The Home Book Of Verse Volume 3 By Burton Egbert Stevenson

The Home Book of Verse, Volume 3 by Burton Egbert Stevenson Contents of Volume I of the two volume set are in our Volume 1 This includes contents of Volumes 1 through 4 of our Etext editions. PART III POEMS OF NATURE The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. – Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. William Wordsworth [1770-1850] MOTHER NATURE THE BOOK OF THE WORLD Of this fair volume which we World do name, If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care, Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, We clear might read the art and wisdom rare; Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame, His providence extending everywhere,His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, In every page, no, period of the same.But silly we, like foolish children, rest Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold, Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best, On the great Writer’s sense ne’er taking hold; Or, if by chance we stay our minds on aught, It is some picture on the margin wrought. William Drummond [1585-1649] NATURE The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, Because my feet find measure with its call; The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, For I am known to them, both great and small. The flower that on the lonely hillside grows Expects me there when spring its bloom has given; And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows, And e’en the clouds and silent stars of heaven; For he who with his Maker walks aright,Shall be their lord as Adam was before; His ear shall catch each sound with new delight, Each object wear the dress that then it wore; And he, as when erect in soul he stood,Hear from his Father’s lips that all is good. Jones Very [1813-1880] COMPENSATION In that new world toward which our feet are set, Shall we find aught to make our hearts forget Earth’s homely joys and her bright hours of bliss? Has heaven a spell divine enough for this? For who the pleasure of the spring shall tell When on the leafless stalk the brown buds swell, When the grass brightens and the days grow long, And little birds break out in rippling song? O sweet the dropping eve, the blush of morn, The starlit sky, the rustling fields of corn, The soft airs blowing from the freshening seas, The sunflecked shadow of the stately trees, The mellow thunder and the lulling rain, The warm, delicious, happy summer rain,When the grass brightens and the days grow long, And little birds break out in rippling song! O beauty manifold, from morn till night, Dawn’s flush, noon’s blaze and sunset’s tender light! O fair, familiar features, changes sweet Of her revolving seasons, storm and sleet And golden calm, as slow she wheels through space, From snow to roses, – and how dear her face, When the grass brightens, when the days grow long, And little birds break out in rippling song! O happy earth! O home so well beloved! What recompense have we, from thee removed? One hope we have that overtops the whole, – The hope of finding every vanished soul, We love and long for daily, and for this Gladly we turn from thee, and all thy bliss, Even at thy loveliest, when the days are long, And little birds break out in rippling song. Celia Thaxter [1835-1894] THE LAST HOUR O joys of love and joys of fame,It is not you I shall regret;I sadden lest I should forgetThe beauty woven in earth’s name: The shout and battle of the gale,The stillness of the sun-rising,The sound of some deep hidden spring, The glad sob of the filling sail, The first green ripple of the wheat,The rain-song of the lifted leaves, The waking birds beneath the eaves,The voices of the summer heat. Ethel Clifford [18 – NATURE O Nature! I do not aspireTo be the highest in thy choir, –To be a meteor in thy sky,Or comet that may range on high;Only a zephyr that may blowAmong the reeds by the river low;Give me thy most privy placeWhere to run my airy race. In some withdrawn, unpublic meadLet me sigh upon a reed,Or in the woods, with leafy din,Whisper the still evening in:Some still work give me to do, –Only – be it near to you! For I’d rather be thy childAnd pupil, in the forest wild,Than be the king of men elsewhere,And most sovereign slave of care;To have one moment of thy dawn,Than share the city’s year forlorn. Henry David Thoreau [1817-1862] SONG OF NATURE Mine are the night and morning,The pits of air, the gull of space, The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,The innumerable days. I hide in the solar glory,I am dumb in the pealing song,I rest on the pitch of the torrent, In slumber I am strong. No numbers have counted my tallies,No tribes my house can fill,I sit by the shining Fount of LifeAnd pour the deluge still; And ever by delicate powersGathering along the centuriesFrom race on race the rarest flowers, My wreath shall nothing miss. And many a thousand summersMy gardens ripened well,And light from meliorating starsWith firmer glory fell. I wrote the past in charactersOf rock and fire the scroll,The building in the coral sea,The planting of the coal. And thefts from satellites and ringsAnd broken stars I drew,And out of spent and aged thingsI formed the world anew; What time the gods kept carnival,Tricked out in star and flower,And in cramp elf and saurian formsThey swathed their too much power. Time and Thought were my surveyors,They laid their courses well,They boiled the sea, and piled the layers Of granite, marl and shell. But he, the man-child glorious, –Where tarries he the while?The rainbow shines his harbinger,The sunset gleams his smile. My boreal lights leap upward,Forthright my planets roll,And still the man-child is not born, The summit of the whole. Must time and tide forever run?Will never my winds go sleep in the west? Will never my wheels which whirl the sun And satellites have rest? Too much of donning and doffing,Too slow the rainbow fades,I weary of my robe of snow,My leaves and my cascades; I tire of globes and races,Too long the game is played;What without him is summer’s pomp,Or winter’s frozen shade? I travail in pain for him,My creatures travail and wait;His couriers come by squadrons,He comes not to the gate. Twice I have moulded an image,And thrice outstretched my hand,Made one of day and one of nightAnd one of the salt sea-sand. One in a Judaean manger,And one by Avon stream,One over against the mouths of Nile, And one in the Academe. I moulded kings and saviors,And bards o’er kings to rule; –But fell the starry influence short, The cup was never full. Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more, And mix the bowl again;Seethe, Fate! the ancient elements, Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain. Let war and trade and creeds and song Blend, ripen race on race,The sunburnt world a man shall breed Of all the zones and countless days. No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,My oldest force is good as new,And the fresh rose on yonder thornGives back the bending heavens in dew. Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882] “GREAT NATURE IS AN ARMY GAY” Great nature is an army gay,Resistless marching on its way;I hear the bugles clear and sweet,I hear the tread of million feet.Across the plain I see it pour;It tramples down the waving grass;Within the echoing mountain-passI hear a thousand cannon roar.It swarms within my garden gate;My deepest well it drinketh dry.It doth not rest; it doth not wait; By night and day it sweepeth by;Ceaseless it marcheth by my door;It heeds me not, though I implore.I know not whence it comes, nor where It goes. For me it doth not care –Whether I starve, or eat, or sleep, Or live, or die, or sing, or weep.And now the banners all are bright, Now torn and blackened by the fight.Sometimes its laughter shakes the sky, Sometimes the groans of those who die.Still through the night and through the livelong day The infinite army marches on its remorseless way. Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909] TO MOTHER NATURE Nature, in thy largess, grantI may be thy confidant!Taste who will life’s roadside cheer (Though my heart doth hold it dear –Song and wine and trees and grass,All the joys that flash and pass),I must put within my prayer Gifts more intimate and rare.Show me how dry branches throwSuch blue shadows on the snow, –Tell me how the wind can fareOn his unseen feet of air, –Show me how the spider’s loomWeaves the fabric from her womb, –Lead me to those brooks of mornWhere a woman’s laugh is born, –Let me taste the sap that flowsThrough the blushes of a rose,Yea, and drain the blood which runs From the heart of dying suns, –Teach me how the butterflyGuessed at immortality, –Let me follow up the trackOf Love’s deathless ZodiacWhere Joy climbs among the spheresCircled by her moon of tears, –Tell me how, when I forgetAll the schools have taught me, yet I recall each trivial thingIn a golden far off Spring, –Give me whispered hints how IMay instruct my heart to flyWhere the baffling Vision gleamsTill I overtake my dreams,And the impossible be doneWhen the Wish and Deed grow one! Frederic Lawrence Knowles [1869-1905] QUIET WORK One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, One lesson which in every wind is blown, One lesson of two duties kept at oneThough the loud world proclaim their enmity – Of toil unsevered from tranquillity;Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows Far noisier schemes, accomplished in repose, Too great for haste, too high for rivalry. Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring, Man’s fitful uproar mingling with his toil, Still do thy sleepless ministers move on, Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting; Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil; Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone. Matthew Arnold [1822-1888] NATURE As a fond mother, when the day is o’er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led,And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comfortedBy promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes awayOur playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we goScarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understandHow far the unknown transcends the what we know. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882] “AS AN OLD MERCER” As an old mercer in some sleepy townSwings wide his windows new day after day, Sets all his wares around in arch arrayTo please the taste of passers up and down, – His hoard of handy things of trite renown, Of sweets and spices and of faint perfumes, Of silks and prints, – and at the last illumes His tiny panes to foil the evening’s frown; So Nature spreads her proffered treasures: such As daily dazzle at the morning’s rise, – Fair show of isle and ocean merchandise, And airy offerings filmy to the touch;Then, lest we like not these, in Dark’s bazaars She nightly tempts us with her store of stars. Mahlon Leonard Fisher [1874- GOOD COMPANY To-day I have grown taller from walking with the trees, The seven sister-poplars who go softly in a line; And I think my heart is whiter for its parley with a star That trembled out at nightfall and hung above the pine. The call-note of a redbird from the cedars in the dusk Woke his happy mate within me to an answer free and fine; And a sudden angel beckoned from a column of blue smoke – Lord, who am I that they should stoop – these holy folk of thine? Karle Wilson Baker [1878- “HERE IS THE PLACE WHERE LOVELINESS KEEPS HOUSE” Here is the place where Loveliness keeps house, Between the river and the wooded hills,Within a valley where the Springtime spills Her firstling wind-flowers under blossoming boughs: Where Summer sits braiding her warm, white brows With bramble-roses; and where Autumn fills Her lap with asters; and old Winter frills With crimson haw and hip his snowy blouse. Here you may meet with Beauty. Here she sits Gazing upon the moon, or all the dayTuning a wood-thrush flute, remote, unseen; Or when the storm is out, ’tis she who flits From rock to rock, a form of flying spray, Shouting, beneath the leaves’ tumultuous green. Madison Cawein [1865-1914] GOD’S WORLD O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide gray skies!Thy mists, that roll and rise!Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with color! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, world, I cannot get thee close enough! Long have I known a glory in it allBut never knew I this.Here such a passion isAs stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year. My soul is all but out of me – let fallNo burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. Edna St. Vincent Millay [1892- WILD HONEY Where hints of racy sap and gumOut of the old dark forest come;Where birds their beaks like hammers wield, And pith is pierced and bark is peeled;Where the green walnut’s outer rind Gives precious bitterness to the wind;There lurks the sweet creative power, As lurks the honey in the flower.In winter’s bud that bursts in spring, In nut of autumn’s ripening,In acrid bulb beneath the mold,Sleeps the elixir, strong and old,That Rosicrucians sought in vain, – Life that renews itself again!What bottled perfume is so goodAs fragrance of split tulip-wood?What fabled drink of god or museWas rich as purple mulberry juice?And what school-polished gem of thought Is like the rune from Nature caught?He is a poet strong and trueWho loves wild thyme and honey-dew; And like a brown bee works and singsWith morning freshness on his wings, And a golden burden on his thighs, –The pollen-dust of centuries! Maurice Thompson [1844-1901] PATMOS All around him Patmos lies,Who hath spirit-gifted eyes,Who his happy sight can suitTo the great and the minute.Doubt not but he holds in viewA new earth and heaven new;Doubt not but his ear doth catchStrain nor voice nor reed can match: Many a silver, sphery noteShall within his hearing float.All around him Patmos lies,Who unto God’s priestess flies:Thou, O Nature, bid him see,Through all guises worn by thee,A divine apocalypse.Manifold his fellowships:Now the rocks their archives ope;Voiceless creatures tell their hope In a language symbol-wrought;Groves to him sigh out their thought; Musings of the flower and grassThrough his quiet spirit pass.‘Twixt new earth and heaven newHe hath traced and holds the clue,Number his delights ye may not;Fleets the year but these decay not. Now the freshets of the rain,Bounding on from hill to plain,Show him earthly streams have riseIn the bosom of the skies.Now he feels the morning thrill,As upmounts, unseen and still,Dew the wing of evening drops.Now the frost, that meets and stops Summer’s feet in tender sward,Greets him, breathing heavenward.Hieroglyphics writes the snow,Through the silence falling slow;Types of star and petaled bloomA white missal-page illume.By these floating symbols fine,Heaven-truth shall be divine. All around him Patmos lies,Who hath spirit-gifted eyes;He need not afar remove,He need not the times reprove,Who would hold perpetual leaseOf an isle in seas of peace. Edith M. Thomas [1854-1925] DAWN AND DARK SONG Phoebus, arise,And paint the sable skiesWith azure, white, and red:Rouse Memnon’s mother from her Tithon’s bed, That she thy career may with roses spread: The nightingales thy coming each where sing, Make an eternal Spring!Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hairIn larger locks than thou wast wont before, And, emperor-like, decoreWith diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night,Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. This is that happy morn,That day, long-wished day,Of all my life so dark,(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, And fates not hope betray,)Which, only white, deservesA diamond for ever should it mark.This is the morn should bring unto this grove My Love, to hear and recompense my love. Fair king, who all preserves,But show thy blushing beams,And thou two sweeter eyesShalt see, than those which by Peneus’ streams Did once thy heart surprise.Nay, suns, which shine as clearAs thou, when two thou didst to Rome appear. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: If that ye, winds, would hearA voice surpassing far Amphion’s lyre, Your stormy chiding stay;Let Zephyr only breathe,And with her tresses play,Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death. – The winds all silent are,And Phoebus in his chairEnsaffroning sea and air,Makes vanish every star:Night like a drunkard reelsBeyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels; The fields with flowers are decked in every hue, The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue: Here is the pleasant place,And everything save her, who all should grace. William Drummond [1585-1649] HYMN OF APOLLO The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries,From the broad moonlight of the sky, Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes, – Waken me when their Mother, the gray Dawn, Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone. Then I arise, and climbing Heaven’s blue dome, I walk over the mountains and the waves, Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam;My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves Are filled with my bright presence, and the air Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare. The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day; All men who do or even imagine illFly me, and from the glory of my ray Good minds and open actions take new might, Until diminished by the reign of Night. I feed the clouds, the rainbows, and the flowers, With their ethereal colors; the Moon’s globe, And the pure stars in their eternal bowers, Are cinctured with my power as with a robe; Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine, Are portions of one power, which is mine. I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven; Then with unwilling steps I wander downInto the clouds of the Atlantic even; For grief that I depart they weep and frown: What look is more delightful than the smile With which I soothe them from the western isle? I am the eye with which the UniverseBeholds itself, and knows it is divine; All harmony of instrument or verse,All prophecy, all medicine, is mine, All light of art or nature; – to my song Victory and praise in its own right belong. Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] PRELUDEFrom “The New Day” The night was dark, though sometimes a faint star A little while a little space made bright. The night was dark and still the dawn seemed far, When, o’er the muttering and invisible sea, Slowly, within the East, there grew a light Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be The herald of a greater. The pale whiteTurned slowly to pale rose, and up the height Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray sea grew Rose-colored like the sky. A white gull flew Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East Where slowly the rose gathered and increased. There was light now, where all was black before: It was as on the opening of a doorBy one who in his hand a lamp doth hold (Its flame being hidden by the garment’s fold), – The still air moves, the wide room is less dim. More bright the East became, the ocean turned Dark and more dark against the brightening sky – Sharper against the sky the long sea line. The hollows of the breakers on the shore Were green like leaves whereon no sun doth shine, Though sunlight make the outer branches hoar. From rose to red the level heaven burned; Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, A blade of gold flashed on the ocean’s rim. Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1909] DAWN ON THE HEADLAND Dawn – and a magical stillness: on earth, quiescence profound; On the waters a vast Content, as of hunger appeased and stayed; In the heavens a silence that seems not mere privation of sound, But a thing with form and body, a thing to be touched and weighed! Yet I know that I dwell in the midst of the roar of the cosmic wheel, In the hot collision of Forces, and clangor of boundless Strife, Mid the sound of the speed of the worlds, the rushing worlds, and the peal Of the thunder of Life. William Watson [1858-1935] THE MIRACLE OF THE DAWN What would it mean for you and meIf dawn should come no more!Think of its gold along the sea,Its rose above the shore!That rose of awful mystery,Our souls bow down before. What wonder that the Inca kneeled,The Aztec prayed and pledAnd sacrificed to it, and sealed, – With rites that long are dead, –The marvels that it once revealedTo them it comforted. What wonder, yea! what awe, behold!What rapture and what tearsWere ours, if wild its rivered gold, – That now each day appears, –Burst on the world, in darkness rolled, Once every thousand years! Think what it means to me and youTo see it even as GodEvolved it when the world was new!When Light rose, earthquake-shod,And slow its gradual splendor grewO’er deeps the whirlwind trod. What shoutings then and cymballingsArose from depth and height!What worship-solemn trumpetings,And thunders, burning-white,Of winds and waves, and anthemings Of Earth received the Light. Think what it meant to see the dawn!The dawn, that comes each day! –What if the East should ne’er grow wan, Should nevermore grow gray!That line of rose no more be drawnAbove the ocean’s spray! Madison Cawein [1865-1914] DAWN-ANGELS All night I watched awake for morning, At last the East grew all a flame,The birds for welcome sang, or warning, And with their singing morning came. Along the gold-green heavens driftedPale wandering souls that shun the light, Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted,Had beat the bars of Heaven all night. These clustered round the moon, but higher A troop of shining spirits went,Who were not made of wind or fire,But some divine dream-element. Some held the Light, while those remaining Shook out their harvest-colored wings,A faint unusual music raining,(Whose sound was Light) on earthly things. They sang, and as a mighty riverTheir voices washed the night away, From East to West ran one white shiver,And waxen strong their song was Day. A. Mary F. Robinson [1857- MUSIC OF THE DAWNAt Sea, October 23, 1907 In far forests’ leafy twilight, now is stealing gray dawn’s shy light, And the misty air is tremulous with songs of many a bird; While from mountain steeps descending, every streamlet’s voice is blending With the anthems of great pine trees, by the breath of daylight stirred. But I turn from Fancy’s dreaming of the green earth, to the gleaming Of the fluttering wings of morning rushing o’er the jewelled deep; And the ocean’s rhythmic pounding, with each lucent wave resounding, Seems the music made when God’s own hands His mighty harpstrings sweep. Virginia Bioren Harrison [1847- SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN O swift forerunners, rosy with the race! Spirits of dawn, divinely manifestBehind your blushing banners in the sky, Daring invaders of Night’s tenting-ground, – How do ye strain on forward-bending foot, Each to be first in heralding of joy!With silence sandalled, so they weave their way, And so they stand, with silence panoplied, Chanting, through mystic symbollings of flame, Their solemn invocation to the light. O changeless guardians! O ye wizard firs! What strenuous philter feeds your potency, That thus ye rest, in sweet wood-hardiness. Ready to learn of all and utter naught?What breath may move ye, or what breeze invite To odorous hot lendings of the heart?What wind – but all the winds are yet afar, And e’en the little tricksy zephyr sprites, That fleet before them, like their elfin locks, Have lagged in sleep, nor stir nor waken yet To pluck the robe of patient majesty. Too still for dreaming, too divine for sleep, So range the firs, the constant, fearless ones. Warders of mountain secrets, there they wait, Each with his cloak about him, breathless, calm, And yet expectant, as who knows the dawn, And all night thrills with memory and desire, Searching in what has been for what shall be: The marvel of the ne’er familiar day,Sacred investiture of life renewed, The chrism of dew, the coronal of flame. Low in the valley lies the conquered rout Of man’s poor trivial turmoil, lost and drowned Under the mist, in gleaming rivers rolled, Where oozy marsh contends with frothing main. And rounding all, springs one full, ambient arch, One great good limpid world – so still, so still! For no sound echoes from its crystal curve Save four clear notes, the song of that lone bird Who, brave but trembling, tries his morning hymn, And has no heart to finish, for the aweAnd wonder of this pearling globe of dawn. Light, light eternal! veiling-place of stars! Light, the revealer of dread beauty’s face! Weaving whereof the hills are lambent clad! Mighty libation to the Unknown God!Cup whereat pine-trees slake their giant thirst And little leaves drink sweet delirium!Being and breath and potion! Living soul And all-informing heart of all that lives! How can we magnify thine awful nameSave by its chanting: Light! and light! and light! An exhalation from far sky retreats,It grows in silence, as ’twere