« ZurückWeiter »
And better so ; for were the bowl
Too freely to the parched lip given,
The summer-shine of lengthened light
’T is equal day and equal night. One after one, as dwindling hours,
Youth's glowing hopes have dropped away, And soon may barely leave the gleam
That coldly scores a winter's day. I am not young – I am not old ;
The flush of morn, the sunset calm, Paling and deepening, each to each,
Meet midway with a solemn charm. One side I see the summer fields,
Not yet disrobed of all their green; While westerly, along the hills,
Flame the first tints of frosty sheen. Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm
Make battle-ground of this my life ! Where, even-matched, the night and day
Wage round me their September strife.
I know when that is overpast,
MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY.
Holding my breath;
At the dark mystery of Death.
Spent with the strife, -
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. RUTH
She stood breast high amid the corn,
THE LATE SPRING SHE stood alone amidst the April fields —
Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare. “The Spring is late," she said, “the faithless Spring,
That should have come to make the meadows fair. “Their sweet South left too soon; among the trees,
The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro;
Of last year's April had deceived them so.”
The barren fields, and shivering, naked trees,
"I wait my Spring-time, and am cold like these. "To them will come the fullness of their time ;
Their Spring, though late, will make the meadows fair ; Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed? I am his own,- doth not my Father care?”
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
Feeling deeper than all thought ;
What unto themselves was taught.
Man by man was never seen ;
To remove the shadowy screen.
Mind with mind did never meet ;
Of a temple once complete.
Far apart, though seeming near,
All is thus but starlight here.
But a babbling summer stream?
But the glancing of a dream ?
Melts the scattered stars of thought,
What the dim-eyed world hath taught,
By the fount which gave them birth,
Which they never drew from earth,
Swelling till they meet and run,
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.
I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent
NIGHT AND DEATH
JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE.
THE CLOSING SCENE WITHIN the sober realm of leafless trees,
The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease,
When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray barns looking from their hazy hills,
O’er the dun waters widening in the vales,
On the dull thunder of alternate flails.
The hills seemed farther and the stream sang low, As in a dream the distant woodman hewed
His winter log with many a muffled blow.
Their banners bright with every martial hue,
Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue.
On slumb’rous wings the vulture held his flight;
The dove scarce heard its sighing mate's complaint ; And, like a star slow drowning in the light,
The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew,
Crew thrice,- and all was stiller than before ; Silent, till some replying warden blew
His alien horn, and then was heard no more. Where erst the jay, within the elm's tall crest,
Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young ; Andd where the oriole hung her swaying nest,
By every light wind like a censer swung; — Where sang the noisy martens of the eaves,
The busy swallows circling ever near,Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and a plenteous year; — Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast
Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, To warn the reaper of the rosy east,
All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn. Alone from out the stubble piped the quail,
And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom ; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale,
Made echo to the distant cottage-loom.
The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by night, The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers,
Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this — in this most cheerless air,
And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there
Firing the floor with his inverted torch, Amid all this, the centre of the scene,
The white-haired matron with monotonous tread Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien
Sat, like a fate, and watched the flying thread. She had known Sorrow,- he had walked with her,
Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust;
Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.
Her country summoned, and she gave her all ;
Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall :