mm B O I T E, E> LIBRARY __^; THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA PRESENTED BY Dame Judith Anderson UCSB LIBRARY X - THE POETRY OF NATURE The Poems by Emerson, Lowell, Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, and Celia Thaxter are used by arrangement with. Houghton, Mifflin and Company, the authorised publishers of the works of those authors THE ' " .- POETRY OF NATURE SELECTED BY HENRY VAN DYKE FOR ' COUNTRY LIFE IN AMERICA ILLUSTRATED DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY NEW YORK MCMIX Printtd in England PREFACE THE sixty Nature poems which I have chosen are full of various music. They utter the changing thoughts and feelings which are awakened in the heart of man by the procession of the seasons, the alternations of day and night, the balancing of the clouds and the journeying of the winds, the vision of the sea and the stars, the silent blossoming and fading of the flowers, the fleeting masonry of the snow, the flight and the return of our little brothers of the air. In all this wondrous pageant that passes before us we dimly perceive a meaning that corresponds to something within us. There are moments when this meaning seems to come nearer, to flash itself out more clearly, almost to lift the veil of beautiful form under which it moves. These clearer glimpses are the inspiration of the true poems of Nature. It is as if the great Mother herself were waking to consciousness in her human children, and speaking through their lips a part at least of that eternal thought and feeling which is transiently embodied in her visible forms. Do not the best of these poems always bring to us, as we read them, at once a sense of familiarity and a sense of surprise ? They tell us something that belongs PREFACE to us ; their message comes from a world of which we ourselves are part ; and it seems as if we must have always known it. But the telling of it so clearly is a sudden gleam of light falling into a place dim with shadows, and the newness of the vision fills us with an exquisite pleasure. Some of the verses are but little lyrics, brief and delicate wafts of song, like Herrick's " Daffodils " ; others are deeper and stronger, moving with a long- drawn, solemn music of thought, like Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey," or sweeping us away with tempest- tones, like Shelley's " West Wind." But two things I have sought and found in all of them, simple or profound. They are true to the facts of Nature, faithful in observation of her works and ways ; not daring to report falsely or foolishly of birds and flowers, of trees and rivers, but seeing with a lover's eyes, and painting with a lover's hand, loyal to the form as well as to the spirit. They are also clear and lucid in their utterance of the idea or emotion which is their life ; not shapeless and incoherent, darkening the face of Nature by words without knowledge ; but illuminating it with the light that comes from a spirit that can both think and feel. There are many other Nature poems besides these vi PREFACE which are here gathered some, indeed, of the most beautiful have been written by living poets. But these that follow are sixty of the best songs and sonnets, odes and reflective verses, written by poets who have finished their work and passed into new regions. Yet, as Keats said, they have also souls on earth, and they teach us every day Wisdom^ though fled far away, helping to make the world more beautiful and signifi- cant to those who are willing to live with Nature and learn of her. HENRY VAN DYKE CONTENTS PAGE THE TITMOUSE. By RALPH WALDO EMERSON I THE OAK. By LORD TENNYSON 5 THE WHAUPS. By ROBERT Louis STEVENSON 5 FROST AT MIDNIGHT. By SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 9 NIGHT. By JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE 12 UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. As You Like It, ii. v. 13 FAIRY LAND. Midsummer Nights Dream, u. i. 13 WHEN DAISIES PIED. Love's Labour's Lost, v. ii. 14 WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL. Love's Labour's Lost, v. ii. 1 5 THE FAIRY LIFE. The Tempest, v. i., i. ii. 16 EARLY SPRING. By LORD TENNYSON 17 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. By ROBERT BURNS 19 WALDEINSAMKEIT. By RALPH WALDO EMERSON 23 MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD. By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 30 THE SANDPIPER. By CELIA THAXTER 30 DAFFODILS. By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 33 HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD. By ROBERT BROWNING 35 TO DAFFODILS. By ROBERT HERRICK 36 THE THROSTLE. By LORD TENNYSON 37 TO THE CUCKOO. By JOHN LOGAN 41 ix CONTENTS PAGE TO A SKYLARK. By PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 42 CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING. By ROBERT HERRICK 47 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 49 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. By JOHN KEATS 51 TO A WATERFOWL. By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 54 THE RHODORA. By RALPH WALDO EMERSON 55 THE GARDEN. By ANDREW MARVELL 56 TO THE DANDELION. By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 59 SONG OF THE BROOK. By LORD TENNYSON 61 TO A SKYLARK. By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 64 THE MOCKING BIRD. By WALT WHITMAN 65 SONGS FROM "PIPPA PASSES." By ROBERT BROWNING 71 SUMMER DAWN. By WILLIAM MORRIS 71 TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. By RALPH WALDO EMERSON 72 THE BAREFOOT BOY. By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 78 THE EVENING WIND. By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 83 THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN. By ROBERT TANNAHILL 86 BRIGHT STAR ! WOULD I WERE STEADFAST AS THOU ART. By JOHN KEATS 87 DAYBREAK. By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 88 THE MARSHES OF GLYNN. By SIDNEY LANIER 89 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 95 x CONTENTS PAGE EACH AND ALL. By RALPH WALDO EMERSON 96 IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE. By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 98 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 99 TINTERN ABBEY. By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 100 ODE TO EVENING. By WILLIAM COLLINS 107 TEARS, IDLE TEARS. By LORD TENNYSON in THE LIGHT OF STARS. By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 112 TO AUTUMN. By JOHN KEATS 113 SONG. By LORD TENNYSON 115 TO A MOUSE. ROBERT BURNS 117 TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. By WILLIAM CXJLLEN BRYANT 119 