Not less he loved the ever-deepening brown Of summer twilights on the enchanted hills; And long would listen to the starts and thrills Of birds that sang and rustled in the trees, Or watch the footsteps of the wandering breeze And the quick, wingèd shadows flashing by, Or birds that slowly wheeled across the unclouded sky. All these were written on the poet's soul;
But he knew, too, the utmost, distant goal Of the human mind. His fiery thought did run To Time's beginning, ere yon central sun Had warmed to life the swarming broods of men. In waking dreams, his many-visioned ken Clutcht the large, final destiny of things. He heard the starry music, and the wings Of beings unfelt by others thrilled the air About him. Yet the loud and angry blare Of tempests found an echo in his verse, And it was here that lovers did rehearse The ditties they would sing when, not too soon, Came the warm night; shadows, and stars, and moon.
Who heard his songs were filled with noble rage, And wars took fire from his prophetic page -
Most righteous wars, wherein, 'midst blood and tears, The world rushed onward through a thousand years. And still he made the gentle sounds of peace Heroic; bade the nation's anger cease! Bitter his songs of grief for those who fell And for all this the people loved him well.
They loved him well and therefore, on a day, They said with one accord: "Behold how gray
Our poet's head hath grown! Ere 't is too late Come, let us crown him in our Hall of State; Ring loud the bells, give to the winds his praise, And urge his fame to other lands and days!"
So was it done, and deep his joy therein. But passing home at night, from out the din Of the loud Hall, the poet, unaware,
Moved through a lonely and dim-lighted square- There was the smell of lilacs in the air
And then the sudden singing of a bird,
Startled by his slow tread. What memory stirred Within his brain he told not. Yet this night,-
Lone lingering when the eastern heavens were bright, — He wove a song of such immortal art
That there lives not in all the world one heart- One human heart unmoved by it. Long! long! The laurel-crown has failed, but not that song Born of the night and sorrow. Where he lies At rest beneath the ever-shifting skies, Age after age, from far-off lands they come, With tears and flowers, to seek the poet's tomb.
O MAN with your rule and measure, Your tests and analyses!
You may take your empty pleasure, May kill the pine, if you please;
You may count the rings and the seasons, May hold the sap to the sun,
You may guess at the ways and the reasons Till your little day is done.
But for me the golden crest
That shakes in the wind and launches
Its spear toward the reddening West! For me the bough and the breeze, The sap unseen, and the glint
Of light on the dew-wet branches, The hiding shadows, the hint Of the soul of mysteries.
You may sound the sources of life, And prate of its aim and scope; You may search with your chilly knife Through the broken heart of hope. But for me the love-sweet breath,
And the warm, white bosom heaving, And never a thought of death, And only the bliss of living.
IN the morning of the skies. I heard a lark arise.
On the first day of the year A wood-flower did appear.
Like a violet, like a lark,
Like the dawn that kills the dark,
Like a dewdrop, trembling, clinging,
Is the poet's first sweet singing.
"WHEN THE TRUE POET COMES"
"WHEN the true poet comes, how shall we know him? By what clear token; manners, language, dress? Or will a voice from heaven speak and show him- Him the swift healer of the earth's distress?
Tell us, that when the long-expected comes At last, with mirth and melody and singing, We him may greet with banners, beat of drums, Welcome of men and maids and joybells ringing; And, for this poet of ours,
Thus shall ye know him, this shall be his token Manners like other men, an unstrange gear; His speech not musical, but harsh and broken Will sound at first, each line a driven spear. For he will sing as in the centuries olden, Before mankind its earliest fire forgot Yet whoso listens long hears music golden.
How shall ye know him? Ye shall know him not Till, ended hate and scorn,
"I LIKE your book, my boy, 'Tis full of youth and joy, And love that sings and dreams. Yet it puzzles me," he said; "A string of pearls it seems,
But I cannot find the thread."
"O friend of olden days! Dear to me is your praise, But, many and many a year You must go back, I fear; You must journey back," I said, "To find that golden thread!"
WHAT is a sonnet? 'Tis the pearly shell That murmurs of the far-off murmuring sea; A precious jewel carved most curiously; It is a little picture painted well.
What is a sonnet? 'Tis the tear that fell From a great poet's hidden ecstasy;
A two-edged sword, a star, a song - ah me! Sometimes a heavy-tolling funeral bell.
This was the flame that shook with Dante's breath; The solemn organ whereon Milton played,
And the clear glass where Shakespeare's shadow falls: A sea this is - beware who ventureth!
For like a fiord the narrow floor is laid Mid-ocean deep sheer to the mountain walls.
A SONNET OF DANTE
("Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare")
So fair, so pure my lady as she doth go Upon her way, and others doth salute, That every tongue becometh trembling-mute, And every eye is troubled by that glow. Her praise she hears as on she moveth slow, Clothed with humility as with a suit;
She seems a thing that came (without dispute) From heaven to earth a miracle to show. Through eyes that gaze on her benignity There passes to the heart a sense so sweet That none can understand who may not prove; And from her countenance there seems to move A gentle spirit, with all love replete,
That to the soul comes, saying, "Sigh, O, sigh!"
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