self-create, Suffusing all the dusky web of night.But one lone corner it invades not yet, Where low above a black and rimy cragHangs the old moon, thin as a battered shield, The holy, useless shield of long-past wars, Dinted and frosty, on the crystal dark.But lo! the east, – let none forget the east, Pathway ordained of old where He should tread. Through some sweet magic common in the skies The rosy banners are with saffron tinct: The saffron grows to gold, the gold is fire, And led by silence more majesticalThan clash of conquering arms, He comes! He comes! He holds his spear benignant, sceptrewise, And strikes out flame from the adoring hills. Alice Brown [1857- ODE TO EVENING If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs,Thy springs and dying gales; O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove,O’erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle windsHis small but sullen horn, As oft he rises, ‘midst the twilight path Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: Now teach me, maid composed,To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hailThy genial loved return! For when thy folding-star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lampThe fragrant Hours, and ElvesWho slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet,Prepare thy shadowy car: Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile, Or upland fallows grayReflect its last cool gleam. Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That, from the mountain’s side,Views wilds and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all Thy dewy fingers drawThe gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as of the wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sportBeneath thy lingering light; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train,And rudely rends thy robes: So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own,And hymn thy favorite name! William Collins [1721-1759] “IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE” It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a NunBreathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in his tranquility;The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea; Listen! the mighty Being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder – everlastingly.Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year, And worship’st at the Temple’s inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. William Wordsworth [1770-1850] GLOAMING Skies to the West are stained with madder; Amber light on the rare blue hills;The sough of the pines is growing sadder; From the meadow-lands sound the whippoorwills. Air is sweet with the breath of clover;Dusk is on, and the day is over. Skies to the East are streaked with golden; Tremulous light on the darkening pond;Glow-worms pale, to the dark beholden; Twitterings hush in the hedge beyond.Air is sweet with the breath of clover; Silver the hills where the moon climbs over. Robert Adger Bowen [1868- EVENING MELODY O that the pines which crown yon steep Their fires might ne’er surrender!O that yon fervid knoll might keep, While lasts the world, its splendor! Pale poplars on the breeze that lean, And in the sunset shiver,O that your golden stems might screen For aye yon glassy river! That yon white bird on homeward wingSoft-sliding without motion,And now in blue air vanishingLike snow-flake lost in ocean, Beyond our sight might never flee,Yet forward still be flying;And all the dying day might beImmortal in its dying! Pellucid thus in saintly trance,Thus mute in expectation,What waits the earth? Deliverance?Ah no! Transfiguration! She dreams of that “New Earth” divine, Conceived of seed immortal;She sings “Not mine the holier shrine, Yet mine the steps and portal!” Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902] “IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING” In the cool of the evening, when the low sweet whispers waken, When the laborers turn them homeward, and the weary have their will, When the censers of the roses o’er the forest aisles are shaken, Is it but the wind that cometh o’er the far green hill? For they say ’tis but the sunset winds that wander through the heather, Rustle all the meadow-grass and bend the dewy fern; They say ’tis but the winds that bow the reeds in prayer together, And fill the shaken pools with fire along the shadowy burn. In the beauty of the twilight, in the Garden that He loveth, They have veiled His lovely vesture with the darkness of a name! Through His Garden, through His Garden, it is but the wind that moveth, No more! But O the miracle, the miracle is the same. In the cool of the evening, when the sky is an old story, Slowly dying, but remembered, ay, and loved with passion still . . . Hush! . . . the fringes of His garment, in the fading golden glory Softly rustling as He cometh o’er the far green hill. Alfred Noyes [1880- TWILIGHT Spirit of Twilight, through your folded wings I catch a glimpse of your averted face,And rapturous on a sudden, my soul sings “Is not this common earth a holy place?” Spirit of Twilight, you are like a song That sleeps, and waits a singer, – like a hymn That God finds lovely and keeps near Him long, Till it is choired by aureoled cherubim. Spirit of Twilight, in the golden gloom Of dreamland dim I sought you, and I found A woman sitting in a silent roomFull of white flowers that moved and made no sound. These white flowers were the thoughts you bring to all, And the room’s name is Mystery where you sit, Woman whom we call Twilight, when night’s pall You lift across our Earth to cover it. Olive Custance [1874- TWILIGHT AT SEA The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, As lightly and as free,Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea;For every wave, with dimpled face,That leaped upon the air,Had caught a star in its embrace,And held it trembling there. Amelia C. Welby [1819-1852] “THIS IS MY HOUR” IThe ferries ply like shuttles in a loom, And many barques come in across the bayTo lights and bells that signal through the gloom Of twilight gray; And like the brown soft flutter of the snow The wide-winged sea-birds droop from closing skies, And hover near the water, circling low,As the day dies. The city like a shadowed castle stands, Its turrets indistinctly