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December 17th, 1891 AD (search for this): chapter 4
ne, ere womanhood had known The gift of song which fills the air to-day: Tender and sweet, a music all her own May fitly linger where she knelt to pray. Milton. Inscription on the Memorial Window in St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, the gift of George W. Childs, of America. the new world honors him whose lofty plea For England's freedom made her own more sure, Whose song, immortal as its theme, shall be Their common freehold while both worlds endure. The Birthday Wreath. December 17, 1891. blossom and greenness, making all The winter birthday tropical, And the plain Quaker parlors gay, Have gone from bracket, stand, and wall; We saw them fade, and droop, and fall, And laid them tenderly away. White virgin lilies, mignonette, Blown rose, and pink, and violet, A breath of fragrance passing by; Visions of beauty and decay, Colors and shapes that could not stay, The fairest, sweetest, first to die. But still this rustic wreath of mine, Of acorned oak and needled pine, An
At sundown To E. C. S. Poet and friend of poets, if thy glass Detects no flower in winter's tuft of grass, Let this slight token of the debt I owe Outlive for thee December's frozen day, And, like the arbutus budding under snow, Take bloom and fragrance from some morn of May When he who gives it shall have gone the way Where faith shall see and reverent trust shall know. The Christmas of 1888. Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn, The black-lined silhouette of the woods was drawn, And on a wintry waste Of frosted streams and hillsides bare and brown, Through thin cloud-films a pallid ghost looked down, The waning moon half-faced! In that pale sky and sere, snow-waiting earth, What sign was there of the immortal birth? What herald of the One? Lo! swift as thought the heavenly radiance came, A rose-red splendor swept the sky like flame, Up rolled the round, bright sun! And all was changed. From a transfigured world The moon's ghost fled, the smoke of home-heart
August 31st, 1890 AD (search for this): chapter 4
r, No words outworn suffice on lip or scroll: The soul would fain with soul Wait, while these few swift-passing days fulfil The wise-disposing Will, And, in the evening as at morning, trust The All-Merciful and Just. The solemn joy that soul-communion feels Immortal life reveals; And human love, its prophecy and sign, Interprets love divine. Come then, in thought, if that alone may be, O friend! and bring with thee Thy calm assurance of transcendent Spheres And the Eternal Years! August 31, 1890. To Oliver Wendell Holmes. 8th Mo. 29th, 1892. This, the last of Mr. Whittier's poems, was written but a few weeks before his death. among the thousands who with hail and cheer Will welcome thy new year, How few of all have passed, as thou and I, So many milestones by! We have grown old together; we have seen, Our youth and age between, Two generations leave us, and to-day We with the third hold way, Loving and loved. If thought must backward run To those who, one by one, I
July 2nd, 1890 AD (search for this): chapter 4
r! James Russell Lowell. from purest wells of English undefiled None deeper drank than he, the New World's child, Who in the language of their farm-fields spoke The wit and wisdom of New England folk, Shaming a monstrous wrong. The world-wide laugh Provoked thereby might well have shaken half The walls of Slavery down, ere yet the ball And mine of battle overthrew them all. Haverhill. 1640-1890. Read at the Celebration of the Two Hundred and Fiftieth Anniversary of the City, July 2, 1890. O River winding to the sea! We call the old time back to thee; From forest paths and water-ways The century-woven veil we raise. The voices of to-day are dumb, Unheard its sounds that go and come; We listen, through long-lapsing years, To footsteps of the pioneers. Gone steepled town and cultured plain, The wilderness returns again, The drear, untrodden solitude, The gloom and mystery of the wood! Once more the bear and panther prowl, The wolf repeats his hungry howl, And, peering th
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