The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 17

Have we not from the earth drawn juices Too fine for earth's sordid uses?

Have I heard, have I seen All I feel and I know?

Doth my heart overween?

Or could it have been Long ago?

Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent, That makes the ghost seem nigh me Of a splendor that came and went, Of a life lived somewhere, I know not In what diviner sphere, Of memories that stay not and go not, Like music heard once by an ear That cannot forget or reclaim it, A something so shy, it would shame it To make it a show, A something too vague, could I name it, For others to know, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, As if I had acted or schemed it, Long ago!

And yet, could I live it over, This life that stirs in my brain, Could I be both maiden and lover, Moon and tide, bee and clover, As I seem to have been, once again, Could I but speak and show it, This pleasure more sharp than pain, That baffles and lures me so, The world should not lack a poet, Such as it had In the ages glad, Long ago!

J.R. LOWELL.

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls.

The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea in the darkness calls and calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveller to the sh.o.r.e, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

The Fall of the Leaf.

The evening of the year draws on, The fields a later aspect wear; Since Summer's garishness is gone, Some grains of night tincture the noontide air.

Behold! the shadows of the trees Now circle wider 'bout their stem, Like sentries that by slow degrees Perform their rounds, gently protecting them.

And as the year doth decline, The sun allows a scantier light; Behind each needle of the pine There lurks a small auxiliar to the night.

I hear the cricket's slumbrous lay Around, beneath me, and on high; It rocks the night, it soothes the day, And everywhere is Nature's lullaby.

But most he chirps beneath the sod, When he has made his winter bed; His creak grown fainter but more broad, A film of Autumn o'er the Summer spread.

Small birds, in fleets migrating by, Now beat across some meadow's bay, And as they tack and veer on high, With faint and hurried click beguile the way.

Far in the woods, these golden days, Some leaf obeys its Maker's call; And through their hollow aisles it plays With delicate touch the prelude of the Fall.

Gently withdrawing from its stem, It lightly lays itself along Where the same hand hath pillowed them, Resigned to sleep upon the old year's throng.

The loneliest birch is brown and sere, The furthest pool is strewn with leaves, Which float upon their watery bier, Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves.

The jay screams through the chestnut wood; The crisped and yellow leaves around Are hue and texture of my mood,-- And these rough burrs my heirlooms on the ground.

The threadbare trees, so poor and thin,-- They are no wealthier than I; But with as brave a core within They rear their boughs to the October sky.

Poor knights they are which bravely wait The charge of Winter's cavalry, Keeping a simple Roman state, Disc.u.mbered of their Persian luxury.

H.D. Th.o.r.eAU.

The Rhodora.

ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook.

The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

R.W. EMERSON.

Nature.

O nature! I do not aspire To be the highest in thy quire,-- To be a meteor in the sky, Or comet that may range on high; Only a zephyr that may blow Among the reeds by the river low; Give me thy most privy place Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead Let me sigh upon a reed, Or in the woods, with leafy din, Whisper the still evening in.

Some still work give me to do,-- Only--be it near to you!

For I'd rather be thy child And pupil, in the forest wild, Than be the king of men elsewhere, And most sovereign slave of care.

H.D. Th.o.r.eAU.

My Strawberry.

O marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause To reckon thee. I ask what cause Set free so much of red from heats At core of earth, and mixed such sweets With sour and spice: what was that strength Which out of darkness, length by length, Spun all thy shining thread of vine, Netting the fields in bond as thine.

I see thy tendrils drink by sips From gra.s.s and clover's smiling lips; I hear thy roots dig down for wells, Tapping the meadow's hidden cells; Whole generations of green things, Descended from long lines of springs, I see make room for thee to bide A quiet comrade by their side; I see the creeping peoples go Mysterious journeys to and fro, Treading to right and left of thee, Doing thee homage wonderingly.

I see the wild bees as they fare, Thy cups of honey drink, but spare.

I mark thee bathe and bathe again In sweet uncalendared spring rain.

I watch how all May has of sun Makes haste to have thy ripeness done, While all her nights let dews escape To set and cool thy perfect shape.

Ah, fruit of fruits, no more I pause To dream and seek thy hidden laws!

I stretch my hand and dare to taste, In instant of delicious waste On single feast, all things that went To make the empire thou hast spent.