 | The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes |  |
THE FAIRY WORLD
There is a world—a fairy world,
That hath its place on common ground;
In every spot, on every soil,
Where man himself is found.
That hath its place on common ground;
In every spot, on every soil,
Where man himself is found.
Before our eyes, beneath our feet
We see it, yet we coldly deem
Its scenes but rainbow tinted air,
Its life an idle dream.
We see it, yet we coldly deem
Its scenes but rainbow tinted air,
Its life an idle dream.
The fresh and bounding pulse that glows
Along its yet unbroken course,
Clear as the fountain of the Spring
From its untainted source;
Along its yet unbroken course,
Clear as the fountain of the Spring
From its untainted source;
And the glad freedom of the soul,
Ere care has linked his leaden chain
From fancy's tangled path of flowers
To drag it back again;
Ere care has linked his leaden chain
From fancy's tangled path of flowers
To drag it back again;
If this be life, and this is theirs—
The leaping pulse, the joyous eye,
Why need they sigh that sterner cares
Beyond their circle lie?
The leaping pulse, the joyous eye,
Why need they sigh that sterner cares
Beyond their circle lie?
It hath its laws and edicts stern,
Its well tried maxims, worn and sage,
Some from the grandam's reverend lip,
And some from printed page.
Its well tried maxims, worn and sage,
Some from the grandam's reverend lip,
And some from printed page.
It hath its legends and its tales,
The records of departed time;
Its wondrous stories grave and true,
Its rudely woven rhyme;
The records of departed time;
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Its rudely woven rhyme;
Its fabled heroes, crowned kings,
Its warriors fierce, its giants tall;
Its wizards, and its charméd maid,
She of the sandal small.
Its warriors fierce, its giants tall;
Its wizards, and its charméd maid,
She of the sandal small.
It hath its customs, gray with years,
Saved from the crumbled spoils of yore,
When northern wanderers moored their barks
Along the Saxon's shore.
Saved from the crumbled spoils of yore,
When northern wanderers moored their barks
Along the Saxon's shore.
It changeth not where all is changed,
Though monarchs fall, and empires fade,
Still springs it, like the vine beneath
The dying forest's shade.
Though monarchs fall, and empires fade,
Still springs it, like the vine beneath
The dying forest's shade.
Child of the round and rosy cheek,
The laughing lip, the clustering hair,
Thine is the world of which we speak,
Hope, peace, and joy are there.
The laughing lip, the clustering hair,
Thine is the world of which we speak,
Hope, peace, and joy are there.
| The Poetical Works of Oliver Wendell Holmes | |