Classic Poem

I

'Tis silent! Early morning — the spirit has
Fled from the paths of hidden woe!
The buildings seem empty, though
A life here and there. At times
Many at once in holidays come
Among the shuffled minds;
Strange, an emotion: we fear there are none!

II

A palm of rays from break-o'-day sun,
With a whirl of angel, puff-purple clouds
And the later growth. Their Father's pink, grey,
Tows their sweep across heaven's aspiring width, shows their
Charm, the distant dwelling, as the warm illumination
Sings its classic realm beyond prayer and song.

III

O God! Love! thy pulsation amongst weary souls
Where unknown pain wrinkles its woven solitude!
And the busy buzz of insects and birds about the leafless
Twigs, which have reverent care along the walk
Passing by. A music sense trembles an emotion —
'Tis silent, early morn! The spirit has fled from
The hidden turns as the sky wistfully brightens; a deep
Light-fanning hue spreads o'er a purple cloud of pearls.

IV FANTASIE

The melted ruins of Egyptian cursed its ghostly colors
One afternoon at Ward's Island,
Emancipating, desired freedom. Strange seem the
Paved roads, each camp lettered to stay.
Nurses in their colored garments and linen caps
Move, a crowd of mystery and muse.
The breath of truth is visible, a garden yard of strangeness to each tent,
As the violin of science, blue heaven, singe
Each building in search of health and strength.
Though knowledge of bodily care be unknown, the deserted soul
Of corrupted brains and visions bent.

V

It was a mild hour; the Island's ferryboat arrived —
An anxious throng — many with parcels on their way to various wards,
The superior officials to see and direct their course
To each individual patient.
Love is truly a lost jewel amongst the insane paths.
Oriental thoughts flitter by, and the scenic view
Is of ancient abstract blurring!
Neatly tucked in bed! All visitors are welcome ...

VI

Simply relating brisk atmosphere, a loud whistle.
The boat departed from the Island to Manhattan.
At the broad walk one can see the song of shapeless trees
And cultured lawns around the camps,
The faded brownstone buildings, windows' church-like shape
And spacious, religious structural reality
That arises in one sensational eloquence.
There are parts still uncultivated. Birds chirp
To one another in their monotonous note —
A dream of spiritual necessity and wild fancy that
Hums its way when at the Island's bank in a trance.