SEAWEED. By HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 120 AUTUMN. By THOMAS HOOD 122 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 125 ODE TO THE WEST WIND. By PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 13 NATURE. By HENRY WADSWOKTH LONGFELLOW 133 THE FIRST SNOWFALL. By JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 134 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS. By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 139 CONTENTS PAGE THE SNOWSTORM. By RALPH WALDO EMERSON 141 SONNET. By WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 142 BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. By WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 144 ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. By JOHN KEATS !44 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. By LORD TENNYSON zu ILLUSTRATIONS As a fond mother when the day is o'er Frontispiece All his leaves Fallen at length Page 7 Under the greenwood tree To face p. 14 Waldeinsamkeit Page 23 Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide 27 Daffodils 33 Fair Daffodils 39 The budding twigs spread out their fan To face p. 50 Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways 52 For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever 62 A privacy of glorious light is thine 64 Long days, and solid banks of flowers Page 75 The Evening Wind 83 A wind came up out of the sea, And said, " O mists, make room for me ! " To face p. 88 Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven 92 Ode to Evening Page 107 ILLUSTRATIONS Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns To face p. 112 Song Page 115 Laden with seaweed from the rocks To face p. 120 I saw old Autumn in the misty morn 122 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead Page 127 Heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white 137 Blow, blow, thou winter wind To face p. 144 The Death of the Old Year Page 145 xiv THE TITMOUSE You shall not be overbold When you deal with arctic cold, As late I found my lukewarm blood Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. How should I fight ? my foeman fine Has million arms to one of mine : East, west, for aid I looked in vain, East, west, north, south, are his domain. Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home ; Must borrow his winds who there would come. Up and away for life ! be fleet ! The frost-king ties my fumbling feet, Sings in my ears, my hands are stones, Curdles the blood to the marble bones, Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense, And hems in life with narrowing fence. Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep, The punctual stars will vigil keep, Embalmed by purifying cold ; The winds shall sing their dead-march old, The snow is no ignoble shroud, The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. Softly, but this way fate was pointing, 'Twas coming fast to such anointing, When piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, THE POETRY OF NATURE Chic-chicadeedee I saucy note Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, " Good-day, good sir ! Fine afternoon, old passenger ! Happy to meet you in these places, Where January brings few faces." This poet, though he live apart, Moved by his hospitable heart, Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, To do the honours of his court, As fits a feathered lord of land ; Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, Prints his small impress on the snow, Shows feats of his gymnastic play, Head downward, clinging to the spray. Here was this atom in full breath, Hurling defiance at vast death; This scrap of valour just for play Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat grey, As if to shame my weak behaviour ; I greeted loud my little saviour, " You pet ! What dost here ? and what for ? In these woods, thy small Labrador, At this pinch, wee San Salvador ! What fire burns in that little chest So frolic, stout, and self-possest ? THE POETRY OF NATURE " Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine ; Ashes and jet all hues outshine. Why are not diamonds black and grey, To ape thy dare-devil array ? And I affirm, the spacious North Exists to draw thy virtue forth. I think no virtue goes with size ; The reason of all cowardice Is, that men are overgrown, And, to be valiant, must come down To the titmouse dimension." 'Tis good-will makes intelligence, And I began to catch the sense Of my bird's song : " Live out of doors In the great woods, on prairie floors. I dine in the sun ; when he sinks in the sea, I too have a hole in a hollow tree ; And I like less when Summer beats With stifling beams on these retreats, Than noontide twilights which snow makes With tempest of blinding flakes. For well the soul, if stout within, Can arm impregnably the skin ; And polar frost my frame defied, Made of the air that blows outside." With glad remembrance of my debt, I homeward turn ; farewell, my pet. THE POETRY OF NATURE When here again thy pilgrim comes, He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, Thou first and foremost shalt be fed ; The Providence that is most large Takes hearts like thine in special charge, Helps who for their own need are strong, And the sky doats on cheerful song. Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant O'er all that mass and minster vaunt ; For men mis-hear thy call in Spring, As 't would accost some frivolous wing, Crying out of the hazel copse, The-be ! And, in Winter, Chic-a-dee-dee ! I think old Caesar must have heard In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, And, echoed in some frosty wold, Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. And I will I write our annals new, And thank thee for a better clew; I, who dreamed not when I came here To find the antidote of fear, Now hear thee say in Roman key, I Feni, vidi, vici. RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE POETRY OF NATURE THE OAK LIVE thy Life, Young and old, Like yon oak, Bright in spring, Living gold ; Summer-rich Then ; and then Autumn-changed, Soberer- hued Gold again. All his leaves Fallen at length, Look, he stands, Trunk and bough, Naked strength. LORD TENNYSON "THE WHAUPS" BLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how ! 5 ALL HIS LEAVES FALLEN AT LENGTH, LOOK, HE STANDS, TRUNK AND BOUGH, NAKED STRENGTH. THE POETRY OF NATURE Grey, recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant, red-wine moor, Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure ! Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home ! and I hear again the call Hear about the graves of the martyrs the pee-wees crying, And hear no more at all. ROBERT Louis STEVENSON FROST AT MIDNIGHT THE Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud and hark, again ! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings : save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, 9 THE POETRY OF NATURE Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, everywhere Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. But O ! how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, To watch that fluttering stranger / and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fairday, So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ! And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book : Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 10 THE POETRY OF NATURE A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we both were clothed alike ! Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought ! My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, And in far other scenes ! For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. But thoUj my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing ii THE POETRY OF NATURE Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE NIGHT MYSTERIOUS Night ! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this goodly frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue ? But through a curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus with the host of heaven came : And lo ! Creation broadened to man's view ! Who could have guessed such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun ? or who divined, When bud and flower and insect lay revealed, Thou to such countless worlds had'st made us blind ? Why should we then shun Death with anxious strife ? If Light conceals so much, wherefore not life ? JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE 12 THE POETRY OF NATURE UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE UNDER the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat Come hither, come hither, come hither ! Here shall we see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleas'd with what he gets Come hither, come hither, come hither ! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. As Ton Like It, n. v. FAIRY LAND OVER hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, THE POETRY OF NATURE I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere ; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green ; The cowslips tall her pensioners be ; In their gold coats spots you see ; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours ; I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. Midsummer Night's 'Dream, n. i. WHEN DAISIES PIED WHEN daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men ; for thus sings he, Cuckoo ! Cuckoo, Cuckoo ! O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear ! When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks, The cuckoo then, on every tree, THE POETRY OF NATURE Mocks married men ; for thus sings he, Cuckoo ! Cuckoo, Cuckoo ! O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear. Loves Labour's Lost, v. ii. WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL WHEN icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit ! To-who ! a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whit ! To-who ! a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. Loves Labour's Lost, v. ii. THE POETRY OF NATURE THE FAIRY LIFE 1 WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I; In a cowslip's bell I lie ; There I couch, when owls do cry : On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough ! The Tempest, v. i. II Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands : Courtsied when you have and kiss'd The wild waves whist, Foot it featly here and there ; And sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark ! Bow-wow. The watch-dogs bark : Bow-wow. Hark, hark ! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow ! The Tempest y i. ii. 16 THE POETRY OF NATURE EARLY SPRING ONCE more the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And domes the red-plow'd hills With loving blue ; The blackbirds have their wills, The throstles too. Opens a door in Heaven ; From skies of glass A Jacob's ladder falls On greening grass, And o'er the mountain-walls Young angels pass. Before them fleets the shower, And burst the buds, And shine the level lands, And flash the floods ; The stars are from their hands Flung thro' the woods, The woods with living airs How softly fann'd, Light airs from where the deep, All down the sand, Is breathing in his sleep, Heard by the land. 17 THE POETRY OF NATURE O follow, leaping blood, The season's lure ! O heart, look down and up Serene, secure, Warm as the crocus cup, Like snowdrops, pure ! Past, Future glimpse and fade Thro' some slight spell, A gleam from yonder vale, Some far blue fell, And sympathies, how frail, In sound and smell ! Till at thy chuckled note, Thou twinkling bird, The fairy fancies range, And, lightly stirr'd, Ring little bells of change From word to word. For now the Heavenly Power Makes all things new, And thaws the cold, and fills The flower with dew ; The blackbirds have their wills, The poets too. LORD TENNYSON 18 THE POETRY OF NATURE TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786 WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou 's met me in an evil hour ; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem ; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem. Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi> spreckled breast ! When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth ; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent-earth Thy tender form. I 9 B THE POETRY OF NATURE The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun- ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies ! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! By love's simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust ; Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, On Life's rough ocean luckless starred ! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er ! 20 THE POETRY OF NATURE Such fate to suffering Worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven To misery's brink ; Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink ! Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine no distant date ; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom ! ROBERT BURNS 21 WALDEINSAMKEIT 1 DO not count the hours I spend In wandering by the sea; The forest is my loyal friend, Like God it useth me. In plains that room for shadows make Of skirting hills to lie, Bound in by streams which give and take Their colours from the sky ; 23 THE POETRY OF NATURE Or on the mountain-crest sublime, Or down the oaken glade, O what have I to do with time ? For this the day was made. Cities of mortals woebegone Fantastic care derides, But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides. Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad, But, sober on a fund of joy, The woods at heart are glad. There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain. Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns ; Through times that wear and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns. The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines. DOWN IN YON WATERY NOOK, WHERE BEARDED MISTS DIVIDE. THE POETRY OF NATURE Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The grey old gods whom Chaos knew The sires of Nature, hide. Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, O, few to scale those uplands dare, Though they to all belong ! See thou bring not to field or stone The fancies found in books ; Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, To brave the landscape's looks. Oblivion, here thy wisdom is, Thy thrift, the sleep of cares ; For a proud idleness like this Crowns all thy mean affairs. RALPH WALDO EMERSON 29 THE POETRY OF NATURE " MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD MY heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky : So was it when my life began ; So is it now I am a man ; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die ! The Child is father of the Man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE SANDPIPER ACROSS the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I ; And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit One little sandpiper and I. Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky : Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. 30 THE POETRY OF NATURE Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly. As fast we flit along the beach- One little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery ; He has no thought of any wrong ; He scans me with a fearless eye : Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I. Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night When the loosed storm breaks furiously ? My driftwood fire will burn so bright ! To what warm shelter canst thou fly ? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky : For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I ? CELIA THAXTER DAFFODILS I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils ; Beside the Jake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 33 THE POETRY OF NATURE Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced ; but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company : I gazed and gazed but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought : For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 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 bole are in tiny leaf, 35 THE POETRY OF NATURE 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 hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! ROBERT BROWNING TO DAFFODILS FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon : As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song ; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. 36 THE POETRY OF NATURE We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the Summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. ROBERT HERRICK + THE THROSTLE " SUMMER is coming, summer is coming. I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again," Yes, my wild little Poet. Sing the new year in under the blue. Last year you sang it as gladly. " New, new, new, new ! " Is it then so new That you should carol so madly ? " Love again, song again, nest again, young again,' Never a prophet so crazy ! And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, See, there is hardly a daisy. 37 FAIR DAFFODILS. THE POETRY OF NATURE " Here again, here, here, here, happy year ! " O warble unchidden, unbidden ! Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, And all the winters are hidden. LORD TENNYSON TO THE CUCKOO HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove ! Thou messenger of spring ! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat. And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear ; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year ? Delightful visitant ! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. THE POETRY OF NATURE What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands. Another spring to hail. Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year ! O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring. JOHN LOGAN TO A SKYLARK HAIL to thee, blithe Spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest 42 THE POETRY OF NATURE In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run ; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight ; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. What thou art we know not ; What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 43 c THE POETRY OF NATURE Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : Like a high-born maiden In a palace-tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass : 44 THE POETRY OF NATURE Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine : I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What fields, or waves, or mountains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee : Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 45 THE POETRY OF NATURE We look before and after, And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear ; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 46 THE POETRY OF NATURE CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING GET up, get ap for shame ! