Poems of Henry Timrod [33]
That on such souls as might have loved thee jarred Like an unearthly language; thou didst float On a strange water; those who stood on land Gazed, but they could not leave their beaten strand.
XIX
"Your elements were different, and apart -- The world's and thine -- and even in those intense And watchful broodings o'er thy inmost heart, It was thy own peculiar difference That thou didst seek; nor didst thou care to find Aught that would bring thee nearer to thy kind.
XX
"Not thus the Poet, who in blood and brain Would represent his race and speak for all, Weaves the bright woof of that impassioned strain Which drapes, as if for some high festival Of pure delights -- whence few of human birth May rightly be shut out -- the common earth.
XXI
"As the same law that moulds a planet, rounds A drop of dew, so the great Poet spheres Worlds in himself; no selfish limit bounds A sympathy that folds all characters, All ranks, all passions, and all life almost In its wide circle. Like some noble host,
XXII
"He spreads the riches of his soul, and bids Partake who will. Age has its saws of truth, And love is for the maiden's drooping lids, And words of passion for the earnest youth; Wisdom for all; and when it seeks relief, Tears, and their solace for the heart of grief.
XXIII
"Nor less on him than thee the mysteries Within him and about him ever weigh -- The meanings in the stars, and in the breeze, All the weird wonders of the common day, Truths that the merest point removes from reach, And thoughts that pause upon the brink of speech;
XXIV
"But on the surface of his song these lie As shadows, not as darkness; and alway, Even though it breathe the secrets of the sky, There is a human purpose in the lay; Thus some tall fir that whispers to the stars Shields at its base a cotter's lattice-bars.
XXV
"Even such my Poet! for thou still art mine! Thou mightst have been, and now have calmly died, A priest, and not a victim at the shrine; Alas! yet was it all thy fault? I chide, Perchance, myself within thee, and the fate To which thy power was solely consecrate.
XXVI
"Thy life hath not been wholly without use, Albeit that use is partly hidden now; In thy unmingled scorn of any truce With this world's specious falsehoods, often thou Hast uttered, through some all unworldly song, Truths that for man might else have slumbered long.
XXVII
"And these not always vainly on the crowd Have fallen; some are cherished now, and some, In mystic phrases wrapped as in a shroud, Wait the diviner, who as yet is dumb Upon the breast of God -- the gate of birth Closed on a dreamless ignorance of earth.
XXVIII
"And therefore, though thy name shall pass away, Even as a cloud that hath wept all its showers, Yet as that cloud shall live again one day In the glad grass, and in the happy flowers, So in thy thoughts, though clothed in sweeter rhymes, Thy life shall bear its flowers in future times."
The Past
To-day's most trivial act may hold the seed Of future fruitfulness, or future dearth; Oh, cherish always every word and deed! The simplest record of thyself hath worth.
If thou hast ever slighted one old thought, Beware lest Grief enforce the truth at last; The time must come wherein thou shalt be taught The value and the beauty of the Past.
Not merely as a warner and a guide, "A voice behind thee," sounding to the strife; But something never to be put aside, A part and parcel of thy present life.
Not as a distant and a darkened sky, Through which the stars peep, and the moon-beams glow; But a surrounding atmosphere, whereby We live and breathe, sustained in pain and woe.
A shadowy land, where joy and sorrow kiss, Each still to each corrective and relief, Where dim delights are brightened into bliss, And nothing wholly perishes but Grief.
Ah, me! -- not dies -- no more than spirit dies; But in a change like death is clothed with wings; A serious angel, with entranc|\ed eyes, Looking to far-off and
XIX
"Your elements were different, and apart -- The world's and thine -- and even in those intense And watchful broodings o'er thy inmost heart, It was thy own peculiar difference That thou didst seek; nor didst thou care to find Aught that would bring thee nearer to thy kind.
XX
"Not thus the Poet, who in blood and brain Would represent his race and speak for all, Weaves the bright woof of that impassioned strain Which drapes, as if for some high festival Of pure delights -- whence few of human birth May rightly be shut out -- the common earth.
XXI
"As the same law that moulds a planet, rounds A drop of dew, so the great Poet spheres Worlds in himself; no selfish limit bounds A sympathy that folds all characters, All ranks, all passions, and all life almost In its wide circle. Like some noble host,
XXII
"He spreads the riches of his soul, and bids Partake who will. Age has its saws of truth, And love is for the maiden's drooping lids, And words of passion for the earnest youth; Wisdom for all; and when it seeks relief, Tears, and their solace for the heart of grief.
XXIII
"Nor less on him than thee the mysteries Within him and about him ever weigh -- The meanings in the stars, and in the breeze, All the weird wonders of the common day, Truths that the merest point removes from reach, And thoughts that pause upon the brink of speech;
XXIV
"But on the surface of his song these lie As shadows, not as darkness; and alway, Even though it breathe the secrets of the sky, There is a human purpose in the lay; Thus some tall fir that whispers to the stars Shields at its base a cotter's lattice-bars.
XXV
"Even such my Poet! for thou still art mine! Thou mightst have been, and now have calmly died, A priest, and not a victim at the shrine; Alas! yet was it all thy fault? I chide, Perchance, myself within thee, and the fate To which thy power was solely consecrate.
XXVI
"Thy life hath not been wholly without use, Albeit that use is partly hidden now; In thy unmingled scorn of any truce With this world's specious falsehoods, often thou Hast uttered, through some all unworldly song, Truths that for man might else have slumbered long.
XXVII
"And these not always vainly on the crowd Have fallen; some are cherished now, and some, In mystic phrases wrapped as in a shroud, Wait the diviner, who as yet is dumb Upon the breast of God -- the gate of birth Closed on a dreamless ignorance of earth.
XXVIII
"And therefore, though thy name shall pass away, Even as a cloud that hath wept all its showers, Yet as that cloud shall live again one day In the glad grass, and in the happy flowers, So in thy thoughts, though clothed in sweeter rhymes, Thy life shall bear its flowers in future times."
The Past
To-day's most trivial act may hold the seed Of future fruitfulness, or future dearth; Oh, cherish always every word and deed! The simplest record of thyself hath worth.
If thou hast ever slighted one old thought, Beware lest Grief enforce the truth at last; The time must come wherein thou shalt be taught The value and the beauty of the Past.
Not merely as a warner and a guide, "A voice behind thee," sounding to the strife; But something never to be put aside, A part and parcel of thy present life.
Not as a distant and a darkened sky, Through which the stars peep, and the moon-beams glow; But a surrounding atmosphere, whereby We live and breathe, sustained in pain and woe.
A shadowy land, where joy and sorrow kiss, Each still to each corrective and relief, Where dim delights are brightened into bliss, And nothing wholly perishes but Grief.
Ah, me! -- not dies -- no more than spirit dies; But in a change like death is clothed with wings; A serious angel, with entranc|\ed eyes, Looking to far-off and