sad, we know not why;—
All seems to say
The summer day
Is past away,
Why linger ye to say Good-bye?
No more the fierce cicala shrills,
Only the hearthstone-cricket trills,—
The hemp-stalks pile their bleaching bones
In pyramids of skeletons,
Or clacking cradles break them where
The peasant shakes their silvery hair,
And flings them on the grass to dry.
The summer 's flown,
The leaves are strewn,
And we alone
Are lingering here to say Good-bye.
Only the hearthstone-cricket trills,—
The hemp-stalks pile their bleaching bones
In pyramids of skeletons,
Or clacking cradles break them where
The peasant shakes their silvery hair,
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The summer 's flown,
The leaves are strewn,
And we alone
Are lingering here to say Good-bye.
The cyclamen, alive with fears,
Smooths trembling back its harelike ears;
The frost-touched creepers bleeding fall,
And drip in crimson o'er the wall;
The rusted chestnuts shivering spill
Their bursting spine-burrs on the hill;
The day is short, soon comes the night,
And damp and chill
Along the hill
The dews distil
Under the harvest-moon's great light.
Smooths trembling back its harelike ears;
The frost-touched creepers bleeding fall,
And drip in crimson o'er the wall;
The rusted chestnuts shivering spill
Their bursting spine-burrs on the hill;
The day is short, soon comes the night,
And damp and chill
Along the hill
The dews distil
Under the harvest-moon's great light.
Louder at eve the river roars;
The fringed acacia paves with showers
Of golden leaves our summer path,
And all the world about us hath
A feel of sorrow—we must go;
Alas! I would not have it so,
But all things vanish from us here,
And still we sigh,
Ah why, ah why,
So swiftly fly,
Ye days that were so glad and dear?
The fringed acacia paves with showers
Of golden leaves our summer path,
And all the world about us hath
A feel of sorrow—we must go;
Alas! I would not have it so,
But all things vanish from us here,
And still we sigh,
Ah why, ah why,
So swiftly fly,
Ye days that were so glad and dear?
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'T is lovely still; but yet a sense
Of sadness and impermanence
Disturbs me—and this flushing grace
That mantles over Autumn's face
Is but the hectic hue, beneath
Whose beauty steals the thought of death,—
And this it is that makes us sigh.
Ah! bitter word
Too often heard,
What thoughts are stirred
Whene'er we whisper thee—Good-bye!
Of sadness and impermanence
Disturbs me—and this flushing grace
That mantles over Autumn's face
Is but the hectic hue, beneath
Whose beauty steals the thought of death,—
And this it is that makes us sigh.
Ah! bitter word
Too often heard,
What thoughts are stirred
Whene'er we whisper thee—Good-bye!
Death walks along my shrouded thought;
I feel him though I see him not:
His step is on the joys that grew
And waved this lovely summer through.
I fear, for life is all too fair,
And trembling ask, Ah! when? and where?
And this it is that makes me sigh;
Too sweet to last,
Ah! golden past
That fled so fast,
No future owns such witchery.
I feel him though I see him not:
His step is on the joys that grew
And waved this lovely summer through.
I fear, for life is all too fair,
And trembling ask, Ah! when? and where?
And this it is that makes me sigh;
Too sweet to last,
Ah! golden past
That fled so fast,
No future owns such witchery.
161
IN THE GLEN.
Here in this cool, secluded glen
Alone with Nature let me lie,
Where no rude voice or peering eyes of men
Disturbs its perfect peace and privacy;
Where through the swaying firs the restless breeze
Sighs softly and the murmuring torrent flows,
Singing the same low song as on it goes,
That it hath sung for countless centuries;
Now welling through the mossy rocks, now spilled
In little sparkling falls, now lingering, stilled
In brown, deep pools to hold the mirrored skies,
As brown, as clear as some fair maiden's eyes,
And filled like them with silent mysteries.
One side the shelving slopes, through which its song
The torrent sings, the firs' tall columns throng,
Spreading their dark green tops against the blue;
And on the brown, fine carpet at their feet
Long strips and flecks of sun strike glimmering through,
Where gleaming specks of insects through them fleet.
Along the other slope green beeches spread
Their spotted canopy of light and shade,
And on the brown, transparent stream below
Their quivering, tessellated pavement throw.
