On Viol and Flute By Edmund W. Gosse |
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LÜBECK. |
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 | On Viol and Flute |  |
64
LÜBECK.
We sat in Lübeck underneath
The lindens of the minster-close;
Round us the city, still as death,
Was gathered like a rose.
The lindens of the minster-close;
Round us the city, still as death,
Was gathered like a rose.
The great red tower sprang over us,
Far up a dome of sapphire glow
More vast and clear and luminous
Than English summers know.
Far up a dome of sapphire glow
More vast and clear and luminous
Than English summers know.
Faint flutings of the fluctuant breeze
Sang from the orchards out of sight,
And whispered through the linden-trees,
And stirred the shadowy light.
Sang from the orchards out of sight,
And whispered through the linden-trees,
And stirred the shadowy light.
And, whistling low, a gooseherd came,
And led his flock across the grass;
And then we saw a burgher dame,
Demurely smiling, pass.
And led his flock across the grass;
And then we saw a burgher dame,
Demurely smiling, pass.
65
We sucked the juice from tangled skeins
Of currants, rosy-red and white,
And in the wind the ancient vanes
Were creaking out of sight.
Of currants, rosy-red and white,
And in the wind the ancient vanes
Were creaking out of sight.
And little maidens, too, came by,
And shook their tails of flaxen hair;
We held a conclave, small and shy,
To taste our juicy fare.
And shook their tails of flaxen hair;
We held a conclave, small and shy,
To taste our juicy fare.
Then, wandering down by mouldering towers,
We reached at last a little knoll;
And there, among the pansy-flowers,
We read of “Atta Troll.”
We reached at last a little knoll;
And there, among the pansy-flowers,
We read of “Atta Troll.”
How sweetly in the falling light
The broad still river, like a moat,
Swung, with its water-lilies white,
And yellow buds afloat!
The broad still river, like a moat,
Swung, with its water-lilies white,
And yellow buds afloat!
A little matter! but such moods
Make up the sum of happy hours;
In uncongenial solitudes
They come to us like flowers.
Make up the sum of happy hours;
In uncongenial solitudes
They come to us like flowers.
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So lay that afternoon to sleep
Among your dearest pansy-knots,—
The hushed herbarium where you keep
Your heart's forget-me-nots,
Among your dearest pansy-knots,—
The hushed herbarium where you keep
Your heart's forget-me-nots,
Remembering how the day went by
At Lübeck, by the minster-towers,
Enshrined in all the mystery
Of mediæval hours.
At Lübeck, by the minster-towers,
Enshrined in all the mystery
Of mediæval hours.
Jaly, 1872.
| On Viol and Flute | |