May-Day | Page 3

Ralph Waldo Emerson
urchin to be tost.?In flint and marble beats a heart,?The kind Earth takes her children's part,?The green lane is the school-boy's friend,?Low leaves his quarrel apprehend,?The fresh ground loves his top and ball,?The air rings jocund to his call,?The brimming brook invites a leap,?He dives the hollow, climbs the steep.?The youth reads omens where he goes,?And speaks all languages the rose.?The wood-fly mocks with tiny noise?The far halloo of human voice;?The perfumed berry on the spray?Smacks of faint memories far away.?A subtle chain of countless rings?The next unto the farthest brings,?And, striving to be man, the worm?Mounts through all the spires of form.
I saw the bud-crowned Spring go forth,?Stepping daily onward north?To greet staid ancient cavaliers?Filing single in stately train.?And who, and who are the travellers??They were Night and Day, and Day and Night,?Pilgrims wight with step forthright.?I saw the Days deformed and low,?Short and bent by cold and snow;?The merry Spring threw wreaths on them,?Flower-wreaths gay with bud and bell;?Many a flower and many a gem,?They were refreshed by the smell,?They shook the snow from hats and shoon,?They put their April raiment on;?And those eternal forms,?Unhurt by a thousand storms,?Shot up to the height of the sky again,?And danced as merrily as young men.?I saw them mask their awful glance?Sidewise meek in gossamer lids;?And to speak my thought if none forbids.?It was as if the eternal gods,?Tired of their starry periods,?Hid their majesty in cloth?Woven of tulips and painted moth.?On carpets green the maskers march?Below May's well-appointed arch,?Each star, each god, each grace amain,?Every joy and virtue speed,?Marching duly in her train,?And fainting Nature at her need?Is made whole again.
'T was the vintage-day of field and wood,?When magic wine for bards is brewed;?Every tree and stem and chink?Gushed with syrup to the brink.?The air stole into the streets of towns,?And betrayed the fund of joy?To the high-school and medalled boy:?On from hall to chamber ran,?From youth to maid, from boy to man,?To babes, and to old eyes as well.?'Once more,' the old man cried, 'ye clouds,?Airy turrets purple-piled,?Which once my infancy beguiled,?Beguile me with the wonted spell.?I know ye skilful to convoy?The total freight of hope and joy?Into rude and homely nooks,?Shed mocking lustres on shelf of books,?On farmer's byre, on meadow-pipes,?Or on a pool of dancing chips.?I care not if the pomps you show?Be what they soothfast appear,?Or if yon realms in sunset glow?Be bubbles of the atmosphere.?And if it be to you allowed?To fool me with a shining cloud,?So only new griefs are consoled?By new delights, as old by old,?Frankly I will be your guest,?Count your change and cheer the best.?The world hath overmuch of pain,--?If Nature give me joy again,?Of such deceit I'll not complain.'
Ah! well I mind the calendar,?Faithful through a thousand years,?Of the painted race of flowers,?Exact to days, exact to hours,?Counted on the spacious dial?Yon broidered zodiac girds.?I know the pretty almanac?Of the punctual coming-back,?On their due days, of the birds.?I marked them yestermorn,?A flock of finches darting?Beneath the crystal arch,?Piping, as they flew, a march,--?Belike the one they used in parting?Last year from yon oak or larch;?Dusky sparrows in a crowd,?Diving, darting northward free,?Suddenly betook them all,?Every one to his hole in the wall,?Or to his niche in the apple-tree.?I greet with joy the choral trains?Fresh from palms and Cuba's canes.?Best gems of Nature's cabinet,?With dews of tropic morning wet,?Beloved of children, bards, and Spring,?O birds, your perfect virtues bring,?Your song, your forms, your rhythmic flight,?Your manners for the heart's delight,?Nestle in hedge, or barn, or roof,?Here weave your chamber weather-proof,?Forgive our harms, and condescend?To man, as to a lubber friend,?And, generous, teach his awkward race?Courage, and probity, and grace!
Poets praise that hidden wine?Hid in milk we drew?At the barrier of Time,?When our life was new.?We had eaten fairy fruit,?We were quick from head to foot,?All the forms we look on shone?As with diamond dews thereon.?What cared we for costly joys,?The Museum's far-fetched toys??Gleam of sunshine on the wall?Poured a deeper cheer than all?The revels of the Carnival.?We a pine-grove did prefer?To a marble theatre,?Could with gods on mallows dine,?Nor cared for spices or for wine.?Wreaths of mist and rainbow spanned,?Arch on arch, the grimmest land;?Whistle of a woodland bird?Made the pulses dance,?Note of horn in valleys heard?Filled the region with romance.
None can tell how sweet,?How virtuous, the morning air;?Every accent vibrates well;?Not alone the wood-bird's call,?Or shouting boys that chase their ball,?Pass the height of minstrel skill,?But the ploughman's thoughtless cry,?Lowing oxen, sheep that bleat,?And the joiner's hammer-beat,?Softened are above their will.?All grating discords melt,?No dissonant note is dealt,?And though thy voice be shrill?Like rasping file on steel,?Such is the temper of the air,?Echo waits with art and care,?And will the faults of song repair.
So by remote Superior Lake,?And by resounding Mackinac,?When northern storms and forests shake,?And billows on the long
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