 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
50
THIS MORNING.
Morning comes, and with rosy fingers
Parting her misty locks away,
Binds them back with a golden arrow,—
Then like a laughing child at play,
Waving the folds of her radiant garments,
Sweeps the stars from the path of day.
Parting her misty locks away,
Binds them back with a golden arrow,—
Then like a laughing child at play,
Waving the folds of her radiant garments,
Sweeps the stars from the path of day.
Thou of the broad and thoughtful forehead,
Over the calm reflective eyes,
Shrining a deep unworldly meaning
Under the shadow that in them lies,
Let us forget life's jar and discord,
Listening to Nature's harmonies.
Over the calm reflective eyes,
Shrining a deep unworldly meaning
Under the shadow that in them lies,
Let us forget life's jar and discord,
Listening to Nature's harmonies.
Let us go where the bending branches
Closest, coolest together press,
Where the leaves with their loving fingers
Touch my forehead in mute caress—
Come, for the heart that loads my bosom
Aches with its heavy emptiness.
Closest, coolest together press,
Where the leaves with their loving fingers
Touch my forehead in mute caress—
Come, for the heart that loads my bosom
Aches with its heavy emptiness.
51
Lightly the plumes of cherry-blossoms
Drop their snow as we wander by,
Sweetly the bright waves talk together,
Sweetly the willow boughs reply,
Fringing the brink of the smiling river
As lashes shadow a clear blue eye.
Drop their snow as we wander by,
Sweetly the bright waves talk together,
Sweetly the willow boughs reply,
Fringing the brink of the smiling river
As lashes shadow a clear blue eye.
Softly the elm's low drooping tresses
Swing and wave, by the south-wind stirred,
Lightly the birch-tree's airy branches
Tremble under the singing bird;
Sweetly the river's dreamy murmur
Comes like an oft-repeated word.
Swing and wave, by the south-wind stirred,
Lightly the birch-tree's airy branches
Tremble under the singing bird;
Sweetly the river's dreamy murmur
Comes like an oft-repeated word.
Weary of worldly care and bustle,
Oh, I deem it a blessed boon
Thus to rest where the rippling water
Singeth ever a lulling tune,
While with its soft continuous murmur
Mingle the myriad songs of June.
Oh, I deem it a blessed boon
Thus to rest where the rippling water
Singeth ever a lulling tune,
While with its soft continuous murmur
Mingle the myriad songs of June.
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |