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Indian Summer (search for this): chapter 1
e, While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze, And snow-drifts lingered under April skies. As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent, I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged and pent, Which yet find room, Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day And make the sad earth happier for their bloom. 1879. St. Martin's summer. This name in some parts of Europe is given to the season we call Indian Summer, in honor of the good St. Martin. The title of the poem was suggested by the fact that the day it refers to was the exact date of that set apart to the Saint, the 11th of November. though flowers have perished at the touch Of Frost, the early comer, I hail the season loved so much, The good St. Martin's summer. O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn, And thin moon curving o'er it! The old year's darling, latest born, More loved than all before it! How flamed the sunrise through the pin
Green (search for this): chapter 1
, Yon river, in its overflow Of spring-time rain and sun, set free, Crashed with its ices to the sea; And over these gray fields, then green and gold, The summer corn has waved, the thunder's organ rolled. VI. Rich gift of God! A year of time! What pomp of rise and shut of day, What hues wherewith our Northern clime Makes autumn's dropping woodlands gay, What airs outblown from ferny dells, And clover-bloom and sweetbrier smells, What songs of brooks and birds, what fruits and flowers, Green woods .and moonlit snows, have in its round been ours! Vii. I know not how, in other lands, The changing seasons come and go; What splendors fall on Syrian sands, What purple lights on Alpine snow! Nor how the pomp of sunrise waits On Venice at her watery gates; A dream alone to me is Arno's vale, And the Alhambra's halls are but a traveller's tale. Viii. Yet, on life's current, he who drifts Is one with him who rows or sails; And he who wanders widest lifts No more of beauty's jealo
Burns (search for this): chapter 1
nd diamond flowers! The flora of the mystic mine-world Around me lifts on crystal stems The petals of its clustered gems! What miracle of weird transforming In this wild work of frost and light, This glimpse of glory infinite! This foregleam of the Holy City Like that to him of Patmos given, The white bride coming down from heaven! How flash the ranked and mail-clad alders, Through what sharp-glancing spears of reeds The brook its muffled water leads! Yon maple, like the bush of Horeb, Burns unconsumed: a white, cold fire Rays out from every grassy spire. Each slender rush and spike of mullein, Low laurel shrub and drooping fern, Transfigured, blaze where'er I turn. How yonder Ethiopian hemlock Crowned with his glistening circlet stands! What jewels light his swarthy hands! Here, where the forest opens southward, Between its hospitable pines, As through a door, the warm sun shines. The jewels loosen on the branches, And lightly, as the soft winds blow, Fall, tinkling, on the
Hudson (search for this): chapter 1
t than freedom gave. But look! the yellow light no more Streams down on wave and verdant shore; And clearly on the calm air swells The twilight voice of distant bells. From Ocean's bosom, white and thin, The mists come slowly rolling in; Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim, Amidst the sea-like vapor swim, While yonder lonely coast-light, set Within its wave-washed minaret, Half quenched, a beamless star and pale, Shines dimly through its cloudy veil! Home of my fathers—I have stood Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood: Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade Along his frowning Palisade; Looked down the Appalachian peak On Juniata's silver streak; Have seen along his valley gleam The Mohawk's softly winding stream; The level light of sunset shine Through broad Potomac's hem of pine; And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna; Yet wheresoe'er his step might be, Thy wandering child looked back to thee Heard in his dreams thy river's sound Of murmuring on its pebbly
Eagle (search for this): chapter 1
om the Spring hath gone, For whom the flowers no longer blow, Who standest blighted and forlorn, Like Autumn waiting for the snow; No hope is thine of sunnier hours, Thy Winter shall no more depart; No Spring revive thy wasted flowers, Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart. 1849. On receiving an eagle's quill from lake Superior. all day the darkness and the cold Upon my heart have lain, Like shadows on the winter sky, Like frost upon the pane; But now my torpid fancy wakes, And, on thy Eagle's plume, Rides forth, like Sindbad on his bird, Or witch upon her broom! Below me roar the rocking pines, Before me spreads the lake Whose long and solemn-sounding waves Against the sunset break. I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh The grain he has not sown; I see, with flashing scythe of fire, The prairie harvest mown! I hear the far-off voyager's horn; I see the Yankee's trail,— His foot on every mountain-pass, On every stream his sail. By forest, lake, and waterfall, I see his pedler sh
