Selections from American poetry Part 30

MY LOVE

I not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near.

Great feelings has she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; G.o.d giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her suns.h.i.+ne share.

She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed m her eyes.

She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth.

Blessing she is: G.o.d made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless.

She is most fair, and thereunto Her life loth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

She is a woman: one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life bath room For many blights and many tears.

I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, And yet doth ever flow aright.

And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh and fair and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

THE FOUNTAIN

Into the suns.h.i.+ne, Full of the light, Leaping and flas.h.i.+ng From morn till night!

Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow!

Into the starlight, Rus.h.i.+ng in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day!

Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery.

Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary

Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best, Upward or downward, Motion thy rest;--

Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same;--

Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or suns.h.i.+ne Thy element;--

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, Upward, like thee!

THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS

There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plow, to reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-sh.e.l.l He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine

And so, well-pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a s.h.i.+ftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone, And e'en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after--poets only knew Their first-born brother as a G.o.d.

ODE RECITED AT THE HARVARD COMMEMORATION July 21, 1865

(Selection)

Weak-Winged is Song, Nor aims at that clear-ethered height Whither the brave deed climbs for light We seem to do them wrong, Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hea.r.s.e Who in warm life-blood wrote their n.o.bler verse.

Our trivial song to honor those who come With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum.

And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire Live battle-odes whose lines mere steel and fire: Yet sometimes feathered words are strong, A gracious memory to buoy up and save From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave Of the unventurous throng.

Many loved Truth, and lavished Life's best oil Amid the dust of books to find her, Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.

Many in sad faith sought for her, Many with crossed hands sighed for her; But these, our brothers, fought for her, At life's dear peril wrought for her, So loved her that they died for her, Tasting the raptured fleetness Of her divine completeness Their higher instinct knew Those love her best who to themselves are true, And what they dare to dream of, dare to do; They followed her and found her Where all may hope to find, Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her.

Where faith made whole with deed Breathes its awakening breath Into the lifeless creed, They saw her plumed and mailed, With sweet, stern face unveiled, And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death.

Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides Into the silent hollow of the past; What is there that abides To make the next age better for the last?

Is earth too poor to give us Something to live for here that shall outlive us?

Some more substantial boon Than such as flows and ebbs with Fortune's fickle moon?

The little that we sec: From doubt is never free; The little that we do Is but half-n.o.bly true; With our laborious hiving What men call treasure, and the G.o.ds call dross, Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, Only secure in every one's conniving, A long account of nothings paid with loss, Where we poor puppets, jerked by unseen wires, After our little hour of strut and rave, With all our pasteboard pa.s.sions and desires, Loves, hates, ambitions, and immortal fires, Are tossed pell-mell together in the grave.

But stay! no age was e'er degenerate, Unless men held it at too cheap a rate, For in our likeness still we shape our fate.

Whither leads the path To ampler fates that leads?

Not down through flowery meads, To reap an aftermath Of youth's vainglorious weeds, But up the steep, amid the wrath And shock of deadly-hostile creeds, Where the world's best hope and stay By battle's flashes gropes a desperate way, And every turf the fierce foot clings to bleeds.

Peace hath her not ign.o.ble wreath, Ere yet the sharp, decisive word Light the black lips of cannon, and the sword Dreams in its easeful sheath; But some day the live coal behind the thought, Whether from Baal's stone obscene, Or from the shrine serene Of G.o.d's pure altar brought, Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught, And, helpless in the fiery pa.s.sion caught, Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued, And trips reproachful: "Was it, then, my praise, And not myself was loved? Prove now thy truth; I claim of thee the promise of thy youth; Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase, The victim of thy genius, not its mate!"

Life may be given in many ways, And loyalty to Truth be sealed As bravely in the closet as the field, So bountiful is Fate; But then to stand beside her, When craven churls deride her, To front a lie in arms and not to yield, This shows, methinks, G.o.d's plan And measure of a stalwart man, Limbed like the old heroic breeds, Who stands self-poised on manhood's solid earth, Not forced to frame excuses for his birth, Fed from within with all the strength he needs.