The Sisters' Tragedy [6]
had their day: Fame blossoms where true seed is sown, Or soon or late, let Time wrong what it may.
II
Unvext by any dream of fame, You smiled, and bade the world pass by: But I--I turned, and saw a name Shaping itself against the sky-- White star that rose amid the battle's flame!
III
Brief be your sleep, for I would see Your laurels--ah, how trivial now To him must earthly laurel be Who wears the amaranth on his brow! How vain the voices of mortality!
SESTET
SENT TO A FRIEND WITH A VOLUME OF TENNYSON
Wouldst know the clash of knightly steel on steel? Or list the throstle singing loud and clear? Or walk at twilight by some haunted mere In Surrey; or in throbbing London feel Life's pulse at highest--hark, the minster's peal! . . . Turn but the page, that various world is here!
A TOUCH OF NATURE
When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould, And folded green things in dim woods unclose Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes Into my veins and makes me kith and kin To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows. Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire, Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din, Far from the brambly paths I used to know, Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine Where the Neponset alders take their glow, I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar And inarticulate ardors of the vine.
MEMORY
My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour-- 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May-- The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
"I'LL NOT CONFER WITH SORROW"
I'll not confer with Sorrow Till to-morrow; But Joy shall have her way This very day.
Ho, eglantine and cresses For her tresses!-- Let Care, the beggar, wait Outside the gate.
Tears if you will--but after Mirth and laughter; Then, folded hands on breast And endless rest.
A DEDICATION
Take these rhymes into thy grace, Since they are of thy begetting, Lady, that dost make each place Where thou art a jewel's setting.
Some such glamour lend this Book: Let it be thy poet's wages That henceforth thy gracious look Lies reflected on its pages.
NO SONGS IN WINTER
The sky is gray as gray may be, There is no bird upon the bough, There is no leaf on vine or tree.
In the Neponset marshes now Willow-stems, rosy in the wind, Shiver with hidden sense of snow.
So too 'tis winter in my mind, No light-winged fancy comes and stays: A season churlish and unkind.
Slow creep the hours, slow creep the days, The black ink crusts upon the pen-- Just wait till bluebirds, wrens, and jays And golden orioles come again!
"LIKE CRUSOE, WALKING BY THE LONELY STRAND"
Like Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand And seeing a human footprint on the sand, Have I this day been startled, finding here, Set in brown mould and delicately clear, Spring's footprint--the first crocus of the year! O sweet invasion! Farewell solitude! Soon shall wild creatures of the field and wood Flock from all sides with much ado and stir, And make of me most willing prisoner!
THE LETTER
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887
I held his letter in my hand, And even while I read The lightning flashed across the land The word that he was dead.
How strange it seemed! His living voice Was speaking from the page Those courteous phrases, tersely choice, Light-hearted, witty, sage.
I wondered what it was that died! The man himself was here, His modesty, his scholar's pride, His soul serene and clear.
These neither death nor time shall dim, Still this sad thing must be-- Henceforth I may not speak to him, Though he can speak to me!
SARGENT'S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT "THE PLAYERS"
That face which no man ever saw And from his memory
II
Unvext by any dream of fame, You smiled, and bade the world pass by: But I--I turned, and saw a name Shaping itself against the sky-- White star that rose amid the battle's flame!
III
Brief be your sleep, for I would see Your laurels--ah, how trivial now To him must earthly laurel be Who wears the amaranth on his brow! How vain the voices of mortality!
SESTET
SENT TO A FRIEND WITH A VOLUME OF TENNYSON
Wouldst know the clash of knightly steel on steel? Or list the throstle singing loud and clear? Or walk at twilight by some haunted mere In Surrey; or in throbbing London feel Life's pulse at highest--hark, the minster's peal! . . . Turn but the page, that various world is here!
A TOUCH OF NATURE
When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould, And folded green things in dim woods unclose Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes Into my veins and makes me kith and kin To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows. Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire, Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din, Far from the brambly paths I used to know, Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine Where the Neponset alders take their glow, I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar And inarticulate ardors of the vine.
MEMORY
My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour-- 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May-- The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
"I'LL NOT CONFER WITH SORROW"
I'll not confer with Sorrow Till to-morrow; But Joy shall have her way This very day.
Ho, eglantine and cresses For her tresses!-- Let Care, the beggar, wait Outside the gate.
Tears if you will--but after Mirth and laughter; Then, folded hands on breast And endless rest.
A DEDICATION
Take these rhymes into thy grace, Since they are of thy begetting, Lady, that dost make each place Where thou art a jewel's setting.
Some such glamour lend this Book: Let it be thy poet's wages That henceforth thy gracious look Lies reflected on its pages.
NO SONGS IN WINTER
The sky is gray as gray may be, There is no bird upon the bough, There is no leaf on vine or tree.
In the Neponset marshes now Willow-stems, rosy in the wind, Shiver with hidden sense of snow.
So too 'tis winter in my mind, No light-winged fancy comes and stays: A season churlish and unkind.
Slow creep the hours, slow creep the days, The black ink crusts upon the pen-- Just wait till bluebirds, wrens, and jays And golden orioles come again!
"LIKE CRUSOE, WALKING BY THE LONELY STRAND"
Like Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand And seeing a human footprint on the sand, Have I this day been startled, finding here, Set in brown mould and delicately clear, Spring's footprint--the first crocus of the year! O sweet invasion! Farewell solitude! Soon shall wild creatures of the field and wood Flock from all sides with much ado and stir, And make of me most willing prisoner!
THE LETTER
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887
I held his letter in my hand, And even while I read The lightning flashed across the land The word that he was dead.
How strange it seemed! His living voice Was speaking from the page Those courteous phrases, tersely choice, Light-hearted, witty, sage.
I wondered what it was that died! The man himself was here, His modesty, his scholar's pride, His soul serene and clear.
These neither death nor time shall dim, Still this sad thing must be-- Henceforth I may not speak to him, Though he can speak to me!
SARGENT'S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT "THE PLAYERS"
That face which no man ever saw And from his memory