Merrimac (search for this): chapter 1
gather closer the circle round, when that fire— light dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by! 1830. The Merrimac. The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south, which they call Merrimac.—--Sieur de Monts, 1604. stream of my fathers! sweetly still The sunset rays thy valley fill; Poured slantwise down the long defile, Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile. I see the winding Powow fold The green hill in its belt of gold, Aballad Of Odenwald live bird and tree, Together live in bloom and music, I blend in song thy flowers and thee. Earth's rocky tablets bear forever The dint of rain and small bird's track: Who knows but that my idle verses May leave some trace by Merrimac! The bird that trod the mellow layers Of the young earth is sought in vain; The cloud is gone that wove the sandstone, From God's design, with threads of rain! So, when this fluid age we live in Shall stiffen round my careless rhyme, Who made
Frost (search for this): chapter 1
hich yet find room, Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day And make the sad earth happier for their bloom. 1879. St. Martin's summer. This name in some parts of Europe is given to the season we call Indian Summer, in honor of the good St. Martin. The title of the poem was suggested by the fact that the day it refers to was the exact date of that set apart to the Saint, the 11th of November. though flowers have perished at the touch Of Frost, the early comer, I hail the season loved so much, The good St. Martin's summer. O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn, And thin moon curving o'er it! The old year's darling, latest born, More loved than all before it! How flamed the sunrise through the pines How stretched the birchen shadows, Braiding in long, wind-wavered lines The westward sloping meadows! The sweet day, opening as a flower Unfolds its petals tender, Renews for us at noontide's hour The summer's tempered splendor. The
Hellas (search for this): chapter 1
y mist; the rock Is softer than the cloud; The valley holds its breath; no leaf Of all its elms is twirled: The silence of eternity Seems falling on the world. The pause before the breaking seals Of mystery is this; Yon miracle-play of night and day Makes dumb its witnesses. What unseen altar crowns the hills That reach up stair on stair? What eyes look through, what white wings fan These purple veils of air? What Presence from the heavenly heights To those of earth stoops down? Not vainly Hellas dreamed of gods On Ida's snowy crown! Slow fades the vision of the sky, The golden water pales, And over all the valley-land A gray-winged vapor sails. I go the common way of all; The sunset fires will burn, The flowers will blow, the river flow, When I no more return. No whisper from the mountain pine Nor lapsing stream shall tell The stranger, treading where I tread, Of him who loved them well. But beauty seen is never lost, God's colors all are fast; The glory of this sunset heaven Into
Saxon (search for this): chapter 1
and sky, Breaking the dull continuous wood, The Merrimac rolled down his flood; Mingling that clear pellucid brook, Which channels vast Agioochook When spring-time's sun and shower unlock The frozen fountains of the rock, And more abundant waters given From that pure lake, ‘The Smile of Heaven,’ Tributes from vale and mountain-side.— With ocean's dark, eternal tide! On yonder rocky cape, which braves The stormy challenge of the waves, Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood, The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood, Planting upon the topmost crag The staff of England's battle-flag; And, while from out its heavy fold Saint George's crimson cross unrolled, Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare, And weapons brandishing in air, He gave to that lone promontory The sweetest name in all his story; Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters, Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters,— Who, when the chance of war had bound The Moslem chain his limbs around, Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain, Soothed wi
1882 AD (search for this): chapter 1
rm, Chocorua's tall, defiant sentinel Looked from his watch-tower; then the shadow fell, And the wild rain-drift blotted out his form. And over all the still unhidden sun, Weaving its light through slant-blown veils of rain, Smiled on the trouble, as hope smiles on pain; And, when the tumult and the strife were done, With one foot on the lake and one on land, Framing within his crescent's tinted streak A far-off picture of the Melvin peak, Spent broken clouds the rainbow's angel spanned. 1882. A summer Pilgrimage. To kneel before some saintly shrine, To breathe the health of airs divine, Or bathe where sacred rivers flow, The cowled and turbaned pilgrims go. I too, a palmer, take, as they With staff and scallop-shell, my way To feel, from burdening cares and ills, The strong uplifting of the hills. The years are many since, at first, For dreamed — of wonders all athirst, I saw on Winnipesaukee fall The shadow of the mountain wall. Ah! where are they who sailed with me The
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