The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell | Page 5

find the
number was uneven.
And thou must count its petals well,
Because it is a gift from me;

And the last one of all shall tell
Something I've often told to thee.
But here at home, where we were born,
Thou wilt find blossoms just
as true,
Down-bending every summer morn,
With freshness of New
England dew.
For Nature, ever kind to love,
Hath granted them the same sweet
tongue,
Whether with German skies above,
Or here our granite
rocks among.
THE BEGGAR
A beggar through the world am I,
From place to place I wander by.

Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me,
For Christ's sweet sake and charity!
A little of thy steadfastness,
Bounded with leafy gracefulness,
Old
oak, give me,
That the world's blasts may round me blow,
And I
yield gently to and fro,
While my stout-hearted trunk below
And
firm-set roots unshaken be.
Some of thy stern, unyielding might,
Enduring still through day and
night
Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,
That I may keep at
bay
The changeful April sky of chance
And the strong tide of

circumstance,--
Give me, old granite gray.
Some of thy pensiveness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,

Put in this scrip of mine,
That griefs may fall like snowflakes light,

And deck me in a robe of white,
Ready to be an angel bright,
O
sweetly mournful pine.
A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me,
my cheerful brook,
That I may still be full of glee
And
gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me

In some neglected nook.
Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;

Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good-by, kind friends,
every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;
Of all good things I would
have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey's
scarce begun.
Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!

Some of thy modesty,
That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if
before the world thou'dst been,
Oh, give, to strengthen me.
MY LOVE
Not as all other women are
Is she that to my soul is dear;
Her
glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening-star,

And yet her heart is ever near.
Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never
know;
God giveth them to her alone,
And sweet they are as any
tone
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.
Yet in herself she dwelleth not.
Although no home were half so fair;

No simplest duty is forgot,
Life hath no dim and lowly spot
That
doth not in her sunshine share.

She doeth little kindnesses,
Which most leave undone, or despise:

For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,

Is low-esteemèd in her eyes.
She hath no scorn of common things,
And, though she seem of other
birth,
Round us her heart intwines and clings,
And patiently she
folds her wings
To tread the humble paths of earth.
Blessing she is: God made her so,
And deeds of week-day holiness

Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
Nor hath she ever chanced to
know
That aught were easier than to bless.
She is most fair, and thereunto
Her life doth rightly harmonize;

Feeling or thought that was not true
Ne'er made less beautiful the
blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.
She is a woman: one in whom
The spring-time of her childish years

Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
Though knowing well that life
hath room
For many blights and many tears.
I love her with a love as still
As a broad river's peaceful might,

Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Seems following its own
wayward will,
And yet doth ever flow aright.
And, on its full, deep breast serene,
Like quiet isles my duties lie;
It
flows around them and between,
And makes them fresh and fair and
green,
Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
SUMMER STORM
Untremulous in the river clear,
Toward the sky's image, hangs the
imaged bridge;
So still the air that I can hear
The slender clarion of the unseen midge;

Out of the stillness, with a gathering creep,
Like rising wind in

leaves, which now decreases,
Now lulls, now swells, and all the while
increases,
The huddling trample of a drove of sheep
Tilts the loose
planks, and then as gradually ceases
In dust on the other side; life's
emblem deep, 10 A confused noise between two silences,
Finding at
last in dust precarious peace.
On the wide marsh the
purple-blossomed grasses
Soak up the sunshine; sleeps the brimming
tide,
Save when the wedge-shaped wake in silence passes
Of some
slow water-rat, whose sinuous glide
Wavers the sedge's emerald
shade from side to side;
But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge,
Climbs a great cloud
edged with sun-whitened spray;
Huge whirls of foam boil toppling
o'er its verge, 20 And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway.
Suddenly all the sky is hid
As with the shutting of a lid,
One by one
great drops are falling
Doubtful and slow,
Down the pane they are crookedly crawling,

And the wind breathes low;
Slowly the circles widen on the river,

Widen and mingle, one and all;
Here and there the slenderer flowers
shiver, 30 Struck by an icy rain-drop's