Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight By those who watch the dead, and those who twine Oh thou great Movement of the Universe, I feel the mighty current sweep me on, The courses of the stars; the very hour He knows when they shall darken or grow bright; Or do the portals of another life Even now, while I am glorying in my strength, At that broad threshold, with what fairer forms THE PAINTED CUP. THE fresh savannas of the Sangamon Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire; The wanderers of the prairie know them well, And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup. Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not That these bright chalices were tinted thus To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet On moonlight evenings in the hazel bowers, And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, The faded fancies of an elder world; But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds, To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour A sudden shower upon the strawberry plant, To swell the reddening fruit that even now Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. But thou art of a gayer fancy. WellLet then the gentle Manitou of flowers, Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone— Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown And ruddy with the sunshine; let him come On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, And part with little hands the spiky grass; And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew A DREAM. I HAD a dream—a strange, wild dream- And even yet its shadows seem To linger in my waking sight. Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew, And bright with morn, before me stood; And airs just wakened softly blew On the young blossoms of the wood. Birds sang within the sprouting shade, Bees hummed amid the whispering grass, And children prattled as they played Fast climbed the sun: the flowers were flown, There played no children in the glen; For some were gone, and some were grown To blooming dames and bearded men. |