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air : Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew bespangling herb and tree ! Each flower has wept and bow'd toward the east Above an hour since, yet you not drest ; Nay ! not so much as out of bed ? When all the birds have matins said And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, Nay, profanation, to keep in, When as a thousand virgins on this day Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green, And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair : Fear not ; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you : Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night : And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still 47 THE POETRY OF NATURE Till you come forth ! Wash, dress, be brief in praying : Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. Come, my Corinna, come ; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park, Made green and trimm'd with trees : see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch : each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove ; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see't ? Come, we'll abroad : and let's obey The proclamation made for May, And sin no more, as we have done, by staying ; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. There's not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth ere this is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatch'd their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream : And some have wept and woo'd, and plighted troth, And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth : Many a green-gown has been given ; Many a kiss, both odd and even : 4 8 THE POETRY OF NATURE Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament ; Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks pick'd : yet we're not a-Maying ! Come, let us go, while we are in our prime ; And take the harmless folly of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun ; And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight Lies drown'd with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. ROBERT HERRICK LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING I HEARD a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 49 THE POETRY OF NATURE To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran ; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure : But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air, And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man ? WILLIAM WORDSWORTH X X x THE POETRY OF NATURE ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth ! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim : Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; THE POETRY OF NATURE Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : Already with thee ! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 5* S r / / s THE POETRY OF NATURE Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy ! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tread thee down ; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown : Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell To tell me back from thee to my sole self ! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 53 THE POETRY OF NATURE Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? Fled is that music : Do I wake or sleep ? JOHN KEATS TO A WATERFOWL WHITHER, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side ? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast The desert and illimitable air Lone wandering, but not lost. 54 THE POETRY OF NATURE All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE RHODORA ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER ? IN May, when sea- winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. 55 THE POETRY OF NATURE The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay ; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being : Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose ! I never thought to ask, I never knew : But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE GARDEN How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays ; And their incessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid ; While all the flowers and trees do close, To weave the garlands of Repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence thy sister dear ? THE POETRY OF NATURE Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among plants will grow ; Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name : Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed ! Fair trees ! where s'e'er your bark I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race ; Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow ; And Pan did after Syrinx speed Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead ! Ripe apples drop about my head ; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; 57 THE POETRY OF NATURE The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach ; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness ; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide ; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state While man there walk'd without a mate After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet ! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there : Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in paradise alone. 58 THE POETRY OF NATURE How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers ? ANDREW MARVELL TO THE DANDELION DEAR common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 59 D THE POETRY OF NATURE Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : Not in mid- June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows in the grass, Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing 60 THE POETRY OF NATURE With news from Heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of Heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL SONG OF THE BROOK I COME from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. 61 THE POETRY OF NATURE Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow- weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, X s/ THE POETRY OF NATURE And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses ; I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses ; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. LORD TENNYSON 63 THE POETRY OF NATURE TO A SKYLARK ETHEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! [To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler ! that love-prompted strain 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing All independent of the leafy Spring.] Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; A privacy of glorious light is thine ; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 64 V THE POETRY OF NATURE THE MOCKING BIRD (FROM "OUT OF THE CRADLE") ONCE Paumanok, When the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth- month grass was growing, Up this seashore in some briars, Two feathered guests from Alabama, two together, And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown. And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand, And every day the she-bird crouched on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. " Shine ! shine ! shine ! Pour down your warmth, great Sun ! While we bask, we two together. " Two together ! Winds blow south, or winds blow north, Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together." 