Family

When I was but thirteen or so
I went into a golden land,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Took me by the hand.

My father died, my brother too,
They passed like fleeting dreams,
I stood where Popocatapetl
In the sunlight gleams.

I dimly heard the master's voice
And boys far-off at play,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Had stolen me away.

I walked in a great golden dream
To and fro from school -
Shining Popocatapetl
The dusty streets did rule.

I walked home with a gold dark boy
And never a word I'd say,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Had taken my speech away:

I gazed entranced upon his face
Fairer than any flower -
O shining Popocatapetl
It was thy magic hour:

The houses, people, traffic seemed
Thin fading dreams b...

An artist toiled over his pictures;
    He laboured by night and by day,
He struggled for glory and honour
    But the world, it had nothing to say.
His walls were ablaze with the splendours
    We see in the beautiful skies;
But the world beheld only the colours
    That were made out of chemical dyes.

Time sped.    And he lived, loved, and suffered;
    He passed through the valley of grief.
Again he toiled over his canvas,
    Since in labour alone was relief.
It showed not the splendour of colours
    Of those of his earlier years;
But the world? the world bowed down before it
    Because it was painted with tears.

A poet was gifted with genius,
    And he sang, and he sang all the days.
He wrote for the praise of the people,
   ...

Tornami al tempo.


Bring back the time when glad desire ran free
        With bit and rein too loose to curb his flight,
        The tears and flames that in one breast unite,
        If thou art fain once more to conquer me!
Bring back those journeys ta'en so toilsomely,
        So toilsome-slow to him whose hairs are white!
        Give back the buried face once angel-bright,
        That taxed all Nature's art and industry.
O Love! an old man finds it hard to chase
        Thy flying pinions! Thou hast left thy nest;
        Nor is my heart as light as heretofore.
Put thy gold arrows to the string once more:
        Then if Death hear my prayer and grant me grace,
        My grief I shall forget, again made blest.

Ah poverties, wincings, and sulky retreats!
Ah you foes that in conflict have overcome me!
(For what is my life, or any man's life, but a conflict with foes--the old, the incessant war?)
You degradations--you tussle with passions and appetites;
You smarts from dissatisfied friendships, (ah wounds, the sharpest of all;)
You toil of painful and choked articulations--you meannesses;
You shallow tongue-talks at tables, (my tongue the shallowest of any;)
You broken resolutions, you racking angers, you smother'd ennuis;
Ah, think not you finally triumph--My real self has yet to come forth;
It shall yet march forth o'ermastering, till all lies beneath me;
It shall yet stand up the soldier of unquestion'd victory.

Only a spar from a broken ship
    Washed in by a careless wave;
But it brought back the smile of a vanished lip,
    And his past peered out of the grave.

Only a leaf that an idle breeze
    Tossed at her passing feet;
But she seemed to stand under the dear old trees,
    And life again was sweet.

Only the bar of a tender strain
    They sang in days gone by;
But the old love woke in her heart again,
    The love they had sworn should die.

Only the breath of a faint perfume
    That floated up from a rose;
But the bolts slid back from a marble tomb,
    And I looked on a dear dead face.

Who vaunts the might of a human will,
    When a perfume or a sound
Can wake a Past that we bade lie still,
    And open a long closed w...

See and not see, and if thou chance t'espy
Some aberrations in my poetry,
Wink at small faults; the greater, ne'ertheless,
Hide, and with them their father's nakedness.
Let's do our best, our watch and ward to keep;
Homer himself, in a long work, may sleep.

Where slanting banks are always with the sun
The daisy is in blossom even now;
And where warm patches by the hedges run
The cottager when coming home from plough
Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set.
Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met
Setting up little tents about the fields
In sheltered spots.--Primroses when they get
Behind the wood's old roots, where ivy shields
Their crimpled, curdled leaves, will shine and hide.
Cart ruts and horses' footings scarcely yield
A slur for boys, just crizzled and that's all.
Frost shoots his needles by the small dyke side,
And snow in scarce a feather's seen to fall.

And, O beloved voices, upon which
Ours passionately call because erelong
Ye brake off in the middle of that song
We sang together softly, to enrich
The poor world with the sense of love, and witch,
The heart out of things evil, I am strong,
Knowing ye are not lost for aye among

The hills, with last year's thrush. God keeps a niche
In Heaven to hold our idols; and albeit
He brake them to our faces and denied
That our close kisses should impair their white,
I know we shall behold them raised, complete,
The dust swept from their beauty, glorified
New Memnons singing in the great God-light.

In the minister's morning sermon
He had told of the primal fall,
And how thenceforth the wrath of God
Rested on each and all.

And how of His will and pleasure,
All souls, save a chosen few,
Were doomed to the quenchless burning,
And held in the way thereto.

Yet never by faith's unreason
A saintlier soul was tried,
And never the harsh old lesson
A tenderer heart belied.

And, after the painful service
On that pleasant Sabbath day,
He walked with his little daughter
Through the apple-bloom of May.

Sweet in the fresh green meadows
Sparrow and blackbird sung;
Above him their tinted petals
The blossoming orchards hung.

Around on the wonderful glory
The minister looked and smiled;
"How good is the Lord who g...

2. Sam. I. 19.

Alas slain is the Head of Israel,
Illustrious Saul whose beauty did excell,
Upon thy places mountainous and high,
How did the Mighty fall, and falling dye?
In Gath let not this things be spoken on,
Nor published in streets of Askalon,
Lest daughters of the Philistines rejoice,
Lest the uncircumcis'd lift up their voice.
O Gilbo Mounts, let never pearled dew,
Nor fruitful showres your barren tops bestrew,
Nor fields of offrings ever on you grow,
Nor any pleasant thing e're may you show;
For there the Mighty Ones did soon decay,
The shield of Saul was vilely cast away.
There had his dignity so sore a foyle,
As if his head ne're felt the sacred oyl.
Sometimes from crimson blood of gastly slain,
The bow of Jonathan ne're turn'd in va...

