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That drenched the leaves that loved it so
The fruits of that enchanted tree
The glad Aladdin robbed for me!
And, drowsy winds, awake and fan
My blood as when it overran
A heart ripe as the apples grow
In orchard-lands of Long Ago.
James Whitcomb Riley.
ALONE BY THE HEARTH
Here, in my snug little fire-lit chamber,
Sit I alone;
Days long agone.
Thus to sit here,
Many a year.
Still in my visions a golden-hair'd glory
Flits to and fro;
Dead, long ago.
'T is but a wraith of love; yet I linger
(Thus passion errs),
Once it was hers.
Nothing has changed since her spirit departed,
Here, in this room,
Sit in the gloom.
Loud 'gainst the window the winter rain dashes,
Dreary and cold;
Just as of old.
Just as of old — but the embers are scatter'd,
Whose ruddy blaze
In other days!
Then, her dear voice, like a silver chime ringing,
Now hush'd for aye!
Why should love bring nought but sorrow, I wonder?
Years have roll'd by; I am wiser and older —
Wiser, but yet
Can I forget.
So, in my snug little fire-lit chamber,
Sit I alone;
Days long agone!
THE WISTFUL DA YS
What is there wanting in the Spring?
The air is soft as yesteryear;
The happy-nested green is here,
The morning beckons, and like balm
Are westward waters blue and calm,
What is wanting in the Spring?
O April, lover to us all,
What is so poignant in thy thrall
What haunts us in the cooing dove
More subtle than the speech of Love,
Let Youth go dally with the Spring,
Let him, once more rehearsing, sing.
We have not truly known the Spring.
Robert Underwood Johnson. AT BEST
The faithful helm commands the keel,
But the ship must sail the convex sea,
So, man to man; in fair accord,
But the world will bend the passing word,
From soul to soul the shortest line
At best will bended be;
Still sails the convex sea.
John Boyle O'reiixy
Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,
And did you speak to him again?
But you were living before that,
And also you are living after;
My starting moves your laughter!
I cross'd a moor, with a name of its own
Yet a hand's-breath of it shines alone
For there I pick'd up on the heather
And there I put inside my breast
Well, I forget the rest.
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
O, hark! O, hear! how thin and clear,
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill, or field, or river;
And grow forever and forever.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (The Princess).
Sing again the song you sung
Sing the song, and o'er and o'er,
George William Curtis.
I Slept in an old homestead by the sea:
And in their chimney nest,
As to a friendly guest.
A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad,
From many glossy throats,
A poem's golden notes.
Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore,
And sounds of festal cheer,
Were breathed into mine ear;
And wondrous lyrics, felt but never sung,
The heart's melodious bloom;
About each hallowed room.
I heard the dream of lovers, as they found
At last their hour of bliss,
In one heart-healing kiss.
I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew
To sons and daughters fair;
And sobs of secret prayer.
I heard the voyagers who seem'd to sail
Into the sapphire sky,
As the swift ships went by;
And sighs suppress'd and converse soft and low
About the sufferer's bed,
That the dear one is dead;
And steps of those who, in the Sabbath light,
Muse with transfigured face;
The pillow's empty place;
And fervent greetings of old friends, whose path
In youth had gone apart,
With uncorroded heart.
The music of the seasons touch'd the strain,
Bird-joy and laugh of flowers,
Snow storm and sunny showers;
And secrets of the soul that doubts and yearns
And gropes in regions dim,
Its perfect life in Him.
So, thinking of the Master and his tears,
And how the birds are kept,
And like an infant, slept.
Horatio Nelson Powers.
THE WANDERER *
I found a shell;
Ever a tale of ocean seem'd to tell.
How came this shell upon the mountain height?
* From "A Little Book of Western Verse "j copyright, 1880, by Eugene Field published by Charles Scribner's Sons.