Poems of Henry Timrod [49]
passed.
IX "I Know Not Why, But All This Weary Day"
I know not why, but all this weary day, Suggested by no definite grief or pain, Sad fancies have been flitting through my brain; Now it has been a vessel losing way, Rounding a stormy headland; now a gray Dull waste of clouds above a wintry main; And then, a banner, drooping in the rain, And meadows beaten into bloody clay. Strolling at random with this shadowy woe At heart, I chanced to wander hither! Lo! A league of desolate marsh-land, with its lush, Hot grasses in a noisome, tide-left bed, And faint, warm airs, that rustle in the hush, Like whispers round the body of the dead!
X "Were I the Poet-Laureate of the Fairies"
(Written on a very small sheet of note-paper)
Were I the poet-laureate of the fairies, Who in a rose-leaf finds too broad a page; Or could I, like your beautiful canaries, Sing with free heart and happy, in a cage; Perhaps I might within this little space (As in some Eastern tale, by magic power, A giant is imprisoned in a flower) Have told you something with a poet's grace. But I need wider limits, ampler scope, A world of freedom for a world of passion, And even then, the glory of my hope Would not be uttered in its stateliest fashion; Yet, lady, when fit language shall have told it, You'll find one little heart enough to hold it!
XI "Which Are the Clouds, and Which the Mountains? See"
Which are the clouds, and which the mountains? See, They mix and melt together! Yon blue hill Looks fleeting as the vapors which distill Their dews upon its summit, while the free And far-off clouds, now solid, dark, and still, An aspect wear of calm eternity. Each seems the other, as our fancies will -- The cloud a mount, the mount a cloud, and we Gaze doubtfully. So everywhere on earth, This foothold where we stand with slipping feet, The unsubstantial and substantial meet, And we are fooled until made wise by Time. Is not the obvious lesson something worth, Lady? or have I wov'n an idle rhyme?
XII "What Gossamer Lures Thee Now? What Hope, What Name"
What gossamer lures thee now? What hope, what name Is on thy lips? What dreams to fruit have grown? Thou who hast turned ONE Poet-heart to stone, Is thine yet burning with its seraph flame? Let me give back a warning of thine own, That, falling from thee many moons ago, Sank on my soul like the prophetic moan Of some young Sibyl shadowing her own woe. The words are thine, and will not do thee wrong, I only bind their solemn charge to song. Thy tread is on a quicksand -- oh! be wise! Nor, in the passionate eagerness of youth, MISTAKE THY BOSOM-SERPENT'S GLITTERING EYES FOR THE CALM LIGHTS OF REASON AND OF TRUTH.
XIII "I Thank You, Kind and Best Beloved Friend"
I thank you, kind and best belov|"ed friend, With the same thanks one murmurs to a sister,
When, for some gentle favor, he hath kissed her, Less for the gifts than for the love you send, Less for the flowers than what the flowers convey, If I, indeed, divine their meaning truly, And not unto myself ascribe, unduly, Things which you neither meant nor wished to say, Oh! tell me, is the hope then all misplaced? And am I flattered by my own affection? But in your beauteous gift, methought I traced Something above a short-lived predilection, And which, for that I know no dearer name, I designate as love, without love's flame.
XIV "Are These Wild Thoughts, Thus Fettered in My Rhymes"
Are these wild thoughts, thus fettered in my rhymes, Indeed the product of my heart and brain? How strange that on my ear the rhythmic strain Falls like faint memories of far-off times! When did I feel the sorrow, act the part, Which I have striv'n to shadow forth in song? In what dead century swept that mingled throng Of mighty pains and pleasures through my heart? Not in the yesterdays of that still life Which I have passed so free and far from strife, But somewhere in this weary world I know, In some strange land, beneath some orient clime, I saw or
IX "I Know Not Why, But All This Weary Day"
I know not why, but all this weary day, Suggested by no definite grief or pain, Sad fancies have been flitting through my brain; Now it has been a vessel losing way, Rounding a stormy headland; now a gray Dull waste of clouds above a wintry main; And then, a banner, drooping in the rain, And meadows beaten into bloody clay. Strolling at random with this shadowy woe At heart, I chanced to wander hither! Lo! A league of desolate marsh-land, with its lush, Hot grasses in a noisome, tide-left bed, And faint, warm airs, that rustle in the hush, Like whispers round the body of the dead!
X "Were I the Poet-Laureate of the Fairies"
(Written on a very small sheet of note-paper)
Were I the poet-laureate of the fairies, Who in a rose-leaf finds too broad a page; Or could I, like your beautiful canaries, Sing with free heart and happy, in a cage; Perhaps I might within this little space (As in some Eastern tale, by magic power, A giant is imprisoned in a flower) Have told you something with a poet's grace. But I need wider limits, ampler scope, A world of freedom for a world of passion, And even then, the glory of my hope Would not be uttered in its stateliest fashion; Yet, lady, when fit language shall have told it, You'll find one little heart enough to hold it!
XI "Which Are the Clouds, and Which the Mountains? See"
Which are the clouds, and which the mountains? See, They mix and melt together! Yon blue hill Looks fleeting as the vapors which distill Their dews upon its summit, while the free And far-off clouds, now solid, dark, and still, An aspect wear of calm eternity. Each seems the other, as our fancies will -- The cloud a mount, the mount a cloud, and we Gaze doubtfully. So everywhere on earth, This foothold where we stand with slipping feet, The unsubstantial and substantial meet, And we are fooled until made wise by Time. Is not the obvious lesson something worth, Lady? or have I wov'n an idle rhyme?
XII "What Gossamer Lures Thee Now? What Hope, What Name"
What gossamer lures thee now? What hope, what name Is on thy lips? What dreams to fruit have grown? Thou who hast turned ONE Poet-heart to stone, Is thine yet burning with its seraph flame? Let me give back a warning of thine own, That, falling from thee many moons ago, Sank on my soul like the prophetic moan Of some young Sibyl shadowing her own woe. The words are thine, and will not do thee wrong, I only bind their solemn charge to song. Thy tread is on a quicksand -- oh! be wise! Nor, in the passionate eagerness of youth, MISTAKE THY BOSOM-SERPENT'S GLITTERING EYES FOR THE CALM LIGHTS OF REASON AND OF TRUTH.
XIII "I Thank You, Kind and Best Beloved Friend"
I thank you, kind and best belov|"ed friend, With the same thanks one murmurs to a sister,
When, for some gentle favor, he hath kissed her, Less for the gifts than for the love you send, Less for the flowers than what the flowers convey, If I, indeed, divine their meaning truly, And not unto myself ascribe, unduly, Things which you neither meant nor wished to say, Oh! tell me, is the hope then all misplaced? And am I flattered by my own affection? But in your beauteous gift, methought I traced Something above a short-lived predilection, And which, for that I know no dearer name, I designate as love, without love's flame.
XIV "Are These Wild Thoughts, Thus Fettered in My Rhymes"
Are these wild thoughts, thus fettered in my rhymes, Indeed the product of my heart and brain? How strange that on my ear the rhythmic strain Falls like faint memories of far-off times! When did I feel the sorrow, act the part, Which I have striv'n to shadow forth in song? In what dead century swept that mingled throng Of mighty pains and pleasures through my heart? Not in the yesterdays of that still life Which I have passed so free and far from strife, But somewhere in this weary world I know, In some strange land, beneath some orient clime, I saw or