Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays
Now divers birds are heard to sing,
And sundry flowers their heads upraise,
Hail to the coming on of spring!
The songs of those said birds arouse
The memory of our youthful hours,
As green as those said sprays and boughs,
As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.
The birds...
Upon a rock yet uncreate,
Amid a chaos inchoate,
An uncreated being sate;
Beneath him, rock,
Above him, cloud.
And the cloud was rock,
And the rock was cloud.
The rock then growing soft and warm,
The cloud began to take a form,
A form chaotic, vast, and vague,
Which issued in the cosmic egg.
Then the Being...
Anonymous translation from the German
A FAMOUS hen ’s my story’s theme,
Which ne’er was known to tire
Of laying eggs, but then she ’d scream
So loud o’er every egg, ’t would seem
The house must be on fire.
A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk,
A wiser bird and older,
Could bear ’t no more, so off did stalk
Right to...
O Unhatched Bird, so high preferred,
As porter of the Pole,
Of beakless things, who have no wings,
Exact no heavy toll.
If this my song its theme should wrong,
The theme itself is sweet;
Let others rhyme the unborn time,
I sing the Obsolete.
And first, I praise the nobler traits
Of birds preceding Noah,...
She laid it where the sunbeams fall
Unscanned upon the broken wall.
Without a tear, without a groan,
She laid it near a mighty stone,
Which some rude swain had haply cast
Thither in sport, long ages past,
And time with mosses had o’erlaid,
And fenced with many a tall grass-blade,
And all about bid roses bloom
And violets...
’t Was ever thus from childhood’s hour
My fondest hopes would not decay:
I never loved a tree or flower
Which was the first to fade away!
The garden, where I used to delve
Short-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty;
The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve,
I see still blossoming, at twenty.
I never nursed a dear...
[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...
I Watched her as she stooped to pluck
A wild flower in her hair to twine;
And wished that it had been my luck
To call her mine;
Anon I heard her rate with mad,
Mad words her babe within its cot,
And felt particularly glad
That it had not.
I knew (such subtle brains have men!)
That she was uttering...
From the maddening crowd they stand apart,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;
And none might tell from sight alone
In which had culture ripest grown,—
The Gotham Millions fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,
The Boston Mind of azure hue,
Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,—
For all loved Art in a seemly way,
...
Alone I sit at eventide:
The twilight glory pales,
And o’er the meadows far and wide
Chant pensive bobolinks.
(One might say nightingales!)
Song-sparrows warble on the tree,
I hear the purling brook,
And from the old “manse o’er the lea”
Flies slow the cawing crow.
(In England ’twere a rook!)
...
