The In his depths serene through the summer day,
World Each flitting shadow of earth and sky, Beautiful
Lest the happy model should be lost,
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry By the elfin builders of the frost.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."
Clear and cool, clear and cool, By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool; Cool and clear, cool and clear, By shining shingle, and foaming wear; Under the crag where the ouzel sings, And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, Undefiled, for the undefiled;
Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.
Dank and foul, dank and foul, By the smoky town in its murky cowl; Foul and dank, foul and dank, By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; Darker and darker the farther I go, Baser and baser the richer I grow;
Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and
Strong and free, strong and free, The floodgates are open, away to the sea, Free and strong, free and strong, Cleansing my streams as I hurry along, To the golden sands, and the leaping bar, And the taintless tide that awaits me afar. As I lose myself in the infinite main, Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned
Undefiled, for the undefiled;
Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. CHARLES KINGSLEY.
From "The Water-Babies."
How silent comes the water round that bend; Not the minutest whisper does it send
To the o'erhanging sallows; blades of grass Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass,- Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams Tempered with coolness. How they ever wrestle With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
The Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. World If you but scantily hold out the hand, Beautiful That very instant not one will remain;
But turn your eye, and they are there again. The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses ; The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
And moisture, that the bowery green may live. JOHN KEATS.
The sun that brief December day Rose cheerless over hills of gray, And, darkly circled, gave at noon A sadder light than waning moon. Slow tracing down the thickening sky Its mute and ominous prophecy, A portent seeming less than threat, It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race Of life-blood in the sharpened face, The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east: we heard the roar Of ocean on his wintry shore, And felt the strong pulse throbbing there Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
Unwarmed by any sunset light The gray day darkened into night, A night made hoary with the swarm And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, As zig-zag wavering to and fro Crossed and recrossed the wingéd snow: And ere the early bedtime came The white drift piled the window-frame, And through the glass the clothes-line posts Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden wall, or belt of wood;
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, A fenceless drift what once was road;
The bridle-post an old man sat
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
The In its slant splendor, seemed to tell World Of Pisa's leaning miracle. Beautiful
All day the gusty north wind bore The loosening drift its breath before; Low circling round its southern zone, The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. No church-bell lent its Christian tone To the savage air, no social smoke Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. A solitude made more intense By dreary-voicéd elements,
The shrieking of the mindless wind, The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, And on the glass the unmeaning beat Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. Beyond the circle of our hearth No welcome sound of toil or mirth Unbound the spell, and testified Of human life and thought outside. We minded that the sharpest ear The buried brooklet could not hear, The music of whose liquid lip Had been to us companionship, And in our lonely life, had grown To have an almost human tone.
As night drew on, and, from the crest Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
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