Puslapio vaizdai
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AT FIRST.

TO CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.

My crippled sense fares bow'd along

His uncompanioned way,

And wronged by death pays life with wrong
And I wake by night and dream by day.

And the Morning seems but fatiguèd Night
That hath wept his visage pale,

And the healthy mark 'twixt dark and light

In sickly sameness out doth fail.

And the woods stare strange, and the wind is dumb,

-O Wind, pray talk again

And the Hand of the Frost spreads stark and numb

As Death's on the deadened window-pane.

Still dumb, thou Wind, old voluble friend?
And the middle of the day is cold,
And the heart of eve beats lax i' the end
As a legend's climax poorly told.

Oh vain the up-straining of the hands
In the chamber late at night,

Oh vain the complainings, the hot demands,
The prayers for a sound, the tears for a sight.

No word from over the starry line,

No motion felt in the dark,

And never a day gives ever a sign

Or a dream sets seal with palpable mark.

And O my God, how slight it were,

How nothing, thou All! to thee,

That a kiss or a whisper might fall from her
Down by the way of Time to me :

Or some least grace of the body of love,
-Mere wafture of floating-by,

Mere sense of unseen smiling above,
Mere hint sincere of a large blue eye,

Mere dim receipt of sad delight

From Nearness warm in the air,
What time with the passing of the night
She also passed, somehow, somewhere.

BALTIMORE, 1876.

A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER.

INTO the woods my Master went,

Clean forspent, forspent.

Into the woods my Master came,

Forspent with love and shame.

But the olives they were not blind to Him,

The little gray leaves were kind to Him:

The thorn-tree had a mind to Him

When into the woods He came.

Out of the woods my Master went,

And He was well content.

Out of the woods my Master came,

Content with death and shame.

When Death and Shame would woo Him last,

From under the trees they drew Him last :

'Twas on a tree they slew Him-last

When out of the woods He came.

BALTIMORE, November, 1880.

A FLORIDA SUNDAY.

FROM cold Norse caves or buccaneer Southern seas Oft come repenting tempests here to die ;

Bewailing old-time wrecks and robberies,

They shrive to priestly pines with many a sigh, Breathe salutary balms through lank-lock'd hair

Of sick men's heads, and soon-this world outwornSink into saintly heavens of stirless air,

Clean from confessional. One died, this morn,
And willed the world to wise Queen Tranquil: she,
Sweet sovereign Lady of all souls that bide

In contemplation, tames the too bright skies
Like that faint agate film, far down descried,
Restraining suns in sudden thoughtful eyes
Which flashed but now. Blest distillation rare

Of o'er-rank brightness filtered waterwise

Through all the earths in heaven-thou always fair, Still virgin bride of e'er creating thought—

Dream-worker, in whose dream the Future's wroughtHealer of hurts, free balm for bitter wrongs

Most silent mother of all sounding songs

Thou that dissolvest hells to make thy heaven—

Thou tempest's heir, that keep'st no tempest leaven-
But after winds' and thunders' wide mischance

Dost brood, and better thine inheritance-
Thou privacy of space, where each grave Star
As in his own still chamber sits afar

To meditate, yet, by thy walls unpent,
Shines to his fellows o'er the firmament-

Oh! as thou liv'st in all this sky and sea
That likewise lovingly do live in thee,

So melt my soul in thee, and thine in me,
Divine Tranquillity!

Gray Pelican, poised where yon broad shallows shine,
Know'st thou, that finny foison all is mine

In the bag below thy beak-yet thine, not less?
For God, of His most gracious friendliness,
Hath wrought that every soul, this loving morn,
Into all things may be new-corporate born,
And each live whole in all I sail with thee,
Thy Pelican's self is mine; yea, silver Sea,
In this large moment all thy fishes, ripples, bights,
Pale in-shore greens and distant blue delights,
White visionary sails, long reaches fair

By moon-horn'd strands that film the far-off air,

Bright sparkle-revelations, secret majesties,

Shells, wrecks and wealths, are mine; yea, Orange-trees,
That lift your small world-systems in the light,

Rich sets of round green heavens studded bright
With globes of fruit that like still planets shine,
Mine is your green-gold universe; yea, mine,
White slender Lighthouse fainting to the eye
That wait'st on yon keen cape-point wistfully,
Like to some maiden spirit pausing pale,
New-wing'd, yet fain to sail

Above the serene Gulf to where a bridegroom soul
Calls o'er the soft horizon-mine thy dole
Of shut undaring wings and wan desire-
Mine, too, thy later hope and heavenly fire
Of kindling expectation; yea, all sights,

All sounds, that make this morn-quick flights

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