Bryant
I.
THE POET'S BIRTHPLACE
A MID these haunts a poet's boyhood drew
The inspiring breath of Nature and of God;
On his young vision broke divinely true,
While through these very woodland ways he trod,
That View of Death that soothes the spirit so,
That perfect work of life's imperfect age;
In this doth Genius clearly, grandly show
How soon her own may claim their heritage.
Here myriad thought-tones swept his being through,
Which, linked and blended in some after-time
Midst the world's noise, to finished music grew,
Rolling forth chords, now tender, now sublime.
Here the fringed gentian of the poet blows;
Yielding dim odor, yellow violets still
Jewel Spring's naked bosom till it glows,
While yet the air holds fast its wintry chill.
Nature, as grateful for her true son's love,
At his return seems pouring out her joy;
Shows him new blossoms in some leafy cove,
Yet shares with him far memories of the boy;
And here the laurelled poet loves to come,
And finds his soul, despite the years, at home.
II.
THE POET'S DEATH .
Death ever comes too soon to good and great
For the poor world they leave, come when it will;
And he whose strong, symmetric life is still,
Seems dying early, though his year be late.
To time's decay unwonted bounds he set;
Although his age was as the mellow sheaf,
His summer fame had dropped no autumn leaf —
Can this not hush a little our regret?
And just as though His singer's wish were heard
To leave the summer here — not winter gloom,
God gave to June's sweet mouth the blessed Come!
But what an absence through that answered word!
Nor is it strange her beauty should be dim
With unaccustomed outflow of her tears —
With such a poet's love for fourscore years,
What could she do but weep for loss of him!
Yet will she give her brightness to his rest,
Fulfil his asking with her bloom and smile,
And even light the face of Doom awhile
From myriad roses glowing on her breast.
The Present wants him — yet for best relief
Leans on the Past and Future — ah! how dear
To read what he once felt about them here,
And feel his nearness in his sweet belief.
III.
THE BIRTHDAY AFTER DEATH .
N OVEMBER lays our very losses bare
Stripping a shadowy solace with the leaf;
The stark, reft branches sharply cut the air,
Giving a naked poignancy to grief.
Yet, too, this thought with subtle comfort steals —
No secret now between the earth and sky!
All open unto heaven the spirit feels
While gazing there with unobstructed eye.
Twelve months ago within the poet's home
Unfelt the lateness of the life and year;
Around him warm remembrance gave its bloom,
While his fresh thought retained its summer cheer.
In this dead birthday, how revives the last!
Friends, gifts, and greetings — then he welcomed all! —
Thinking how much his utterance in the past
With deepest faith this absence could forestall,
And count those present who had gone to God;
We offer in our heart the old-time word,
Nor lose the answer for the new year's sod;
In clear, sweet verse of his, it still is heard.
THE POET'S BIRTHPLACE
A MID these haunts a poet's boyhood drew
The inspiring breath of Nature and of God;
On his young vision broke divinely true,
While through these very woodland ways he trod,
That View of Death that soothes the spirit so,
That perfect work of life's imperfect age;
In this doth Genius clearly, grandly show
How soon her own may claim their heritage.
Here myriad thought-tones swept his being through,
Which, linked and blended in some after-time
Midst the world's noise, to finished music grew,
Rolling forth chords, now tender, now sublime.
Here the fringed gentian of the poet blows;
Yielding dim odor, yellow violets still
Jewel Spring's naked bosom till it glows,
While yet the air holds fast its wintry chill.
Nature, as grateful for her true son's love,
At his return seems pouring out her joy;
Shows him new blossoms in some leafy cove,
Yet shares with him far memories of the boy;
And here the laurelled poet loves to come,
And finds his soul, despite the years, at home.
II.
THE POET'S DEATH .
Death ever comes too soon to good and great
For the poor world they leave, come when it will;
And he whose strong, symmetric life is still,
Seems dying early, though his year be late.
To time's decay unwonted bounds he set;
Although his age was as the mellow sheaf,
His summer fame had dropped no autumn leaf —
Can this not hush a little our regret?
And just as though His singer's wish were heard
To leave the summer here — not winter gloom,
God gave to June's sweet mouth the blessed Come!
But what an absence through that answered word!
Nor is it strange her beauty should be dim
With unaccustomed outflow of her tears —
With such a poet's love for fourscore years,
What could she do but weep for loss of him!
Yet will she give her brightness to his rest,
Fulfil his asking with her bloom and smile,
And even light the face of Doom awhile
From myriad roses glowing on her breast.
The Present wants him — yet for best relief
Leans on the Past and Future — ah! how dear
To read what he once felt about them here,
And feel his nearness in his sweet belief.
III.
THE BIRTHDAY AFTER DEATH .
N OVEMBER lays our very losses bare
Stripping a shadowy solace with the leaf;
The stark, reft branches sharply cut the air,
Giving a naked poignancy to grief.
Yet, too, this thought with subtle comfort steals —
No secret now between the earth and sky!
All open unto heaven the spirit feels
While gazing there with unobstructed eye.
Twelve months ago within the poet's home
Unfelt the lateness of the life and year;
Around him warm remembrance gave its bloom,
While his fresh thought retained its summer cheer.
In this dead birthday, how revives the last!
Friends, gifts, and greetings — then he welcomed all! —
Thinking how much his utterance in the past
With deepest faith this absence could forestall,
And count those present who had gone to God;
We offer in our heart the old-time word,
Nor lose the answer for the new year's sod;
In clear, sweet verse of his, it still is heard.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.