Public-domain ebook
Stray Pebbles from the Shores of Thought
Language: en417 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Poetry
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #44973.
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POEMS OF NATURE.
TO WALT WHITMAN.
"I loafe and invite my soul." And what do I feel? An influx of life from the great central power That generates beauty from seedling to flower.
"I loafe and invite my soul." And what do I hear? Original harmonies piercing the din Of measureless tragedy, sorrow, and sin.
"I loafe and invite my soul." And what do I see? The temple of God in the perfected man Revealing the wisdom and end of earth's plan.
August, 1891.
TO SUMMER HOURS.
DAY.
Trip lightly, joyous hours, While Day her heart reveals. Such wealth from secret bowers King Time himself ne'er steals. O joy, King Time ne'er steals!
NIGHT.
Breathe gently, tireless hours, While Night in beauty sleeps. Hold back e'en softest showers,-- Enough that mortal weeps. Ah me, that my heart weeps!
A TRUE VACATION.
IN A HAMMOCK.
"Cradled thus and wind caressed," Under the trees, (Oh what ease.) Nature full of joyous greeting; Dancing, singing, naught secreting, Ever glorious thoughts repeating-- Pause, O Time, I'm satisfied! Now all life Is glorified!
Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass.
A QUESTION.
Is life a farce? Tell me, O breeze, Bearing the perfume of flowers and trees, While gaily decked birds Pour forth their gladness in songs beyond words, And cloudlets coquette in the fresh summer air Rejoicing in everything being so fair-- Is life a farce?
How can it be, child, When Nature at heart Is but the great spirit of love and of art Eternally saying, "I must God impart."
Is life a farce? Tell me, O soul, Struggling to act out humanity's whole 'Midst Error and Wrong, And failure in sight of true victory's song; With Wisdom and Virtue at times lost to view, And love for the many lost in love for the few-- Is life a farce?
How can it be, child, When humanity's heart Is but the great spirit of love and of art Eternally crying, "I must God impart."
TO A BUTTERFLY.
O butterfly, now prancing Through the air, So glad to share The freedom of new living, Come, tell me my heart's seeking. Shall I too know After earth's throe Full freedom of my being? Shall I, as you, Through law as true, Know life of fuller meaning?
O happy creature, dancing, Is time too short With pleasure fraught For you to heed my seeking?
Ah, well, you've left me thinking: If here on earth A second birth Can so transform a being, Why may not I In worlds on high Be changed beyond earth's dreaming?
IN A HAMMOCK.
The rustling leaves above me, The breezes sighing round me, A network glimpse of bluest sky To meet the upturned seeing eye, The greenest lawn beneath me, Loved flowers and birds to greet me, A well-kept house of ancient days To tell of human nature's ways,-- Oh happy, happy hour!
Whence comes all this to bless me, The soft wind to caress me, The life which does my strength renew For purer visions of the true? Alas! no one can tell me. But, hush! let Nature lead me. Let even wisest questions cease While I breathe in such life and peace This happy, happy hour.
Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass.
O RARE, SWEET SUMMER DAY.
"The day is placid in its going, To a lingering motion bound, Like a river in its flowing-- Can there be a softer sound?"
--_Wordsworth._
O rare, sweet summer day, Could'st thou not longer stay? The soothing, whispering wind's caress Was bliss to weary brain, The songs of birds had power to bless As in fair childhood's reign.
The tinted clouds were free from showers, The sky was wondrous clear, The precious incense of rare flowers Made sweet the atmosphere; The shimmering haze of mid-day hour Was balm to restlessness, While thought of silent hidden power Was strength for helplessness-- O rare, sweet summer day, Could'st thou not longer stay?
Porter Manse.
AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE.
Blow breezes, fresh breezes, on Love's swiftest wing, And bear her the message my heart dares to sing. Pause not on the highways where gathers earth's dust, Nor in the fair heavens, though cloudlets say must. But blow through the valleys where flowers await To give of their essence ere yielding to fate; Or blow on the hill tops where atmospheres lie Imbued with the health which no money can buy. But fail not, O breezes, on Love's swiftest wing To bear her the message my heart dares to sing.
The breezes, thus ladened, sped on in their flight, As, cradled in hammock, I sang in delight, On that blest summer day in the years long ago, When life was all sunshine and youth all aglow. The sweets of the valleys, the breath of the hills Were gathered--the best that our loved earth distills-- As, obedient still to my wish, on they flew To the home of my darling they now so well knew.
Alas for the breezes, alas for my heart, Alas for my message, so full of love's art! If only the breezes had followed their will, And loitered among the pure cloudlets so still, They'd have met a fair soul from the earth just set free In search of their help for its message to me; The message my darling, with last fleeting breath, In vain tried to utter, o'ertaken by death.
The breezes, fresh breezes, have blown on since then, With messages laden again and again. As for me, I send none. I wait only their will To bring me that message my lone heart to fill. They'll find it some day in a light zephyr chase, For nothing is lost in pure love's boundless space.
ON JEFFERSON HILL.
(BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL RANGE.)
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