o keeper of the Sacred Key,
And the Great Seal of Destiny,
Whose eye is the blue canopy,
Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what the end will be.
“Lo, through the wintry atmosphere,
On the white bosom of the sphere,
A cluster of five lakes appear;
And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior’s shield, or...
Why here, on this third planet from the Sun,
Fret we and smite against our prison-bars?
Why not in Saturn, Mercury, or Mars,
Mourn we our sins, the things undone and done?
Where was the soul’s bewildering course begun?
In what sad land among the scattered stars
Wrought she the ill which now forever scars
By bitter consequence each victory...
Launched upon ether float the worlds secure.
Naught hath the truthful Maker to conceal.
No trestle-work of adamant or steel
Is that high firmament where these endure.
Patient, majestic, round their cynosure
In secular procession see them wheel;
Self-poised, but not self-centred; for they feel
In each tense fibre one all-conquering lure....
His fourscore years and five
Are gone, like a tale that is told.
The quick tears start, there ’s an ache at the heart,
For we never thought him old.
Straight as a mountain pine,
With the mountain eagle’s eye,
With the hand-clasp strong, and the unhushed song,
Was it time for him to die?
Prophet and priest he stood...
Never yet was a springtime,
Late though lingered the snow,
That the sap stirred not at the whisper
Of the south wind, sweet and low;
Never yet was a springtime
When the buds forgot to blow.
Ever the wings of the summer
Are folded under the mould;
Life, that has known no dying,
Is Love’s, to have and to hold,...
One steed I have of common clay,
And one no less than regal;
By day I jog on old Saddlebags,
By night I fly upon Eagle:
To store, to market, to field, to mill,
One plods with patient patter,
Nor hears along the far-off heights
The hoofs of his comrade clatter.
To field, to market, to mill he goes,
Nor sees his...
I wish that I could have my wish to-night,
For all the fairies should assist my flight
Back into the abyss of years;
Till I could see the streaming light,
And hear the music of the spheres
That sang together at the joyous birth
Of that immortal mind,
The noblest of his kind,—
The only Shakespeare that has graced...
We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still;
The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill;
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call;
The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all.
We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain;
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it...
Once before, this self-same air
Passed me, though I know not where.
Strange! how very like it came!
Touch and fragrance were the same;
Sound of mingled voices, too,
With a light laugh ringing through;
Some one moving,—here or there,—
Some one passing up the stair,
Some one calling from without,
Or a far-off childish shout...
They wait all day unseen by us, unfelt;
Patient they bide behind the day’s full glare;
And we, who watched the dawn when they were there,
Thought we had seen them in the daylight melt,
While the slow sun upon the earth-line knelt.
Because the teeming sky seemed void and bare,
When we explored it through the dazzled air,
We had no thought...