Alone with Nature let me lie,
Where no rude voice or peering eyes of men
Disturbs its perfect peace and privacy;
Where through the swaying firs the restless breeze
Sighs softly and the murmuring torrent flows,
Singing the same low song as on it goes,
That it hath sung for countless centuries;
Now welling through the mossy rocks, now spilled
In little sparkling falls, now lingering, stilled
In brown, deep pools to hold the mirrored skies,
As brown, as clear as some fair maiden's eyes,
And filled like them with silent mysteries.
One side the shelving slopes, through which its song
The torrent sings, the firs' tall columns throng,
Spreading their dark green tops against the blue;
And on the brown, fine carpet at their feet
Long strips and flecks of sun strike glimmering through,
162
Along the other slope green beeches spread
Their spotted canopy of light and shade,
And on the brown, transparent stream below
Their quivering, tessellated pavement throw.
Here ferns and bracken spread their plumy spray;
Here the wild rose gropes out against the gray
Moss-cushioned rocks, and o'er the torrent swings;
Here o'er the bank the sombre ivy strings,
And the scorned thistle bears its royal crown;
Here wild clematis stretches, wavering down;
And, 'mid a mass of tangled weeds that know
Scarcely a name, and all neglected grow,
A tribe of gracious flowers peeps smiling up:
The humble dandelion, buttercup,
And spindled gorse here show their gleaming gold;
The bright-eyed daisy, innocently bold,
Stars the lush green; the purple malva lifts
Its spreading cup. From tufted blackberries drifts
A snow of blossoms, scenting with their breath
The summer air; and, sacred to St. John,
The magic flower that maidens cull at dawn;
And blue forget-me-nots, scarce seen beneath
The feathery grass; and the white hemlock's face;
And all the wild, untrained, and happy race
Of Nature's children, through whose blooms the bees,
Busy for honey hovering, hum and tease.
Softened, by distance, from the woods remote,
Rings, now and then, the blackbird's liquid note;
Or the jay scolds, or far up in the sky
Trills out the lark's long, quivering melody;
Or, its melodious passion pouring out,
In the green shadow hid, the nightingale
Stills all the world to listen to its tale,
The same sweet tale that centuries past it sung
To Grecian ears, when Poesy was young;
Or the glad goldfinch tunes his tremulous throat,
Or with a sudden chirp some linnet gray
Darts up the gorge, to drink at these cool springs,
And at a glimpse of me flits swift away.
Here the wild rose gropes out against the gray
Moss-cushioned rocks, and o'er the torrent swings;
Here o'er the bank the sombre ivy strings,
And the scorned thistle bears its royal crown;
Here wild clematis stretches, wavering down;
And, 'mid a mass of tangled weeds that know
Scarcely a name, and all neglected grow,
A tribe of gracious flowers peeps smiling up:
The humble dandelion, buttercup,
And spindled gorse here show their gleaming gold;
The bright-eyed daisy, innocently bold,
Stars the lush green; the purple malva lifts
Its spreading cup. From tufted blackberries drifts
A snow of blossoms, scenting with their breath
The summer air; and, sacred to St. John,
The magic flower that maidens cull at dawn;
And blue forget-me-nots, scarce seen beneath
The feathery grass; and the white hemlock's face;
163
Of Nature's children, through whose blooms the bees,
Busy for honey hovering, hum and tease.
Softened, by distance, from the woods remote,
Rings, now and then, the blackbird's liquid note;
Or the jay scolds, or far up in the sky
Trills out the lark's long, quivering melody;
Or, its melodious passion pouring out,
In the green shadow hid, the nightingale
Stills all the world to listen to its tale,
The same sweet tale that centuries past it sung
To Grecian ears, when Poesy was young;
Or the glad goldfinch tunes his tremulous throat,
Or with a sudden chirp some linnet gray
Darts up the gorge, to drink at these cool springs,
And at a glimpse of me flits swift away.
A faint, fine hum of myriad quivering wings
Fills all the air; the idle butterfly
Drifts down the glen; and through the grasses low
Creep swarms of busy creatures to and fro,
And have their loves, and joys, and strife and hate,
Intent upon a life to us unknown.
On the o'erhanging boulders glance and gleam
Quick, quivering lights reflected from the stream,
Where water-spiders poise and darting skate,
Their shadows on its dappled sand-floor thrown.
Across the boulders bare and pine-slopes brown,
Like dials of the day that passes by,
The firs' long shadow-index silently,
So silently, is ever stealing on,
We scarcely heed the unpausing race of time
So swift and noiseless; and some subtle spell
Seems to have lulled to sleep this shadowy dell,
As if it lay in some enchanted clime,
Haunted by dreams that never poet's rhyme
Nor music's voice to waking ears can tell.
Fills all the air; the idle butterfly
Drifts down the glen; and through the grasses low
Creep swarms of busy creatures to and fro,
And have their loves, and joys, and strife and hate,
Intent upon a life to us unknown.
On the o'erhanging boulders glance and gleam
Quick, quivering lights reflected from the stream,
Where water-spiders poise and darting skate,
Their shadows on its dappled sand-floor thrown.
164
Like dials of the day that passes by,
The firs' long shadow-index silently,
So silently, is ever stealing on,
We scarcely heed the unpausing race of time
So swift and noiseless; and some subtle spell
Seems to have lulled to sleep this shadowy dell,
As if it lay in some enchanted clime,
Haunted by dreams that never poet's rhyme
Nor music's voice to waking ears can tell.
All is so peaceful here that weary thought
Half falls asleep, nor seeks to find the key
Of the pervading, unsolved mystery
Through which we move, by which our life is wrought.
Here, magnetized by Nature, if the eye
Upglancing should discern in the soft shade
Some Dryad's form, or, where the waters braid
Their silvery windings, haply should descry
Some naked Naiad leaning on the rocks,
Her feet dropped in its basin, while her locks
She lifts from off her shoulders unafraid,
And gazes round, or looks into the cool
Tranced mirror of the softly-gleaming pool,
To see her polished limbs and bosom bare
And sweet, dim eyes and smile reflected there,
'T would scarce seem strange, but only as it were
A natural presence, natural as yon rose
That spreads its beauty careless to the air,
And knows not whence it came nor why it grows,
And just as simply, innocently there;
The sweet presiding spirit of some tree,
The soul indwelling in the murmuring brook,
Whose voice we hear, whose form we cannot see,
On whom, at last, 't is given us to look;
As if dear Nature for a moment's space
Lifted her veil and met us face to face.
Half falls asleep, nor seeks to find the key
Of the pervading, unsolved mystery
Through which we move, by which our life is wrought.
Here, magnetized by Nature, if the eye
Upglancing should discern in the soft shade
Some Dryad's form, or, where the waters braid
Their silvery windings, haply should descry
Some naked Naiad leaning on the rocks,
Her feet dropped in its basin, while her locks
She lifts from off her shoulders unafraid,
And gazes round, or looks into the cool
Tranced mirror of the softly-gleaming pool,
To see her polished limbs and bosom bare
And sweet, dim eyes and smile reflected there,
'T would scarce seem strange, but only as it were
A natural presence, natural as yon rose
That spreads its beauty careless to the air,
165
And just as simply, innocently there;
The sweet presiding spirit of some tree,
The soul indwelling in the murmuring brook,
Whose voice we hear, whose form we cannot see,
On whom, at last, 't is given us to look;
As if dear Nature for a moment's space
Lifted her veil and met us face to face.
Such Grecian thought is false to our rude sense,
That naught believes, or feels, or hears, or sees
Of what the world in happier days of Greece
Felt with a feeling gentle and intense.
We are divorced from Nature; our dull ears
Catch not the music of the finer spheres,
See not the spirits that in Nature dwell
In leafy groves through which they glancing look,
In the dim music of the singing brook,
And lurk half hidden and half audible.
To us the world is dead. The soul of things,
The life that haunts us with imaginings,
That lives, breathes, throbs in all we hear and see,
The charm, the secret hidden everywhere,
Evades all reason, spurns philosophy,
And scorns by boasting science to be tracked.
Hunt as we will all matter to the end,
Life flits before it; last, as first, we find
Naught but dead structure and the dust of fact;
The infinite gap we cannot apprehend,
The somewhat that is life—the informing mind.
Even here in this still glen I cannot flee
The secret that torments us everywhere.
