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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 2. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier) 2 0 Browse Search
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier) 2 0 Browse Search
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The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 2. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), Poems Subjective and Reminiscent (search)
is thoughts have sown In the warm soil of Persian hearts: There sat the stranger, where the shade Of scattered date-trees thinly lay, While in the hot clear heaven delayed The long and still and weary day. Strange trees and fruits above him hung, Strange odors filled the sultry air, Strange birds upon the branches swung, Strange insect voices murmured there. And strange bright blossoms shone around, Turned sunward from the shadowy bowers, As if the Gheber's soul had found A fitting home in Iran's flowers. Whate'er he saw, whate'er he heard, Awakened feelings new and sad,— No Christian garb, nor Christian word, Nor church with Sabbath-bell chimes glad, But Moslem graves, with turban stones, And mosque-spires gleaming white, in view, And graybeard Mollahs in low tones Chanting their Koran service through. The flowers which smiled on either hand, Like tempting fiends, were such as they Which once, o'er all that Eastern land, As gifts on demon altars lay. As if the burning eye of B
The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4. (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier), At sundown (search)
have made some changes, additions, and omissions. on these green banks, where falls too soon The shade of Autumn's afternoon, The south wind blowing soft and sweet, The water gliding at my feet, The distant northern range uplit By the slant sunshine over it, With changes of the mountain mist From tender blush to amethyst, The valley's stretch of shade and gleam Fair as in Mirza's Bagdad dream, With glad young faces smiling near And merry voices in my ear, I sit, methinks, as Hafiz might In Iran's Garden of Delight. For Persian roses blushing red, Aster and gentian bloom instead; For Shiraz wine, this mountain air; For feast, the blueberries which I share With one who proffers with stained hands Her gleanings from yon pasture lands, Wild fruit that art and culture spoil, The harvest of an untilled soil; And with her one whose tender eyes Reflect the change of April skies, Midway 'twixt child and maiden yet, Fresh as Spring's earliest violet; And one whose look and voice and ways Make