(To P. A. G.)


Here they trysted, here they strayed,
In the leafage dewy and boon,
Many a man and many a maid,
And the morn was merry June:
'Death is fleet, Life is sweet,'
Sang the blackbird in the may;
And the hour with flying feet
While they dreamed was yesterday.

Many a maid and many a man
Found the leafage close and boon;
Many a destiny began,
O the morn was merry June.
Dead and gone, dead and gone,
(Hark the blackbird in the may!),
Life and Death went hurrying on,
Cheek on cheek, and where were they?

Dust in dust engendering dust
In the leafage fresh and boon,
Man and maid fulfil their trust,
Still the morn turns merry June.
Mother Life, Father Death
(O the blackbird in the may!),
Each the other's...

On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers
The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew.
Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers;
Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.

As on she moves with hesitating grace,
She wins assurance from his soothing voice;
And, with a look the pencil could not trace,
Smiles thro' her blushes, and confirms the choice.

Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame!
To thee she turns--forgive a virgin's fears!
To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim;
Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears!

At each response the sacred rite requires,
From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh.
A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires;
And on her lips the trembling accents die.

O'er her fair face what wild e...

"Giving up three for one!" - mother,
    You said in the long ago,
When father, yourself, and John, mother,
    I left, o'er the deep to go.
"Giving up three for one!" - mother,
    You said, and it sank in my heart;
For tho' strong was my love for the one, mother,
    It was hard from the three to part.

But to-day, as I sit alone, mother,
    Rocking my little one's bed -
(Not Winnie's bed, dear, but her brother's - )
    I am thinking of what you said;
And a sweet thought glads my heart, mother -
    Can you guess what the thought can be?
'Tis, that tho' I'd but one in the start, mother,
    Yet now I have three for three.

Yes, three for three, my mother,
    God is good to your wandering child,
So far from her father and brother...

I.

Summer evenings, when it's warm,
In the yard we sit and swing:
And it's better than a farm,
Watching how the fireflies swarm,
Listening to the crickets sing,
And the katydids that cry,
"Katy did n't! Katy did!"
In the trees and flowers hid.
So I ask my father, "Why?
What's the thing she did n't do?"
For he told me that he knew:
"Katy did n't like to worry;
But she did so like to talk;
Gossip of herself and talk;
Katy did n't like to hurry;
But she did so like to walk;
Saunter by herself and walk.
How is that now for a story?"

II.

And one night when it was fine,
And the moon peeped through the trees;
And the scented jessamine vine
Swung its blossoms in the breeze,
Full of sleeping honeybees:
"Tha...

I have passed the day 'mid the forest gay,
    In its gorgeous autumn dyes,
Its tints as bright and as fair to the sight
    As the hues of our sunset skies;
And the sun's glad rays veiled by golden haze,
    Streamed down 'neath its arches grand,
And with magic power made scene and hour
    Like a dream of Faerie Land.

The emerald sheen of the maple green
    Is turned to deep, rich red;
And the boughs entwine with the crimson vine
    That is climbing overhead;
While, like golden sheaves, the saffron leaves
    Of the sycamore strew the ground,
'Neath birches old, clad in shimmering gold,
    Or the ash with red berries crowned.

Stately and tall, o'er its sisters all,
    Stands the poplar, proud and lone,
Every silvery leaf in restless...

"My eyes make pictures, when they are shut."
        COLERIDGE.


Fair morn, I bring my greeting
    To lofty skies, and pale,
Save where cloud-shreds are fleeting
    Before the driving gale,
The weary branches tossing,
    Careless of autumn's grief,
Shadow and sunlight crossing
    On each earth-spotted leaf.

I will escape their grieving;
    And so I close my eyes,
And see the light boat heaving
    Where the billows fall and rise;
I see the sunlight glancing
    Upon its silvery sail,
Where a youth's wild heart is dancing,
    And a maiden growing pale.

And I am quietly pacing
    The smooth stones o'er and o'er,
Where the merry waves are chasing
    Each other to the shore.
Words come to me while listen...

I

He bends his travel-tarnished feet
To where she wastes in clay:
From day-dawn until eve he fares
Along the wintry way;
From day-dawn until eve repairs
Unto her mound to pray.

II

"Are these the gravestone shapes that meet
My forward-straining view?
Or forms that cross a window-blind
In circle, knot, and queue:
Gay forms, that cross and whirl and wind
To music throbbing through?" -

III

"The Keeper of the Field of Tombs
Dwells by its gateway-pier;
He celebrates with feast and dance
His daughter's twentieth year:
He celebrates with wine of France
The birthday of his dear." -

IV

"The gates are shut when evening glooms:
Lay down your wreath, sad wight;
To-morrow is a time more fit

When I am dead, and all will soon forget
My words, and face, and ways --
I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet
Adown thy after days.

I die first, and you will see my grave;
But child! you must not cry;
For my dead hand will brightest blessings wave
O'er you from yonder sky.

You must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears
Tho' sleeping in a tomb:
My rest would not be rest, if in your years
There floated clouds of gloom.

For -- from the first -- your soul was dear to mine,
And dearer it became,
Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine
Thy name -- my child! thy name.

You came to me in girlhood pure and fair,
And in your soul -- and face --
I saw a likeness to another there
In every trace and grace.

You c...