And loiter willing by yon loitering stream. To lead the tardy concert of the year. Beneath low hills, in the broad interval To drug their crops or weapon their arts withal. O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year, (That one would say, meadow and forest walked, The order regnant in the yeoman's brain. What these strong masters wrote at large in miles, I followed in small copy in my acre; For there's no rood has not a star above it; The cordial quality of pear or plum Ascends as gladly in a single tree As in broad orchards resonant with bees; And every atom poises for itself, And for the whole. The gentle deities Felt in the plants and in the punctual birds; Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts My garden spade can heal. A woodland walk, A quest of river-grapes, a mocking thrush, A wild-rose, or rock-loving columbine, Salve my worst wounds. For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear: 'Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie? Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like nature pass And being latent, feel thyself no less? As, when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye, DIRGE. CONCORD, 1838. I REACHED the middle of the mount Up which the incarnate soul must climb, And paused for them, and looked around, With me who walked through space and time. Five rosy boys with morning light Had leaped from one fair mother's arms, Fronted the sun with hope as bright, And greeted God with childhood's psalms. Knows he who tills this lonely field Το reap its scanty corn, What mystic fruit his acres yield In the long sunny afternoon I wandered up, I wandered down, The winding Concord gleamed below, As when my brothers, long ago, But they are gone,· the holy ones My good, my noble, in their prime, Who made this world the feast it was, Who learned with me the lore of time, They took this valley for their toy, They colored the horizon round; Stars flamed and faded as they bade, All echoes hearkened for their sound, They made the woodlands glad or mad. I touch this flower of silken leaf, Which once our childhood knew; Not unless God made sharp thine ear Out of that delicate lay could'st thou Go, lonely man,' it saith; 'They loved thee from their birth; Their hands were pure, and pure their faith,There are no such hearts on earth. 'Ye drew one mother's milk, One chamber held ye all; A very tender history Did in your childhood fall. 'You cannot unlock your heart, |