touching night; Like earth-born stars far fetched from faerie lands, Its lamps are bright. This is my hour, – when wonder springs anew To see the towers ascending, pale and high, And the long seaward distances of blue,And the dim sky. IIThis is my hour, between the day and night; The sun has set and all the world is still, The afterglow upon the distant hillIs as a holy light. This is my hour, between the sun and moon; The little stars are gathering in the sky, There is no sound but one bird’s startled cry, – One note that ceases soon. The gardens and, far off, the meadow-land, Are like the fading depths beneath a sea, While over waves of misty shadows weDrift onward, hand in hand. This is my hour, that you have called your own; Its hushed beauty silently we share, –Touched by the wistful wonder in the air That leaves us so alone. IIIIn rain and twilight mist the city street, Hushed and half-hidden, might this instant be A dark canal beneath our balcony,Like one in Venice, Sweet. The street-lights blossom, star-wise, one by one; A lofty tower the shadows have not hidStands out – part column and part pyramid – Holy to look upon. The dusk grows deeper, and on silver wings The twilight flutters like a weary gullToward some sea-island, lost and beautiful, Where a sea-syren sings. “This is my hour,” you breathe with quiet lips; And filled with beauty, dreaming and devout, We sit in silence, while our thoughts go out – Like treasure-seeking ships. Zoe Akins [1886- SONG TO THE EVENING STAR Star that bringest home the bee,And sett’st the weary laborer free! If any star shed peace, ’tis thouThat send’st it from above,Appearing when Heaven’s breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love. Come to the luxuriant skies,Whilst the landscape’s odors rise,Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard And songs when toil is done,From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun. Star of love’s soft interviews,Parted lovers on thee muse;Their remembrancer in HeavenOf thrilling vows thou art,Too delicious to be rivenBy absence from the heart. Thomas Campbell [1777-1844] THE EVENING CLOUD A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving onO’er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow! Even in its very motion there was rest;While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to rollRight onwards to the golden gates of heaven, Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. John Wilson [1785-1854] SONG: TO CYNTHIAFrom “Cynthia’s Revels” Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia’s shining orb was madeHeaven to clear, when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight,Goddess excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak’st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright. Ben Jonson [1573?-1637] MY STAR All that I knowOf a certain starIs, it can throw(Like the angled spar)Now a dart of red,Now a dart of blue,Till my friends have saidThey would fain see, too,My star that dartles the red and the blue! Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world? Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. Robert Browning [1812-1889] NIGHT The sun descending in the West,The evening star does shine;The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine.The moon, like a flowerIn heaven’s high bower,With silent delightSits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy grove, Where flocks have ta’en delight;Where lambs have nibbled, silent move The feet of angels bright:Unseen, they pour blessing,And joy without ceasing,On each bud and blossom,On each sleeping bosom. They look in every thoughtless nest,Where birds are covered warm;They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm.If they see any weepingThat should have been sleeping,They pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tigers howl for preyThey pitying stand and weep,Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep.But, if they rush dreadful,The angels, most heedful,Receive each mild spiritNew worlds to inherit. And there the lion’s ruddy eyesShall flow with tears of gold:And pitying the tender cries,And walking round the fold,Saying: “Wrath by His meekness,And by His health, sickness,Are driven awayFrom our immortal day. “And now beside thee, bleating lamb,I can lie down and sleep.Or think on Him who bore thy name,Graze after thee, and weep.For, washed in life’s river,My bright mane for everShall shine like the gold,As I guard o’er the fold.” William Blake [1757-1827] TO NIGHT Swiftly walk o’er the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern caveWhere, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,Which make thee terrible and dear,Swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; Kiss her until she be wearied out,Then wander o’er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand –Come, long-sought! When I arose and saw the dawn,I sighed for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest,I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried,“Would’st thou me?”Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee,“Shall I nestle near thy side?Would’st thou me?” – And I replied, “No, not thee.”Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon –Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, beloved Night –Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon! Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] TO NIGHT Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue?Yet ‘neath the curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus with the host of heaven came,And lo! creation widened on man’s view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind! Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife? – If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life? Joseph Blanco White [1775-1841] NIGHT Mysterious night! Spread wide thy silvery plume! Soft as swan’s down, brood o’er the sapphirine Breadth of still shadowy waters dark as wine; Smooth out the liquid heavens that stars illume! Come with fresh airs breathing the faint perfume Of deep-walled gardens, groves of whispering pine; Scatter soft dews, waft pure sea-scent of brine; In sweet repose man’s pain, man’s love resume! Deep-bosomed night! Not here where down the marge Marble with palaces those lamps of earth Tremble on trembling blackness; nay, far hence, There on the lake where space is lone and large, And man’s life lost in broad indifference, Lilt thou the soul to spheres that gave her birth! John Addington Symonds [1840-1893] NIGHT Night is the time for rest;How sweet, when labors close,To gather round an aching breastThe curtain of repose,Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams;The gay romance of life,When truth that is, and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife;Ah! visions, less beguiling farThan waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil;To plough the classic field,Intent to find the buried spoilIts wealthy furrows yield;Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang, or heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep;To wet with unseen tearsThose graves of Memory, where sleep The joys of other years;Hopes, that were Angels at their birth, But perished young, like things of earth. Night is the time to watch;O’er ocean’s dark expanse,To hail the Pleiades, or catchThe full moon’s earliest glance,That brings into the homesick mindAll we have loved and left behind. Night is the time for care;Brooding on hours misspent,To see the spectre of DespairCome to our lonely tent;Like Brutus, ‘midst his slumbering host, Summoned to die by Caesar’s ghost. Night is the time to think;When, from the eye, the soulTakes flight; and, on the utmost brink, Of yonder starry pole Descries beyond the abyss of nightThe dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray;Our Saviour oft withdrewTo desert mountains far away;So will his followers do, –Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And hold communion there with God. Night is the time for Death;When all around is peace,Calmly to yield the weary breath,From sin and suffering cease,Think of heaven’s bliss, and give the sign To parting friends; – such death be mine! James Montgomery [1771-1854] HE MADE THE NIGHT Vast Chaos, of eld, was God’s dominion, ‘Twas His beloved child, His own first born; And He was aged ere the thought of mornShook the sheer steeps of dim Oblivion. Then all the works of darkness being done Through countless aeons hopelessly forlorn, Out to the very utmost verge and bourne, God at the last, reluctant, made the sun. He loved His darkness still, for it was old; He grieved to see His eldest child take flight; And when His Fiat Lux the death-knell tolled, As the doomed Darkness backward by Him rolled, He snatched a remnant flying into lightAnd strewed it with the stars, and called it Night. Lloyd Mifflin [1846-1921] HYMN TO THE NIGHT I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls!I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o’er me from above;The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes,That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet’s rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose;The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, – From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before!Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight,The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882] NIGHT’S MARDI GRAS Night is the true democracy. When day Like some great monarch with his train has passed. In regal pomp and splendor to the last,The stars troop forth along the Milky Way, A jostling crowd, in radiant disarray,On heaven’s broad boulevard in pageants vast. And things of earth, the hunted and outcast, Come from their haunts and hiding-places; yea, Even from the nooks and crannies of the mind Visions uncouth and vagrant fancies start, And specters of dead joy, that shun the light, And impotent regrets and terrors blind,Each one, in form grotesque, playing its part In the fantastic Mardi Gras of Night. Edward J. Wheeler [1859-1922] DAWN AND DARK God with His million caresWent to the left or right,Leaving our world; and the dayGrew night. Back from a sphere He cameOver a starry lawn,Looked at our world; and the darkGrew dawn. Norman Gale [1862- DAWN His radiant fingers so adorningEarth that in silent joy she thrills, The ancient day stands every morningAbove the flowing eastern hills. This day the new-born world hath taken Within his mantling arms of white,And sent her forth by fear unshaken To walk among the stars in light. Risen with laughter unto leaping,His feet untired, undimmed his eyes, The old, old day comes up from sleeping, Fresh as a flower, for new emprise. The curtain of the night is partedThat once again the dawn may tread, In spotless garments, ways unchartedAnd death a million times is dead. Slow speechless music robed in splendor The deep sky sings eternally,With childlike wonderment to render Its own unwearied symphony. Reborn between the great suns spinning Forever where men’s prayers ascend,God’s day in love hath its beginning, And the beginning hath no end. George B. Logan, Jr. [1892- A WOOD SONG Now one and all, you Roses,Wake up, you lie too long!This very morning closesThe Nightingale his song; Each from its olive chamberHis babies every oneThis very morning clamberInto the shining sun. You Slug-a-beds and Simples,Why will you so delay!Dears, doff your olive wimples,And listen while you may. Ralph Hodgson [1871- THE CHANGING YEAR A SONG FOR THE SEASONS When the merry lark doth gildWith his song the summer hours,And their nests the swallows buildIn the roofs and tops of towers,And the golden broom-flower burnsAll about the waste,And the maiden May returnsWith a pretty haste, –Then, how merry are the times!The Spring times! the Summer times! Now, from off the ashy stoneThe chilly midnight cricket crieth, And all merry birds are flown,And our dream of pleasure dieth;Now the once blue, laughing skySaddens into gray,And the frozen rivers sigh,Pining all away!Now, how solemn are the times!The Winter times! the Night times! Yet, be merry; all aroundIs through one vast change revolving; Even Night, who lately frowned,Is in paler dawn dissolving;Earth will burst her fetters strange, And in Spring grow free;All things in the world will change, Save – my love for thee!Sing then, hopeful are all times!Winter, Spring, Summer times! Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874] A SONG OF THE SEASONS Sing a song of Spring-time,The world is going round,Blown by the south wind:Listen to its sound.