An heritage of hopes and fears And dreams and memory, And vices of ten thousand years God gives to thee. A house of clay, the home of Fate, Haunted of Love and Sin, Where Death stands knocking at the gate To let him in.
Collection:
The Soul
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From “Myth and Romance” THERE is no rhyme that is half so sweet As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat; There is no metre that ’s half so fine As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine; And the loveliest lyric I ever heard Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.— If the wind and the... |
What shall her silence keep Under the sun? Here, where the willows weep And waters run; Here, where she lies asleep, And all is done. Lights, when the tree-top swings; Scents that are sown; Sounds of the wood-bird’s wings; And the bee’s drone: These be her comfortings Under the stone. What shall... |
The song-birds? are they flown away? The song-birds of the summer-time, That sang their souls into the day, And set the laughing days to rhyme?— No catbird scatters through the hush The sparkling crystals of its song; Within the woods no hermit-thrush Trails an enchanted flute along, A... |
With eyes hand-arched he looks into The morning’s face, then turns away With schoolboy feet, all wet with dew, Out for a holiday. The hill brook sings, incessant stars, Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast; And where he wades its water-bars Its song is happiest. A comrade of the chinquapin, He... |
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The wind IN THE PINES WHEN winds go organing through the pines On hill and headland, darkly gleaming, Meseems I hear sonorous lines Of Iliads that the woods are dreaming. OPPORTUNITY BEHOLD a hag whom Life denies a kiss As he rides questward in knight-errant-wise; Only when he hath passed her is... |