Blind as the song of birds,
Feeling its way into the heart,
Or as a thought ere it hath words,—
As blind thou art:
Or as a little stream
A dainty hand might guide apart,
Or Love—young Love’s delicious dream—
As blind thou art:
Or as a slender bark,
Where summer’s varying breezes start,
Or blossoms...
Serenade
I Arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me—who knows how?—
To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent...
[Written in the Tower, the night before his probably unjust execution for treason]
MY prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.
The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!
...
Who Died at Milan, June 6, 1860
“Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him.”
—JOHN xx. 15.
IN the fair gardens of celestial peace
Walketh a gardener in meekness clad;
Fair are the flowers that wreathe...
E’en such is time; that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days:
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.
The Lark sings for joy in her own loved land,
In the furrowed field, by the breezes fanned;
And so revel we
In the furrowed sea,
As joyous and glad as the lark can be.
On the placid breast of the inland lake
The wild duck delights her pastime to take;
But the petrel braves
The wild ocean waves,...
[A farmer’s daughter, during the rage for albums, handed to the author an old account-book ruled for pounds, shillings, and pence, and requested a contribution.]
THIS WORLD ’s a scene as dark as Styx, £ s. d.
Where hope is scarce worth 2 6
Our joys are borne so fleeting hence
That they are dear at 18
And yet to stay here most are...
Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy,
Shall we seek for communion of souls
Where the deep Mississippi meanders,
Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?
Ah no,—for in Maine I will find thee
A sweetly sequestrated nook
Where the far winding Skoodoowabskooksis
Conjoiins with the Skoodoowabskook.
There wander two beautiful rivers,...
Sing me that song again,
That wild, impassioned lay;
The tumult of my throbbing brain
Thy voice shall charm away.
Pour that harmonious flood
Upon my thirsting ear;
'Twill cool the fever of my blood
...