“Gurgle” goes the mill-wheel,“Cluck” clucks the hen;And it’s O for a pretty girlTo kiss in the glen. Sing a song of Summer,The world is nearly still,The mill-pond has gone to sleep,And so has the mill.Shall we go a-sailing,Or shall we take a ride,Or dream the afternoon awayHere, side by side? Sing a song of Autumn,The world is going back;They glean in the corn-field,And stamp on the stack.Our boy, Charlie,Tall, strong, and light:He shoots all the dayAnd dances all the night. Sing a song of Winter,The world stops dead;Under snowy coverlidFlowers lie abed.There’s hunting for the young onesAnd wine for the old,And a sexton in the churchyardDigging in the cold. Cosmo Monkhouse [1840-1901] TURN O’ THE YEAR This is the time when bit by bitThe days begin to lengthen sweetAnd every minute gained is joy –And love stirs in the heart of a boy. This is the time the sun, of lateContent to lie abed till eight, Lifts up betimes his sleepy head –And love stirs in the heart of a maid. This is the time we dock the nightOf a whole hour of candlelight;When song of linnet and thrush is heard – And love stirs in the heart of a bird. This is the time when sword-blades green, With gold and purple damascene,Pierce the brown crocus-bed a-row – And love stirs in a heart I know. Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931] THE WAKING YEAR A lady red upon the hillHer annual secret keeps;A lady white within the fieldIn placid lily sleeps! The tidy breezes with their broomsSweep vale, and hill, and tree!Prithee, my pretty housewives!Who may expected be? The neighbors do not yet suspect!The woods exchange a smile, –Orchard, and buttercup, and bird,In such a little while! And yet how still the landscape stands, How nonchalant the wood,As if the resurrection Were nothing very odd! Emily Dickinson [1830-1886] SONGFrom “Pippa Passes” The year’s at the spring,And day’s at the morn;Morning’s at seven;The hill-side’s dew-pearled;The lark’s on the wing;The snail’s on the thorn;God’s in His Heaven – All’s right with the world! Robert Browning [1812-1889] EARLY SPRING Once more the Heavenly PowerMakes all things new,And domes the red-plowed hillsWith loving blue; The blackbirds have their wills,The throstles too. Opens a door in Heaven; From skies of glassA Jacob’s ladder fallsOn greening grass, And o’er the mountain-wallsYoung angels pass. Before them fleets the shower,And burst the buds, And shine the level lands,And flash the floods;The stars are from their handsFlung through the woods, The woods with living airsHow softly fanned,Light airs from where the deep,All down the sand,Is breathing in his sleep,Heard by the land. O, follow, leaping blood,The season’s lure!O heart, look down and up,Serene, secure, Warm as the crocus cup,Like snow-drops, pure! Past, Future glimpse and fadeThrough some slight spell,A gleam from yonder vale, Some far blue fell; And sympathies, how frail,In sound and smell! Till at thy chuckled note,Thou twinkling bird,The fairy fancies range,And, lightly stirred,Ring little bells of changeFrom word to word. For now the Heavenly PowerMakes all things new,And thaws the cold, and fillsThe flower with dew;The blackbirds have their wills,The poets too. Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING I heard a thousand blended notes,While in a grove I sat reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat Man has made of Man. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure, –But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air;And I must think, do all I can,That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent,If such be Nature’s holy plan,Have I not reason to lamentWhat Man has made of Man? William Wordsworth [1770-1850] IN EARLY SPRING O Spring, I know thee! Seek for sweet surprise In the young children’s eyes.But I have learnt the years, and know the yet Leaf-folded violet.Mine ear, awake to silence, can foretell The cuckoo’s fitful bell.I wander in a gray time that encloses June and the wild hedge-roses.A year’s procession of the flowers doth pass My feet, along the grass.And all you sweet birds silent yet, I know The notes that stir you so,Your songs yet half devised in the dim dear Beginnings of the year.In these young days you meditate your part; I have it all by heart.I know the secrets of the seeds of flowers Hidden and warm with showers,And how, in kindling Spring, the cuckoo shall Alter his interval.But not a flower or song I ponder is My own, but memory’s.I shall be silent in those days desired Before a world inspired.O dear brown birds, compose your old song-phrases, Earth, thy familiar daisies. The poet mused upon the dusky height, Between two stars towards night,His purpose in his heart. I watched, a space, The meaning of his face:There was the secret, fled from earth and skies, Hid in his gray young eyes.My heart and all the Summer wait his choice, And wonder for his voice.Who shall foretell his songs, and who aspire But to divine his lyre?Sweet earth, we know thy dimmest mysteries, But he is lord of his. Alice Meynell [1850-1922] SPRINGFrom “Summer’s Last Will and Testament” Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing – Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay – Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet – Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-too!Spring, the sweet Spring! Thomas Nashe [1567-1601] A STARLING’S SPRING RONDEL I clink my castanetAnd beat my little drum;For spring at last has come,And on my parapet,Of chestnut, gummy-wet,Where bees begin to hum,I clink my castanet,And beat my little drum. “Spring goes,” you say, “suns set.”So be it! Why be glum?Enough, the spring has come;And without fear or fretI clink my castanet,And beat my little drum. James Cousins [1873- “WHEN DAFFODILS BEGIN TO PEER”From “The Winter’s Tale” When daffodils begin to peer,With heigh! the doxy, over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year; For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The, lark, that tirra-lirra chants,With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts,While we lie tumbling in the hay. William Shakespeare [1564-1616] SPRINGFrom “In Memoriam” LXXXIIIDip down upon the northern shore,O sweet new-year, delaying long;Thou doest expectant Nature wrong,Delaying long, delay no more.