Volume Iii Part 8 (1/2)
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn: Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night work, The frolic architecture of the snow.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
THE AWAKENING OF SPRING.
Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now bourgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drowned in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song.
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea;
Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives
From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
_From ”In Memoriam.”_
[Ill.u.s.tration]
HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD.
Oh, to be in England now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm tree hole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now!
And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!
And, though the fields look rough with h.o.a.ry dew All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The b.u.t.tercups, the little children's dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon flower!
ROBERT BROWNING.
TWILIGHT CALM.
O Pleasant eventide!
Clouds on the western side Grow gray and grayer, hiding the warm sun: The bees and birds, their happy labors done, Seek their close nests and bide.
Screened in the leafy wood The stockdoves sit and brood: The very squirrel leaps from bough to bough But lazily; pauses; and settles now Where once he stored his food.