Classic Poem

Night deepen'd round me on those upland slopes;
The phosphor dome of heaven diffused its green
And failing glow; yet all the ghostly hills
Loom'd through the dusk distinctly. On the loose
And yielding soil of some fresh-furrow'd field,
Uncertain, lost, I fared, then, stricken, paused;
For, lo, the dread arc of a flaming disc
Rose o'er the hill, as if an angry eye
Unfolded, loom'd—unradiating, red—
And with an awful aspect seem'd to watch
My doubting steps!
Unwittingly—I thought—
Here have I stepp'd perchance on ghostly ground,
And now some presence of the phantom scene
Comes with accusing front. My steps intrude
One moment more to see that face unveil'd,
Then will I fly!
Advancing there, I met
The lifting moon, who raised her weeds of mist
And sweetly turn'd a bright, benignant brow
To greet me.
Poet, whether peace or storm
Prevail, is Nature ever fair to thee;
And, Man, in her abyss of very dread,
Bares thee a midmost heart of pure goodwill!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The setting sun, an orb of lurid fire
Enring'd with golden mist, stood clear below
A sea-born cloud, with loose serrated fringe
And purple folds, involving heaven in gloom,
While on the earth the patter of the rain
Fell audibly. A sudden rainbow spann'd
Both sea and sky, then as in dream dissolved,
While slowly round, to join the train of night,
With twilight mixing, moved that sombre cloud
And pass'd at length left bare the heaven o'erhead—
A lucid lilac soon with stars besprent.
Once more there rose a huge and angry form,
Like that which first came up out of the sea;
With front appalling, ask'd, it seem'd, of earth
Some vanish'd brother; but the world was mute,
Whereat the rended inmost heart sent forth
Its shaft of lightning; scream'd a riven oak;
Then, shorn of strength, the vapour-pile dissolved
In gentle tears, and, merged with evening dews,
Call'd forth new lives to compensate for life
Destroy'd.
So ever out of wrath and wreck
The living spirit which abides in all
Still reconstructs the plastic house of life:
There is no loss, no waste, rejection none.
Pass to the height, O Soul, pass to the height!
But in the dregs and depth of very death
The very life shall find and work in thee.
. . . . . . . . .

Night on the waters of the deep! Those loud
And sullen voices, with the rising wind
Combining, made a roar of sound—confused
And far prolong'd. The zenith of the sky
Was clear and blue; but hazy vapour dwelt
Along the soft horizon; and above
The ocean eastward rose fantastic heaps
Of livid haze. Mine eyes were fixed thereon,
When in the midmost heart began to glow
A ruddy point of light. The sinking moon,
September's crescent moon, her golden horn
Protruded, brightening. On a wall I lean'd;
Its base was in a terrace built above
The loud, besieging sea. With reverend gaze
I watch'd the pregnant struggle in the sky
Of moon descending and of mist which strove
To quench that slanting gift of light, to earth
So welcome, and those eager, moaning waves.
O ever and anon the golden arm,
Again thrust upward, for the queen of stars
Made passage, who emerged at times to fair
But hasty view! And so, with varying chance,
This war endured, until the wearied orb
Defeated ceased to tinge her sullen foe.
The shallow water shimmer'd in the light
Of harbour lamps, and evermore the main,
From out the depth and vastness of the dark,
Brought voices wild which stirr'd within the soul
All heights, all depths; which spoke and speaketh still—
One message to the future as the past,
Prolong'd from age to age; and there are none
On earth to understand it.
Nay, man's heart
Interprets all the voices of the main,
The low, light whisper under skies serene,
The swell at middle night beneath the stars,
And all the dread and strident trumpet-roar
Of the storm-stricken water's waste distress;
For there is nowhere any voice or sound
Which does not offer in the midst thereof
The hidden secret of a hope ungain'd,
But very sure. The moon shall shine once more,
All clouds shall melt, the light shall fill the world,
The summer glow lead on to rosy dawn
And rosy dawn to perfect noon of bliss;
While this most bright procession of the world
But dimly limns, O soul, thine own romance!
Not only we to reach our end in God
Are moving on, but the divine great ends
Make flight towards us on eager wings of time,
And somewhere surely in the wonder-gleam
Life and that crown of life shall meet and join.