Volume Iii Part 1 (2/2)

O fair, familiar features, changes sweet Of her revolving seasons, storm and sleet And golden calm, as slow she wheels through s.p.a.ce, From snow to roses,--and how dear her face, When the gra.s.s brightens, when the days grow long, And little birds break out in rippling song!

O happy earth! O home so well beloved!

What recompense have we, from thee removed?

One hope we have that overtops the whole,-- The hope of finding every vanished soul, We love and long for daily, and for this Gladly we turn from thee, and all thy bliss, Even at thy loveliest, when the days are long, And little birds break out in rippling song.

Celia Thaxter [1835-1894]

THE LAST HOUR

O joys of love and joys of fame, It is not you I shall regret; I sadden lest I should forget The beauty woven in earth's name:

The shout and battle of the gale, The stillness of the sun-rising, The sound of some deep hidden spring, The glad sob of the filling sail,

The first green ripple of the wheat, The rain-song of the lifted leaves, The waking birds beneath the eaves, The voices of the summer heat.

Ethel Clifford [18--

NATURE

O Nature! I do not aspire To be the highest in thy choir,-- To be a meteor in thy sky, Or comet that may range on high; Only a zephyr that may blow Among the reeds by the river low; Give me thy most privy place Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead Let me sigh upon a reed, Or in the woods, with leafy din, Whisper the still evening in: Some still work give me to do,-- Only--be it near to you!

For I'd rather be thy child And pupil, in the forest wild, Than be the king of men elsewhere, And most sovereign slave of care; To have one moment of thy dawn, Than share the city's year forlorn.

Henry David Th.o.r.eau [1817-1862]

SONG OF NATURE

Mine are the night and morning, The pits of air, the gull of s.p.a.ce, The sportive sun, the gibbous moon, The innumerable days.

I hide in the solar glory, I am dumb in the pealing song, I rest on the pitch of the torrent, In slumber I am strong.

No numbers have counted my tallies, No tribes my house can fill, I sit by the s.h.i.+ning Fount of Life And pour the deluge still;

And ever by delicate powers Gathering along the centuries From race on race the rarest flowers, My wreath shall nothing miss.

And many a thousand summers My gardens ripened well, And light from meliorating stars With firmer glory fell.

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