The Complete Poetical Works of James Russell Lowell | Page 7

not sad; 20
It hath tones of clearest gladness,
Yet it is not glad;
A dim, sweet twilight voice it is
Where to-day's
accustomed blue
Is over-grayed with memories,
With starry
feelings quivered through.
Thy voice is like a fountain
Leaping up in sunshine bright,
And I
never weary counting
Its clear droppings, lone and single, 30
Or
when in one full gush they mingle,
Shooting in melodious light.

Thine is music such as yields
Feelings of old brooks and fields,

And, around this pent-up room,
Sheds a woodland, free perfume;

Oh, thus forever sing to me!
Oh, thus forever!
The green, bright grass of childhood bring to me, 39

Flowing like an emerald river,
And the bright blue skies above!

Oh, sing them back, as fresh as ever,
Into the bosom of my love,--

The sunshine and the merriment,
The unsought, evergreen content,

Of that never cold time,
The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went

Through and through the old time!
Peace sits within thine eyes,

With white hands crossed in joyful rest, 50
While, through thy lips
and face, arise
The melodies from out thy breast;
She sits and sings,
With folded wings
And white arms crost,

'Weep not for bygone things,
They are not lost:
The beauty which the summer time
O'er thine
opening spirit shed,
The forest oracles sublime 60
That filled thy
soul with joyous dread,
The scent of every smallest flower
That
made thy heart sweet for an hour,
Yea, every holy influence,

Flowing to thee, thou knewest not whence,
In thine eyes to-day is
seen,
Fresh as it hath ever been;
Promptings of Nature, beckonings
sweet,
Whatever led thy childish feet,
Still will linger unawares 70

The guiders of thy silver hairs;
Every look and every word

Which thou givest forth to-day,
Tell of the singing of the bird

Whose music stilled thy boyish play.'
Thy voice is like a fountain,
Twinkling up in sharp starlight,
When
the moon behind the mountain
Dims the low East with faintest white,
Ever darkling, 80
Ever sparkling,
We know not if 'tis dark or bright;

But, when the great moon hath rolled round,
And, sudden-slow, its
solemn power
Grows from behind its black, clear-edgèd bound,
No
spot of dark the fountain keepeth,
But, swift as opening eyelids,

leapeth
Into a waving silver flower.
THE MOON
My soul was like the sea.
Before the moon was made,
Moaning in
vague immensity,
Of its own strength afraid,
Unresful and unstaid.

Through every rift it foamed in vain,
About its earthly prison,

Seeking some unknown thing in pain,
And sinking restless back again,

For yet no moon had risen:
Its only voice a vast dumb moan,
Of
utterless anguish speaking,
It lay unhopefully alone,
And lived but
in an aimless seeking.
So was my soul; but when 'twas full
Of unrest to o'erloading,
A
voice of something beautiful
Whispered a dim foreboding,
And yet
so soft, so sweet, so low,
It had not more of joy than woe;
And, as the sea doth oft lie still,
Making its waters meet,
As if by an
unconscious will,
For the moon's silver feet,
So lay my soul within
mine eyes
When thou, its guardian moon, didst rise.
And now, howe'er its waves above
May toss and seem uneaseful,

One strong, eternal law of Love,
With guidance sure and peaceful,

As calm and natural as breath,
Moves its great deeps through life and
death.
REMEMBERED MUSIC
A FRAGMENT
Thick-rushing, like an ocean vast
Of bisons the far prairie shaking,

The notes crowd heavily and fast
As surfs, one plunging while the
last
Draws seaward from its foamy breaking.
Or in low murmurs they began,
Rising and rising momently,
As o'er
a harp Æolian
A fitful breeze, until they ran
Up to a sudden ecstasy.

And then, like minute-drops of rain
Ringing in water silvery,
They
lingering dropped and dropped again,
Till it was almost like a pain

To listen when the next would be.
SONG
TO M.L.
A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,
A lily-bud not opened quite,

That hourly grew more pure and white,
By morning, and noontide,
and evening nursed:
In all of nature thou hadst thy share;
Thou wast
waited on
By the wind and sun;
The rain and the dew for thee took
care;
It seemed thou never couldst be more fair.
A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,
A lily-bud; but oh, how
strange,
How full of wonder was the change,
When, ripe with all
sweetness, thy full bloom burst!
How did the tears to my glad eyes
start,
When the woman-flower
Reached its blossoming hour,
And
I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart!
Glad death may pluck thee, but never before
The gold dust of thy
bloom divine
Hath dropped from thy heart into mine,
To quicken its
faint germs of heavenly lore;
For no breeze comes nigh thee but
carries away
Some impulses bright
Of fragrance and light,
Which fall upon souls
that are lone and astray,
To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day.
ALLEGRA
I would more natures were like thine,
That never casts a glance
before,
Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine
So lavishly to all
dost pour,
That we who drink forget to pine,
And can but dream of
bliss in store.
Thou canst not see a shade in life;
With sunward instinct thou dost

rise,
And, leaving clouds below at strife,
Gazest undazzled at the
skies,
With all their blazing splendors rife,
A songful lark with
eagle's eyes.
Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours
Nursed, laughing,