Poems of Henry Timrod [40]
it, O Owl! with less profound a face.
Love's Logic
And if I ask thee for a kiss, I ask no more than this sweet breeze, With far less title to the bliss, Steals every minute at his ease. And yet how placid is thy brow! It seems to woo the bold caress, While now he takes his kiss, and now All sorts of freedoms with thy dress.
Or if I dare thy hand to touch, Hath nothing pressed its palm before? A flower, I'm sure, hath done as much, And ah! some senseless diamond more. It strikes me, love, the very rings, Now sparkling on that hand of thine, Could tell some truly startling things, If they had tongues or touch like mine.
Indeed, indeed, I do not know Of all that thou hast power to grant, A boon for which I could not show Some pretty precedent extant. Suppose, for instance, I should clasp Thus, -- so, -- and thus! -- thy slender waist -- I would not hold within my grasp More than this loosened zone embraced.
Oh! put the anger from thine eyes, Or shut them if they still must frown; Those lids, despite yon garish skies, Can bring a timely darkness down. Then, if in that convenient night, My lips should press thy dewy mouth, The touch shall be so soft, so light, Thou 'lt fancy me -- this gentle South.
Second Love
Could I reveal the secret joy Thy presence always with it brings, The memories so strangely waked Of long forgotten things,
The love, the hope, the fear, the grief, Which with that voice come back to me, -- Thou wouldst forgive the impassioned gaze So often turned on thee.
It was, indeed, that early love, But foretaste of this second one, -- The soft light of the morning star Before the morning sun.
The same dark beauty in her eyes, The same blonde hair and placid brow, The same deep-meaning, quiet smile Thou bendest on me now,
She might have been, she WAS no more Than what a prescient hope could make, -- A dear presentiment of thee I loved but for thy sake.
Hymn Sung at the Consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.
Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death! In the false aspect of a ruthless foe, Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath -- O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so?
Thou rather shouldst be crowned with fadeless flowers, Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue; Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers, But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through.
So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed And beautified, O Death! thy mansion here, Where gloom and gladness -- grave and garden -- mixed, Make it a place to love, and not to fear.
Heaven! shed thy most propitious dews around! Ye holy stars! look down with tender eyes, And gild and guard and consecrate the ground Where we may rest, and whence we pray to rise.
Hymn Sung at a Sacred Concert at Columbia, S.C.
I
Faint falls the gentle voice of prayer In the wild sounds that fill the air, Yet, Lord, we know that voice is heard, Not less than if Thy throne it stirred.
II
Thine ear, thou tender One, is caught, If we but bend the knee in thought; No choral song that shakes the sky Floats farther than the Christian's sigh.
III
Not all the darkness of the land Can hide the lifted eye and hand; Nor need the clanging conflict cease, To make Thee hear our cries for peace.
Lines to R. L.
That which we are and shall be is made up Of what we have been. On the autumn leaf The crimson stains bear witness of its spring; And, on its perfect nodes, the ocean shell Notches the slow, strange changes of its growth. Ourselves are our own records; if we looked Rightly into that blotted crimson page Within our bosoms, then there were no need To chronicle our stories; for the heart Hath, like the earth, its strata, and contains Its past within its present. Well for us, And our most cherished secrets, that within The round of being few there are who read Beneath the surface. Else our very forms, The merest gesture of our hands, might tell Much we would hide forever. Know you not Those eyes, in
Love's Logic
And if I ask thee for a kiss, I ask no more than this sweet breeze, With far less title to the bliss, Steals every minute at his ease. And yet how placid is thy brow! It seems to woo the bold caress, While now he takes his kiss, and now All sorts of freedoms with thy dress.
Or if I dare thy hand to touch, Hath nothing pressed its palm before? A flower, I'm sure, hath done as much, And ah! some senseless diamond more. It strikes me, love, the very rings, Now sparkling on that hand of thine, Could tell some truly startling things, If they had tongues or touch like mine.
Indeed, indeed, I do not know Of all that thou hast power to grant, A boon for which I could not show Some pretty precedent extant. Suppose, for instance, I should clasp Thus, -- so, -- and thus! -- thy slender waist -- I would not hold within my grasp More than this loosened zone embraced.
Oh! put the anger from thine eyes, Or shut them if they still must frown; Those lids, despite yon garish skies, Can bring a timely darkness down. Then, if in that convenient night, My lips should press thy dewy mouth, The touch shall be so soft, so light, Thou 'lt fancy me -- this gentle South.
Second Love
Could I reveal the secret joy Thy presence always with it brings, The memories so strangely waked Of long forgotten things,
The love, the hope, the fear, the grief, Which with that voice come back to me, -- Thou wouldst forgive the impassioned gaze So often turned on thee.
It was, indeed, that early love, But foretaste of this second one, -- The soft light of the morning star Before the morning sun.
The same dark beauty in her eyes, The same blonde hair and placid brow, The same deep-meaning, quiet smile Thou bendest on me now,
She might have been, she WAS no more Than what a prescient hope could make, -- A dear presentiment of thee I loved but for thy sake.
Hymn Sung at the Consecration of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.
Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death! In the false aspect of a ruthless foe, Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath -- O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so?
Thou rather shouldst be crowned with fadeless flowers, Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue; Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers, But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through.
So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed And beautified, O Death! thy mansion here, Where gloom and gladness -- grave and garden -- mixed, Make it a place to love, and not to fear.
Heaven! shed thy most propitious dews around! Ye holy stars! look down with tender eyes, And gild and guard and consecrate the ground Where we may rest, and whence we pray to rise.
Hymn Sung at a Sacred Concert at Columbia, S.C.
I
Faint falls the gentle voice of prayer In the wild sounds that fill the air, Yet, Lord, we know that voice is heard, Not less than if Thy throne it stirred.
II
Thine ear, thou tender One, is caught, If we but bend the knee in thought; No choral song that shakes the sky Floats farther than the Christian's sigh.
III
Not all the darkness of the land Can hide the lifted eye and hand; Nor need the clanging conflict cease, To make Thee hear our cries for peace.
Lines to R. L.
That which we are and shall be is made up Of what we have been. On the autumn leaf The crimson stains bear witness of its spring; And, on its perfect nodes, the ocean shell Notches the slow, strange changes of its growth. Ourselves are our own records; if we looked Rightly into that blotted crimson page Within our bosoms, then there were no need To chronicle our stories; for the heart Hath, like the earth, its strata, and contains Its past within its present. Well for us, And our most cherished secrets, that within The round of being few there are who read Beneath the surface. Else our very forms, The merest gesture of our hands, might tell Much we would hide forever. Know you not Those eyes, in