« AnkstesnisTęsti »
And weary with infirmity. But Man
Has fear and hope and phantasy and awe,
And therefore Gods and Demons, Heaven and Hell:
Lo, I look backward some few thousand years,
With tombs all pictured with fair scenes of life
Upon whose walls and colonnades are carved
And statues of the various-headed gods,
And see again the crescent, now supreme
Whence voices sweet and solemn call to prayer.
My child yet alien in my family.
And I through all these generations flow
And as I flowed here long before they were,
Most like the serpent of eternity :
Blessèd for ever be our Mother Earth.
FROM SUNDAY UP THE RIVER.'9
'O, WHAT are you waiting for here? young man ! What are you looking for over the bridge?
A little straw hat with the streaming blue ribbons
Is soon to come dancing over the bridge.
Her heart beats the measure that keeps her feet dancing,
Dancing along like a wave o' the sea;
Her heart pours the sunshine with which her eyes glancing Light up strange faces, in looking for me.
The strange faces brighten in meeting her glances; The strangers all bless her, pure, lovely, and free; She fancies she walks, but her walk skips and dances, Her heart makes such music in coming to me.
O, thousands and thousands of happy young maidens Are tripping this morning their sweethearts to see: But none whose heart beats to a sweeter love-cadence Than hers who will brighten the sunshine for me.
'O what are you waiting for here? young man !
HYMN TO DEATH.
WHAT is it haunts the summer air?
That was with us yesterday,
And is no longer there.
Now from the pasture comes no baby bleat,
There is seen.
Blossom and bloom have spread their wings, and flown, And the bosks and orchards green
The rosy flush of childhood have outgrown.
Lapwing and linnet and lark have fledged their brood;
Mavis and merle have gotten their desire;
The nightingale begins to tire;
Even the cuckoo's note hath fitful grown;
And in the closing leafage of the wood
Then revel in your roses, reckless June!
And the rounding harvest-moon
Avenge the too brief innocence of May. Yet once again there scents the morning air The soul of something passed away;
Something precious, something fair,
That was breathing yesterday, And is no longer there.
It is Autumn, dying, dying,
With her leaves around her lying,
And Winter, beggared heir, unprofitably sighing.
Let her die.
Unto us as unto her
Earth is but a sepulchre,
And the over-arching sky
Neither asks nor wonders why
Yet with pale visages and streaming tears
Why do you call me hence?
To purge what fault, to punish what offence?
Or ever once the privilege forgot
Of being, through the spirit's inward sense,
That, like a falling leaf or failing star,
The winds of Heaven should blow about
I should grow silenced, like a bell unrung.