65 THE POETRY OF NATURE Till of a sudden, Maybe killed, unknown to her mate, One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the nest, Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next, Nor ever appeared again. And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea, And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather, Over the hoarse surging of the sea, Or flitting from briar to briar by day, I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird, The solitary guest from Alabama. " Blow ! blow ! blow ! Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore ; I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me." Yes, when the stars glistened, All night long on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake, Down almost amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears. He called on his mate, He poured forth the meanings which I of all men know. Yes, my brother, I know, The rest might not, but I have treasured every note, 66 THE POETRY OF NATURE For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding, Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts, The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, Listened long and long. Listened to keep, to sing, now translating the notes, Following you, my brother. " Soothe ! soothe ! soothe ! Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me. " Low hangs the moon ; it rose late, It is lagging O I think it is heavy with love, with love. " O madly the sea pushes upon the land, With love, with love. " O night ! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers ? What is that little black thing I see there in the white ? 67 THE POETRY OF NATURE " Loud ! loud ! loud ! Loud I call to you, my love ! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves ; Surely you must know who is here, is here, You must know who I am, my love. " Low-hanging moon ! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow ? O it is the shape, the shape of my mate ! O moon do not keep her from me any longer. " Land ! land ! O land ! Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again, if you only would, For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. " O rising stars ! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. " O throat ! O trembling throat ! Sound clearer through the atmosphere ! Pierce the woods, the earth ; Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want. " Shake out, carols ! Solitary here the night's carols ! Carols of lonesome love ! Death's carols ! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon ! 68 THE POETRY OF NATURE O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea ! O reckless, despairing carols ! " But soft ! sink low ; Soft ! let me just murmur ; And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea ; For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, So faint, I must be still, be still to listen ; But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me. " Hither, my love ! Here I am ! here ! With this just-sustained note I announced myself to you; This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. " Do not be decoyed elsewhere ! That is the whistle of the wind it is not my voice ; That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray ; Those are the shadows of leaves. " O darkness ! O in vain ! O I am very sick and sorrowful. " O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea ! O troubled reflection in the sea ! O throat ! O throbbing heart ! And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. 69 THE POETRY OF NATURE " O past ! O happy life ! O songs of joy ! In the air, in the woods, over fields, Loved ! loved ! loved ! loved ! loved ! But my mate no more, no more with me ! We two together no more." The aria sinking, All else continuing, the stars shining, The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing, With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning, On the sands of Paumanok's shore grey and rustling, The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching, The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying, The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting, The aria's meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing, The strange tears down the cheeks coursing, The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering, The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying, To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing, some drown'd secret hissing, To the outsetting bard. WALT WHITMAN 7 THE POETRY OF NATURE SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES" THE year's at the spring And day's at the morn ; Morning's at seven ; The hillside's dew-pearled ; The lark's on the wing ; The snail's on the thorn : God's in his heaven All's right with the world ! ROBERT BROWNING SUMMER DAWN PRAY but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, Think but one thought of me up in the stars. The summer night waneth, the morning light slips, Faint and grey 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars, That are patiently waiting there for the dawn : Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold Waits to float through them along with the sun. Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold The uneasy wind rises ; the roses are dun ; 7' THE POETRY OF NATURE Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn, Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. Speak but one word to me over the corn, Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn. WILLIAM MORRIS. TO THE HUMBLE-BEE BURLY, dozing humble-bee ! Where thou art is clime for me ; Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek ; I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid-zone ! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines ; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines. Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion ! Sailor of the atmosphere, Swimmer through the waves of air, Voyager of light and noon, Epicurean of June ! Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum, All without is martyrdom. 72 THE POETRY OF NATURE When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall ; And, with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With the colour of romance ; And infusing subtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, