 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
58
TO THE BARDS OF S. F. BAY.
I am as one unlearned, uncouth,
From country come to join the youth
Of some sweet town in quest of truth;
A skilless northern Nazarene—
From whence no good can ever come.
I stand apart as one that's dumb.
I hope—I fear—I hasten home.
I plunge into my wilds again.
From country come to join the youth
Of some sweet town in quest of truth;
A skilless northern Nazarene—
From whence no good can ever come.
I stand apart as one that's dumb.
I hope—I fear—I hasten home.
I plunge into my wilds again.
I catch your dulcet symphonies,
I drink the low sweet melodies
That stream through these dark feathered trees
Like echoes from some far church-bell,
Or music on the water spilled
Beneath the still moon's holy spell,
And life is sweeter—all is well—
The soul is fed. The heart is filled.
I drink the low sweet melodies
That stream through these dark feathered trees
Like echoes from some far church-bell,
Or music on the water spilled
Beneath the still moon's holy spell,
And life is sweeter—all is well—
The soul is fed. The heart is filled.
I move among these frowning firs,
Black bats wheel by in rippled whirs,
While naught else living breathes or stirs.
I peep—I lift the boughs apart—
I tiptoe up—I try to rise—
I strive to gaze into the eyes
Of charmers charming thus so wise—
I coin your faces on my heart.
Black bats wheel by in rippled whirs,
59
I peep—I lift the boughs apart—
I tiptoe up—I try to rise—
I strive to gaze into the eyes
Of charmers charming thus so wise—
I coin your faces on my heart.
I greet you on your brown bent hills
Discoursing with the beaded rills,
While over all the full moon spills
His flood in gorgeous plenilune.
White skilful hands sweep o'er the strings,
I heed as when a seraph sings,
I lean to catch the whisperings,
I list into the night's sweet noon.
Discoursing with the beaded rills,
While over all the full moon spills
His flood in gorgeous plenilune.
White skilful hands sweep o'er the strings,
I heed as when a seraph sings,
I lean to catch the whisperings,
I list into the night's sweet noon.
I see you by the streaming strand,
A singing sea-shell in each hand,
And silk locks tossing as you stand,
And tangled in the toying breeze.
And lo! the sea with salty tears,
While white hands toss, then disappear,
Doth plead that you for years and years
Will stay and sing unto the seas.
A singing sea-shell in each hand,
And silk locks tossing as you stand,
And tangled in the toying breeze.
And lo! the sea with salty tears,
While white hands toss, then disappear,
Doth plead that you for years and years
Will stay and sing unto the seas.
| Joaquin, et al. | |