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What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.
His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close up his eyes; tie up his chin; Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door.
Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]
DIRGE FOR THE YEAR
"Orphan Hours, the Year is dead: Come and sigh, come and weep."
"Merry Hours, smile instead, For the Year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping, Mocking your untimely weeping."
"As an earthquake rocks a corse In its coffin in the clay, So white Winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the death-cold Year to-day; Solemn Hours! wail aloud For your mother in her shroud."
"As the wild air stirs and sways The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days Rocks the Year:--be calm and mild, Trembling Hours; she will arise With new love within her eyes.
"January gray is here, Like a s.e.xton by her grave; February bears the bier; March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps--but, O, ye Hours, Follow with May's fairest flowers."
Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley [1792-1822]
WOOD AND FIELD AND RUNNING BROOK
WALDEINSAMKEIT
I do not count the hours I spend In wandering by the sea; The forest is my loyal friend, Like G.o.d it useth me.
In plains that room for shadows make Of skirting hills to lie, Bound in by streams which give and take Their colors from the sky;
Or on the mountain-crest sublime, Or down the oaken glade, O what have I to do with time?
For this the day was made.
Cities of mortals woe-begone Fantastic care derides, But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides.
Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad, But, sober on a fund of joy, The woods at heart are glad.
There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain.
Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns; Through times that wear and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns.
The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines.
Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old G.o.ds whom Chaos knew, The sires of Nature, hide.
Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, O, few to scale those uplands dare, Though they to all belong!
See thou bring not to field or stone The fancies found in books; Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, To brave the landscape's looks.
Oblivion here thy wisdom is, Thy thrift, the sleep of cares; For a proud idleness like this Crowns all thy mean affairs.
Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]
"WHEN IN THE WOODS I WANDER ALL ALONE"
When in the woods I wander all alone, The woods that are my solace and delight, Which I more covet than a prince's throne, My toil by day and canopy by night; (Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, These lights shall light us to old age's gate, While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright, Heavy with fear, death's fearful summons wait;) Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone, Weighing in thought the worlds no-happiness, I cannot choose but wonder at its moan, Since so plain joys the woody life can bless: Then live who may where honied words prevail, I with the deer, and with the nightingale!
Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829]
OUT IN THE FIELDS
The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play, Among the lowing of the herds, The rustling of the trees, Among the singing of the birds, The humming of the bees.
The foolish fears of what might pa.s.s I cast them all away Among tile clover-scented gra.s.s, Among the new-mown hay, Among the hus.h.i.+ng of the corn, Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born-- Out in the fields of G.o.d.
Unknown [Has been erroneously attributed to Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Louise Imogen Guiney]
