Whence, o fragrant form of light,
Hast thou drifted through the night,
Swanlike, to a leafy nest,
On the restless waves, at rest?
Art thou from the snowy zone
Of a mountain-summit blown,
Or the blossom of a dream,
Fashioned in the foamy stream?
Nay,—methinks the maiden moon,
When the daylight came too soon,
...
“is water nigh?”
The plainsmen cry,
As they meet and pass in the desert grass.
With finger tip
Across the lip
I ask the sombre Navajo.
The brown man smiles and answers “Sho!”
With fingers high, he signs the miles
To the desert spring,
And so we pass in the dry dead grass,...
Early on a sunny morning, while the lark was singing sweet,
Came, beyond the ancient farm-house, sounds of lightly tripping feet.
’T was a lowly cottage maiden going,—why, let young hearts tell,—
With her homely pitcher laden, fetching water from the well.
Shadows lay athwart the pathway, all along the quiet lane,
And the breezes of the morning moved...
When that my mood is sad, and in the noise
And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke,
I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys
And sit me down beside this little brook;
The waters have a music to mine ear
It glads me much to hear.
It is a quiet glen, as you may see,
Shut in from all intrusion by the trees,
That spread...
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes;
Flow gently, I ’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary ’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear;...
Whence, O fragrant form of light,
Hast thou drifted through the night,
Swanlike, to a leafy nest,
On the restless waves, at rest?
Art thou from the snowy zone
Of a mountain-summit blown,
Or the blossom of a dream,
Fashioned in the foamy stream?
Nay,—methinks the maiden moon,
When the daylight came too soon,
...
Far to the Northward there lies a land,
A wonderful land that the winds blow over,
And none may fathom or understand
The charm it holds for the restless rover;
A great grey chaos -- a land half made,
Where endless space is and no life stirreth;
There the soul of a man will recoil afraid
From...
I think that the Root of the Wind is Water —
It would not sound so deep
Were it a Firmamental Product —
Airs no Oceans keep —
Mediterranean intonations —
To a Current's Ear —
There is a maritime conviction
In the Atmosphere —
Water makes many Beds
For those averse to sleep —
Its awful chamber open stands —
Its Curtains blandly sweep —
Abhorrent is the Rest
In undulating Rooms
Whose Amplitude no end invades —
Whose Axis never comes.
Water, is taught by thirst.
Land — by the Oceans passed.
Transport — by throe —
Peace — by its battles told —
Love, by Memorial Mold —
Birds, by the Snow.
