 | Poems by Frederick Goddard Tuckerman |  |
12
Inspiration.
The common paths by which we walk and wind,
Unheedful, but perhaps to wish them done,
Though edged with brier and clotbur, bear behind
Such leaves as Milton wears, or Shakespeare won.
Still could we look with clear poetic faith,
No day so desert but a footway hath,
Which still explored, though dimly traced it turn,
May yet arrive where gates of glory burn;
Nay, scarce an hour, of all the shining twelve,
But to the inmost sight may ope a valve
On those hid gardens, where the great of old
Walked from the world, and their sick hearts consoled
Mid bowers that fall not, wells which never waste,
And gathered flowers, the fruit whereof we taste:
While, of the silent hours that mourn the day,
Not one but bears a poet's crown away;
Regardless, or unconscious, how he might
Collect an import from the fires of night,
Which, when the hand is still, and fixed the head,
Shall tremble, starlike, o'er the undying dead;
Unheedful, but perhaps to wish them done,
Though edged with brier and clotbur, bear behind
Such leaves as Milton wears, or Shakespeare won.
Still could we look with clear poetic faith,
No day so desert but a footway hath,
Which still explored, though dimly traced it turn,
May yet arrive where gates of glory burn;
Nay, scarce an hour, of all the shining twelve,
But to the inmost sight may ope a valve
On those hid gardens, where the great of old
Walked from the world, and their sick hearts consoled
Mid bowers that fall not, wells which never waste,
And gathered flowers, the fruit whereof we taste:
13
Not one but bears a poet's crown away;
Regardless, or unconscious, how he might
Collect an import from the fires of night,
Which, when the hand is still, and fixed the head,
Shall tremble, starlike, o'er the undying dead;
And, with a tearful glory,
Through the darkness shadowing then,
Still light the sleeper's story,
In the memories of men.
Through the darkness shadowing then,
Still light the sleeper's story,
In the memories of men.
And such are mine; for me these scenes decay,—
For me, in hues of change, are ever born
The faded crimson of a wasted day,
The gold and purple braveries of the Morn:
The life of Spring, the strength that Summer gains,
The dying foliage sad September stains;
By latter Autumn shattered on the plain,
Massed by the wind, blent by the rotting rain;
Till belts of snow from cliff to cliff appear,
And whitely link the dead and new-born year.
All these, to music deep, for me unfold,
Yet vaguely die; their sense I cannot hold,—
But shudder darkly as the years drop by
And leave me, lifting still a darkened eye.
Or if from these despondingly I go
To look for light where clear examples glow,
Though names constellate glitter overhead,
To prompt the path, and guide the failing tread,
I linger, watching for a warmer gleam,
While still my spirit shivers, and I seem
For me, in hues of change, are ever born
The faded crimson of a wasted day,
The gold and purple braveries of the Morn:
The life of Spring, the strength that Summer gains,
The dying foliage sad September stains;
By latter Autumn shattered on the plain,
Massed by the wind, blent by the rotting rain;
Till belts of snow from cliff to cliff appear,
And whitely link the dead and new-born year.
14
Yet vaguely die; their sense I cannot hold,—
But shudder darkly as the years drop by
And leave me, lifting still a darkened eye.
Or if from these despondingly I go
To look for light where clear examples glow,
Though names constellate glitter overhead,
To prompt the path, and guide the failing tread,
I linger, watching for a warmer gleam,
While still my spirit shivers, and I seem
Like one constrained to wander
Alone, till morning light,
Beneath the hopeless grandeur
Of a star-filled winter's night.
Alone, till morning light,
Beneath the hopeless grandeur
Of a star-filled winter's night.
| Poems by Frederick Goddard Tuckerman | |