 | Lines of battle and other poems by Henry Howard Brownell |  |
143
FROM “ÆON”
To an else unquiet bosom
Ye how gentle, each and all!
Dear the glory of the blossom,
Sweet the sadness of the fall.
Ye how gentle, each and all!
Dear the glory of the blossom,
Sweet the sadness of the fall.
Summer's flush of sultry splendor,—
Winter's tempest-whitened waves—
Spring's sweet passion—autumn's tender
Sunshine on forgotten graves.
Winter's tempest-whitened waves—
Spring's sweet passion—autumn's tender
Sunshine on forgotten graves.
Misty pines that glow and quiver
O'er the blue and burning plain,—
Moss-grey rock and leaden river,
Lost in cold autumnal rain.
O'er the blue and burning plain,—
Moss-grey rock and leaden river,
Lost in cold autumnal rain.
Yellow gleams where day is dying,
Cold-barred clouds, dark blue and dun—
And the bare brown meadows lying
In the low slant winter sun.
Cold-barred clouds, dark blue and dun—
And the bare brown meadows lying
In the low slant winter sun.
Mighty halls of dun and amber—
Thunder, when the dark sky nods,
Rolling through each vaulted chamber
Like the laughter of the gods.
Thunder, when the dark sky nods,
Rolling through each vaulted chamber
Like the laughter of the gods.
144
Lightnings in their midnight onset,
Like a sudden lurid dawn,
Or a pallid, ghastly sunset
Seen an instant and withdrawn.
Like a sudden lurid dawn,
Or a pallid, ghastly sunset
Seen an instant and withdrawn.
Level beams that sunset launches,
Rosy drifts o'er fields that lie,
Hollows blue that shadow blanches,
Trunks suffused in orange dye—
All their net of wintry branches
Brown against a golden sky.
Rosy drifts o'er fields that lie,
Hollows blue that shadow blanches,
Trunks suffused in orange dye—
All their net of wintry branches
Brown against a golden sky.
Massy, broad whale-backs of billows,
Lifting o'er some sunken ledge;
Still, black ponds beneath old willows;
Melancholy miles of sedge.
Lifting o'er some sunken ledge;
Still, black ponds beneath old willows;
Melancholy miles of sedge.
Cloud-banks in the leaden offing,—
The low ground-swell, feeling ground,
Like the clods upon a coffin,
Heard with dull and heavy sound.
The low ground-swell, feeling ground,
Like the clods upon a coffin,
Heard with dull and heavy sound.
Wild, low-lying scud that hurries
Swift o'erhead,—while o'er the deep,
Past some crag, in circling flurries,
Flaws, like ruffled falcons, sweep.
Swift o'erhead,—while o'er the deep,
Past some crag, in circling flurries,
Flaws, like ruffled falcons, sweep.
145
Dear alike in sun or shadow—
Autumn glory doffed or donned—
Purple woodland, tawny meadow,
And the cold blue hills beyond.
Autumn glory doffed or donned—
Purple woodland, tawny meadow,
And the cold blue hills beyond.
When the rusty boughs are swaying,
And in eddies, on the ground,
The dry leaves, like children playing,
Chase each other round and round.
And in eddies, on the ground,
The dry leaves, like children playing,
Chase each other round and round.
When the long tree shadows spindle,
Eastward flung o'er level snow,
And old farm-house windows kindle—
All their wrinkled panes aglow—
As the wintry day doth dwindle,
And the setting sun burns low.
Eastward flung o'er level snow,
And old farm-house windows kindle—
All their wrinkled panes aglow—
As the wintry day doth dwindle,
And the setting sun burns low.
| Lines of battle and other poems by Henry Howard Brownell | |