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 shore;
Come from your dreams of desperate sea-faring
And sun your sails once more...
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
As fleets the violets’ aroma?
Ah, for me, I thrill to see
The bloom a...
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 in the distant dusk
Of summer gardens, sweet as musk,
Pouring the blissful burden...
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, and thrills them still!
Withered, faded, pressed between the pages,
Crumpled...
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 now
A palm-tree wave its rhythmic bough!
And yet this old pine’s haughty crown,...
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 whose song shall reach our height!
Fain would we know the impulse ever fleeing,
...
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 rhythm of hoof and of cry,—
Echo, O echo! The winds rush and mingle!
Halloo, view...
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,
And the rose burst its bud?
Had not the western glory then
Stolen...
