Harriet Prescott Spofford

  • What memory fired her pallid face,
      What passion stirred her blood,
    What tide of sorrow and desire
      Poured its forgotten flood
    Upon a heart that ceased to beat,
    Long since, with thought that life was sweet,
    When nights were rich with vernal dusk...

  • Wild stream the clouds, and the fresh wind is singing,
    Red is the dawn, and the world white with rime,—
    Music, O music! The hunter’s horn ringing!
    Over the hilltop the mounted men climb.

    Flashing of scarlet, and glitter, and jingle,
    The deep bay, the...

  • Said the archangels, moving in their glory,
      Seeing the suns bend out along their courses,
        Seeing the earth swim up in vernal light,
    Seeing the year renew her ancient story,—
      Ask we here the Lord of all the finer forces
        To make us now a poet...

  • Couldst thou, Great Fairy, give to me
    The instant’s wish, that I might see
    Of all the earth’s that one dear sight
    Known only in a dream’s delight,
    I would, beneath some island steep,
    In some remote and sun-bright deep,
    See high in heaven above me...

  • It was nothing but a rose I gave her,—
      Nothing but a rose
    Any wind might rob of half its savor,
      Any wind that blows.

    When she took it from my trembling fingers
      With a hand as chill,—
    Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers,
      Stays,...

  • When stars pursue their solemn flight,
    Oft in the middle of the night,
    A strain of music visits me,
    Hushed in a moment silverly,—
    Such rich and rapturous strains as make
    The very soul of silence ache
    With longing for the melody;

    Or lovers...

  • What ’s the brightness of a brow?
      What ’s a mouth of pearls and corals?
    Beauty vanishes like a vapor,
      Preach the men of musty morals!

    Should the crowd then, ages since,
      Have shut their ears to singing Homer,
    Because the music fled as soon...

  • Come, all you sailors of the southern waters,
      You apparitions of the Spanish main,
    Who dyed the jewelled depths blood-red with slaughters,
      You things of crime and gain!

    Come, caravel and pinnace, on whose daring
      Rose the low purple of a new world’s...