Poems of Henry Timrod [21]
And life there keeps its wonted guise, Yet not the less that spot may seem As lovely as a poet's dream; And should a fervid faith incline To make thereof a sainted shrine, Who may deny that round us throng A hundred earthly creeds as wrong, But meaner far, which yet unblamed Stalk by us and are not ashamed? So, therefore, Katie, as our stroll Ends at this portal, while you roll Those lustrous eyes to catch each ray That may recall some vanished day, I -- let them jeer and laugh who will -- Stoop down and kiss the sacred sill!
So strongly sometimes on the sense These fancies hold their influence, That in long well-known streets I stray Like one who fears to lose his way. The stranger, I, the native, she, Myself, not Kate, had crossed the sea; And changing place, and mixing times, I walk in unfamiliar climes! These houses, free to every breeze That blows from warm Floridian seas, Assume a massive English air, And close around an English square; While, if I issue from the town, An English hill looks greenly down, Or round me rolls an English park, And in the Broad I hear the Larke! Thus when, where woodland violets hide, I rove with Katie at my side, It scarce would seem amiss to say: "Katie! my home lies far away, Beyond the pathless waste of brine, In a young land of palm and pine! There, by the tropic heats, the soul Is touched as if with living coal, And glows with such a fire as none Can feel beneath a Northern sun, Unless -- my Katie's heart attest! -- 'T is kindled in an English breast! Such is the land in which I live, And, Katie! such the soul I give. Come! ere another morning beam, We'll cleave the sea with wings of steam; And soon, despite of storm or calm, Beneath my native groves of palm, Kind friends shall greet, with joy and pride, The Southron and his English bride!"
Why Silent?
Why am I silent from year to year? Needs must I sing on these blue March days? What will you say, when I tell you here, That already, I think, for a little praise, I have paid too dear?
For, I know not why, when I tell my thought, It seems as though I fling it away; And the charm wherewith a fancy is fraught, When secret, dies with the fleeting lay Into which it is wrought.
So my butterfly-dreams their golden wings But seldom unfurl from their chrysalis; And thus I retain my loveliest things, While the world, in its worldliness, does not miss What a poet sings.
Two Portraits
I
You say, as one who shapes a life, That you will never be a wife,
And, laughing lightly, ask my aid To paint your future as a maid.
This is the portrait; and I take The softest colors for your sake:
The springtime of your soul is dead, And forty years have bent your head;
The lines are firmer round your mouth, But still its smile is like the South.
Your eyes, grown deeper, are not sad, Yet never more than gravely glad;
And the old charm still lurks within The cloven dimple of your chin.
Some share, perhaps, of youthful gloss Your cheek hath shed; but still across
The delicate ear are folded down Those silken locks of chestnut brown;
Though here and there a thread of gray Steals through them like a lunar ray.
One might suppose your life had passed Unvexed by any troubling blast;
And such -- for all that I foreknow -- May be the truth! The deeper woe!
A loveless heart is seldom stirred; And sorrow shuns the mateless bird;
But ah! through cares alone we reach The happiness which mocketh speech;
In the white courts beyond the stars The noblest brow is seamed with scars;
And they on earth who've wept the most Sit highest of the heavenly host.
Grant that your maiden life hath sped In music o'er a golden bed,
With rocks, and winds, and storms at truce, And not without a noble use;
Yet are you happy? In your air I see a nameless want appear,
And a faint shadow on your cheek Tells what the lips refuse to speak.
You have had all a maid could hope In the most cloudless horoscope:
The strength that cometh from above; A Christian mother's
So strongly sometimes on the sense These fancies hold their influence, That in long well-known streets I stray Like one who fears to lose his way. The stranger, I, the native, she, Myself, not Kate, had crossed the sea; And changing place, and mixing times, I walk in unfamiliar climes! These houses, free to every breeze That blows from warm Floridian seas, Assume a massive English air, And close around an English square; While, if I issue from the town, An English hill looks greenly down, Or round me rolls an English park, And in the Broad I hear the Larke! Thus when, where woodland violets hide, I rove with Katie at my side, It scarce would seem amiss to say: "Katie! my home lies far away, Beyond the pathless waste of brine, In a young land of palm and pine! There, by the tropic heats, the soul Is touched as if with living coal, And glows with such a fire as none Can feel beneath a Northern sun, Unless -- my Katie's heart attest! -- 'T is kindled in an English breast! Such is the land in which I live, And, Katie! such the soul I give. Come! ere another morning beam, We'll cleave the sea with wings of steam; And soon, despite of storm or calm, Beneath my native groves of palm, Kind friends shall greet, with joy and pride, The Southron and his English bride!"
Why Silent?
Why am I silent from year to year? Needs must I sing on these blue March days? What will you say, when I tell you here, That already, I think, for a little praise, I have paid too dear?
For, I know not why, when I tell my thought, It seems as though I fling it away; And the charm wherewith a fancy is fraught, When secret, dies with the fleeting lay Into which it is wrought.
So my butterfly-dreams their golden wings But seldom unfurl from their chrysalis; And thus I retain my loveliest things, While the world, in its worldliness, does not miss What a poet sings.
Two Portraits
I
You say, as one who shapes a life, That you will never be a wife,
And, laughing lightly, ask my aid To paint your future as a maid.
This is the portrait; and I take The softest colors for your sake:
The springtime of your soul is dead, And forty years have bent your head;
The lines are firmer round your mouth, But still its smile is like the South.
Your eyes, grown deeper, are not sad, Yet never more than gravely glad;
And the old charm still lurks within The cloven dimple of your chin.
Some share, perhaps, of youthful gloss Your cheek hath shed; but still across
The delicate ear are folded down Those silken locks of chestnut brown;
Though here and there a thread of gray Steals through them like a lunar ray.
One might suppose your life had passed Unvexed by any troubling blast;
And such -- for all that I foreknow -- May be the truth! The deeper woe!
A loveless heart is seldom stirred; And sorrow shuns the mateless bird;
But ah! through cares alone we reach The happiness which mocketh speech;
In the white courts beyond the stars The noblest brow is seamed with scars;
And they on earth who've wept the most Sit highest of the heavenly host.
Grant that your maiden life hath sped In music o'er a golden bed,
With rocks, and winds, and storms at truce, And not without a noble use;
Yet are you happy? In your air I see a nameless want appear,
And a faint shadow on your cheek Tells what the lips refuse to speak.
You have had all a maid could hope In the most cloudless horoscope:
The strength that cometh from above; A Christian mother's