In cloud, sky, rock, tree, man, its mystery
Pursues us ever to the same despair.
What says this brook, that ever murmuring flows?
What whisper these tall trees that talk alway?
What secret hides the perfume of this rose?
What is it that dear Nature strives to say?
Our sense is dull, we cannot understand
The voice we hear—but, oh! so far away
As from a world beyond our night and day,
A dream-voice from some dim, imagined land.
Here dreaming on in idle, tranquil mood,
Lulled by the tune that Nature softly plays,
Our wandering thoughts, by some strange spell subdued,
Are calmed and stilled, and all seems sweet and good,
And she our mother seems, that on her breast,
With murmuring voice, and gentle, whispering ways,
Hushes her child within her arms to rest;
And, though the child scarce knoweth what she says,
He feels her presence gently o'er him brood.
That naught believes, or feels, or hears, or sees
Of what the world in happier days of Greece
Felt with a feeling gentle and intense.
We are divorced from Nature; our dull ears
Catch not the music of the finer spheres,
See not the spirits that in Nature dwell
In leafy groves through which they glancing look,
In the dim music of the singing brook,
And lurk half hidden and half audible.
To us the world is dead. The soul of things,
The life that haunts us with imaginings,
That lives, breathes, throbs in all we hear and see,
The charm, the secret hidden everywhere,
Evades all reason, spurns philosophy,
And scorns by boasting science to be tracked.
Hunt as we will all matter to the end,
Life flits before it; last, as first, we find
Naught but dead structure and the dust of fact;
The infinite gap we cannot apprehend,
The somewhat that is life—the informing mind.
166
The secret that torments us everywhere.
In cloud, sky, rock, tree, man, its mystery
Pursues us ever to the same despair.
What says this brook, that ever murmuring flows?
What whisper these tall trees that talk alway?
What secret hides the perfume of this rose?
What is it that dear Nature strives to say?
Our sense is dull, we cannot understand
The voice we hear—but, oh! so far away
As from a world beyond our night and day,
A dream-voice from some dim, imagined land.
Here dreaming on in idle, tranquil mood,
Lulled by the tune that Nature softly plays,
Our wandering thoughts, by some strange spell subdued,
Are calmed and stilled, and all seems sweet and good,
And she our mother seems, that on her breast,
With murmuring voice, and gentle, whispering ways,
Hushes her child within her arms to rest;
And, though the child scarce knoweth what she says,
He feels her presence gently o'er him brood.
And yet, O Nature, thou no mother art,
But for a moment, like to this, at best
A stern step-mother thou, that to thy heart
Claspest thy child by some caprice possessed,
Then, careless of his fate, abandonest,
Flinging him off from thee to wail and cry,
All heedless if he live or if he die.
Is it for us thou, reckless, squanderest
Thy beauty with such wide and lavish waste?
For us? Ah! no; were we all swept away,
What wouldst thou care? No change upon thy face
Would answer to our sorrow or disgrace,
Alike to those who love, laugh, weep, or pray.
Glares not the sun impertinent upon
Our darkest griefs? Do not the glad flowers blow,
The unpausing hours, days, seasons, come and go,
Despite our joys and loves? To all our woe
Have we a sympathetic answer ever won?
Are thy stones softer on the path we tread
Because our thoughts are journeying with the dead?
Is not this world, with all its beauty, rife
With endless war, death preying upon life,
Perpetual horror, pain, crime, discord, strife,
Night chasing day, storms driving sunshine out?
And yet through all impassive, stern, and cold,
With folded hands, which hide whate'er they hold,
Like Nemesis, thou standest, speaking not,
Before the gates of Fate; and, if they ope,
To show one glimpse beyond, one gleam of hope,
'T is but an instant; then the door is shut;
And, poor, blind creatures, here astray we grope,
Stretching our hands out where we cannot see,
Through the dark paths of this world's mystery.
But for a moment, like to this, at best
A stern step-mother thou, that to thy heart
167
Then, careless of his fate, abandonest,
Flinging him off from thee to wail and cry,
All heedless if he live or if he die.
Is it for us thou, reckless, squanderest
Thy beauty with such wide and lavish waste?
For us? Ah! no; were we all swept away,
What wouldst thou care? No change upon thy face
Would answer to our sorrow or disgrace,
Alike to those who love, laugh, weep, or pray.
Glares not the sun impertinent upon
Our darkest griefs? Do not the glad flowers blow,
The unpausing hours, days, seasons, come and go,
Despite our joys and loves? To all our woe
Have we a sympathetic answer ever won?
Are thy stones softer on the path we tread
Because our thoughts are journeying with the dead?
Is not this world, with all its beauty, rife
With endless war, death preying upon life,
Perpetual horror, pain, crime, discord, strife,
Night chasing day, storms driving sunshine out?
And yet through all impassive, stern, and cold,
With folded hands, which hide whate'er they hold,
Like Nemesis, thou standest, speaking not,
Before the gates of Fate; and, if they ope,
To show one glimpse beyond, one gleam of hope,
168
And, poor, blind creatures, here astray we grope,
Stretching our hands out where we cannot see,
Through the dark paths of this world's mystery.
And yet, why spoil the day with thoughts like these?
Better to lie beneath these whispering trees
And take the joy the moment gives, and feel
The glad, pure day, the gently lifting breeze
That steals their odors from the unconscious flowers,
Nor seek what Nature never will reveal,
The hidden secret of our destinies.
Let all go—whate'er it is it is,
And, come what will, this day, at least, is ours.
My hour is gone, dear glen, and now farewell.
Here you the self-same song, bright brook, will sing;
Here you, dark firs, the self-same tale will tell,
Mysterious, to the low wind whispering,
How many a summer day to other ears,
When I am gone, beyond all doubts, hopes, fears,
Beyond all sights and sounds of this fair world,
Into the dim beyond; in time to come
Will many a dreamer sit for many an hour,
Lulled by your murmur, and the insects' hum,
And many a poet praise you. Clasped and curled
Beside these rocks, and plucking some chance flower,
Will many a pair of lovers linger, dumb
With loves too much for utterance, all too weak
The charm they feel, the joy they own, to speak.
Here wandering from the noisy city's maze,
How many an idle, casual visitor
Thy beauty with a careless tone will praise,
And turn away without one true heart-stir.
Here the dull woodman, thinking but of gain,
Heedless of any Dryad's shriek of pain,
Will fell with ringing axe this living wood;
And here some gentle child, o'er whom the dream
And lingering lights of former being brood,
Perchance may meet some Naiad at this stream,
By whom her language shall be understood,
And here together they will talk and play,
And many a secret she will strive to tell
That here she learns, and all the world will say,
Laughing: “Dear child, this is not credible.”
Ah Heaven! we know so much who nothing know!
Only to children and in poets' ears,
At whom the wise world wondering smiles and sneers,
Secrets of God are whispered here below.
Only to them, and those whose gentle heart
Is opened wide to list for Beauty's call,
Will Nature lean to whisper the least part
Of that great mystery which circles all.
The wise, dull world, with solid facts content,
Laughs at all dreamers, deeming nothing good
Save what is touched, seen, handled, understood.
Well, let it laugh! To me the firmament
Is more than gleaming lights; more than mere wood
These leafy groves; and more these murmuring streams
Than running waters. This wide, vaporous sky,
Painted by morning, fired by sunset gleams,
These winds that breathe around this swinging world,
This restless ocean, moaning constantly,
These storms across the shuddering forests whirled,
The season's still processions, day and night,
That each the other silently pursues,
Sure and unchanging in their even flight,
And all these changing shows and forms and hues
Not for mere use were given, nor mere delight.
Beauty is theirs and power, and, more, a fine
Dim mystery shrouds them man can ne'er divine.
Harvests that sweeten life and thought they bear
Imponderable, exquisite, and rare,
That take the spirit with a sweet surprise.
Dreams haunt them, intimations, prophecies,
Glad lessons, adumbrations, spirit gleams,
That, when the loving heart evokes them, rise.
Others may reap their solid facts; for me,
I am content to gather inwardly
Their silent harvest of poetic dreams.
Better to lie beneath these whispering trees
And take the joy the moment gives, and feel
The glad, pure day, the gently lifting breeze
That steals their odors from the unconscious flowers,
Nor seek what Nature never will reveal,
The hidden secret of our destinies.
Let all go—whate'er it is it is,
And, come what will, this day, at least, is ours.
My hour is gone, dear glen, and now farewell.
Here you the self-same song, bright brook, will sing;
Here you, dark firs, the self-same tale will tell,
Mysterious, to the low wind whispering,
How many a summer day to other ears,
When I am gone, beyond all doubts, hopes, fears,
Beyond all sights and sounds of this fair world,
Into the dim beyond; in time to come
Will many a dreamer sit for many an hour,
Lulled by your murmur, and the insects' hum,
And many a poet praise you. Clasped and curled
169
Will many a pair of lovers linger, dumb
With loves too much for utterance, all too weak
The charm they feel, the joy they own, to speak.
Here wandering from the noisy city's maze,
How many an idle, casual visitor
Thy beauty with a careless tone will praise,
And turn away without one true heart-stir.
Here the dull woodman, thinking but of gain,
Heedless of any Dryad's shriek of pain,
Will fell with ringing axe this living wood;
And here some gentle child, o'er whom the dream
And lingering lights of former being brood,
Perchance may meet some Naiad at this stream,
By whom her language shall be understood,
And here together they will talk and play,
And many a secret she will strive to tell
That here she learns, and all the world will say,
Laughing: “Dear child, this is not credible.”
Ah Heaven! we know so much who nothing know!
Only to children and in poets' ears,
At whom the wise world wondering smiles and sneers,
Secrets of God are whispered here below.
Only to them, and those whose gentle heart
Is opened wide to list for Beauty's call,
Will Nature lean to whisper the least part
170
The wise, dull world, with solid facts content,
Laughs at all dreamers, deeming nothing good
Save what is touched, seen, handled, understood.
Well, let it laugh! To me the firmament
Is more than gleaming lights; more than mere wood
These leafy groves; and more these murmuring streams
Than running waters. This wide, vaporous sky,
Painted by morning, fired by sunset gleams,
These winds that breathe around this swinging world,
This restless ocean, moaning constantly,
These storms across the shuddering forests whirled,
The season's still processions, day and night,
That each the other silently pursues,
Sure and unchanging in their even flight,
And all these changing shows and forms and hues
Not for mere use were given, nor mere delight.
Beauty is theirs and power, and, more, a fine
Dim mystery shrouds them man can ne'er divine.
Harvests that sweeten life and thought they bear
Imponderable, exquisite, and rare,
That take the spirit with a sweet surprise.
Dreams haunt them, intimations, prophecies,
Glad lessons, adumbrations, spirit gleams,
171
Others may reap their solid facts; for me,
I am content to gather inwardly
Their silent harvest of poetic dreams.
172
PRIMAVERA.
The Spring has passed this way—Look! where she trod
The daring crocus sprang up through the sod
To greet her coming with glad heedlessness,
Scarce waiting to put on its leafy dress,
But bright and bold in its brave nakedness—
And further on—mark!—o'er this gentle rise
She must have paused, for soft anemones
Are trembling to the wind, couched low among
The fresh green grasses that so lush have sprung
Where the hid runnel with low tinkling tongue
Babbles its secret troubles—Here she stopped
A longer while, and on this rising sweep,
As pensively she lingered, see, she dropped
A knot of love-sick violets from her breast,
Which, ere she threw them down, she must have kissed,
For still the fragrance of her breath they keep—
And look!—here, too, her passing robes have brushed,
Where this white leafless almond faintly blushed
To greet her—and in blossoms burst as she
Swept by it gladsomely and gracefully.
Where is she now? Gone! Vain it were to try
To overtake her—Here then let us lie
On this green slope and weave a wreath, and sing
With our best skill the joyous praise of Spring,
Thankful for these sweet gifts she left behind—
Flowers, grass, and showery perfume of the wind.
The daring crocus sprang up through the sod
To greet her coming with glad heedlessness,
Scarce waiting to put on its leafy dress,
But bright and bold in its brave nakedness—
And further on—mark!—o'er this gentle rise
She must have paused, for soft anemones
Are trembling to the wind, couched low among
The fresh green grasses that so lush have sprung
Where the hid runnel with low tinkling tongue
Babbles its secret troubles—Here she stopped
A longer while, and on this rising sweep,
As pensively she lingered, see, she dropped
A knot of love-sick violets from her breast,
Which, ere she threw them down, she must have kissed,
For still the fragrance of her breath they keep—
And look!—here, too, her passing robes have brushed,
Where this white leafless almond faintly blushed
To greet her—and in blossoms burst as she
Swept by it gladsomely and gracefully.
173
To overtake her—Here then let us lie
On this green slope and weave a wreath, and sing
With our best skill the joyous praise of Spring,
Thankful for these sweet gifts she left behind—
Flowers, grass, and showery perfume of the wind.
Pursuit is useless—she like all things fair
Will not be hunted down into her lair
And caught and prisoned—Let us not be rude,
Nor seek into her presence to intrude,
But praise her in the distance!—then perchance
She may not flee away with wingèd feet,
But pause and backward cast a favoring glance,
And waft a fragrance to us rare and sweet—
Too eager, we our present joy may miss
In the vain chase of an imagined bliss,
The Ideal joy no human hand can seize,
The dream that ever lures and vanishes.
Will not be hunted down into her lair
And caught and prisoned—Let us not be rude,
Nor seek into her presence to intrude,
But praise her in the distance!—then perchance
She may not flee away with wingèd feet,
But pause and backward cast a favoring glance,
And waft a fragrance to us rare and sweet—
Too eager, we our present joy may miss
In the vain chase of an imagined bliss,
The Ideal joy no human hand can seize,
The dream that ever lures and vanishes.
Rude blustering March has gone to sleep to-day,
And left the world for Spring therein to play
And wander as it will through grove and dell
To work her sweet and gentle miracle
And bring the dead to life.—But who can tell
When jealous March may wake and wreak his wrath
Upon the dear intruder, blind her path
With stinging sleet, pelt her with rattling hail,
Drive the swollen torrent madly down the vale,
Scatter her blossoms, blast her tender crops,
Roar up the hill-sides, grasping by their tops
The shuddering trees, and screaming through the grove
Distort with passion its calm face of love?
Should he but wake and with a voice of dread
Come trampling on the thunderous clouds o'erhead
To shake the world and flash his startling blades
Of lightning out,—swift as in Enna's vale
When Proserpine slow loitering through the glades
Beheld black Pluto with his face of bale
And dropped her flowers and fled,—so in affright
Spring shuddering would turn and flee from sight.
And left the world for Spring therein to play
And wander as it will through grove and dell
To work her sweet and gentle miracle
And bring the dead to life.—But who can tell
When jealous March may wake and wreak his wrath
Upon the dear intruder, blind her path
With stinging sleet, pelt her with rattling hail,
Drive the swollen torrent madly down the vale,
Scatter her blossoms, blast her tender crops,
174
The shuddering trees, and screaming through the grove
Distort with passion its calm face of love?
Should he but wake and with a voice of dread
Come trampling on the thunderous clouds o'erhead
To shake the world and flash his startling blades
Of lightning out,—swift as in Enna's vale
When Proserpine slow loitering through the glades
Beheld black Pluto with his face of bale
And dropped her flowers and fled,—so in affright
Spring shuddering would turn and flee from sight.
But truce to idle fears,—in these blue skies
No thunder threatens,—all is calm and still
As a child sleeping, and this shadowy hill
Is full of glancing lights and perfumed breath,
And the green springing grass is fresh beneath
Our wandering feet. Not even Paradise
Was sweeter, fairer, ere the thought of death
Had darkened o'er it, and the world was new,
And Love without a fear its gladness knew.
No thunder threatens,—all is calm and still
As a child sleeping, and this shadowy hill
Is full of glancing lights and perfumed breath,
And the green springing grass is fresh beneath
Our wandering feet. Not even Paradise
Was sweeter, fairer, ere the thought of death
Had darkened o'er it, and the world was new,
And Love without a fear its gladness knew.
The day is passing—let us own its spell
Calm as the trees that feel within them swell
The secret thrill and currents of the spring,
And outward yearn in leaves and blossoming—
Content to take what nature freely gives,—
Love for life's blossoms, gentle thoughts for leaves.
Calm as the trees that feel within them swell
The secret thrill and currents of the spring,
And outward yearn in leaves and blossoming—
Content to take what nature freely gives,—
Love for life's blossoms, gentle thoughts for leaves.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |