 | The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark |  |
155
THE DYING POET.
“I could lie down, like a tried child,
And weep away this life of care,
Which I have borne and still must bear,
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me,
And I might feel, in the warm air,
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.”
Shelley.
And weep away this life of care,
Which I have borne and still must bear,
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me,
And I might feel, in the warm air,
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.”
Shelley.
'T is a spring hour: the silvery green
Of new-leaved woods delight my breast;
Yet must I leave this joyous scene,
Close my dim eyes, and be at rest;
The dews of death are on my brow,
And saddened Memory turns to trace
Scenes of pure thought which shone but now,
Ere yet I close life's fitful race!
Of new-leaved woods delight my breast;
Yet must I leave this joyous scene,
Close my dim eyes, and be at rest;
The dews of death are on my brow,
And saddened Memory turns to trace
Scenes of pure thought which shone but now,
Ere yet I close life's fitful race!
The melody of early birds
Comes softly to my dying ear:
How like the sweet and gentle words
Which early love rejoiced to hear!
The last red light is on the flowers,
Their tints upon the green earth lie:
Oh! must I turn from life's warm hours,
From this bright scene of joy—to die?
Comes softly to my dying ear:
How like the sweet and gentle words
Which early love rejoiced to hear!
The last red light is on the flowers,
Their tints upon the green earth lie:
Oh! must I turn from life's warm hours,
From this bright scene of joy—to die?
156
Chant on, ye wanderers of the sky!
Ye light of heart and gay of wing;
The early buds are opening by,
From the fresh earth the violets spring!
The rills are babbling through the grove,
Their gentle voices mingling swell:
They chant to trees whose shade I love,
Which I must leave! Oh, then, farewell!
Ye light of heart and gay of wing;
The early buds are opening by,
From the fresh earth the violets spring!
The rills are babbling through the grove,
Their gentle voices mingling swell:
They chant to trees whose shade I love,
Which I must leave! Oh, then, farewell!
Farewell to life! its morning hour
Was like a golden paradise;
Hope sprang like some luxuriant flower,
Where youth's enchanted visions rise!
I have had peace—its hour was brief:
I have had care—it lingered long!
Joy's tree sent down its faded leaf,
On Pleasure's lip expired the song!
Was like a golden paradise;
Hope sprang like some luxuriant flower,
Where youth's enchanted visions rise!
I have had peace—its hour was brief:
I have had care—it lingered long!
Joy's tree sent down its faded leaf,
On Pleasure's lip expired the song!
I, too, have loved: a holy dream
Rejoiced my warm and cheerful heart:
Thus have I marked the rainbow's gleam
On April clouds, and then depart!
Its smile was brief: deep hours of love
Came o'er my soul, intensely pure:
Why should the cloud o'er sunlight move?
Why may not heaven on earth endure?
Rejoiced my warm and cheerful heart:
Thus have I marked the rainbow's gleam
On April clouds, and then depart!
Its smile was brief: deep hours of love
Came o'er my soul, intensely pure:
Why should the cloud o'er sunlight move?
Why may not heaven on earth endure?
| The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark | |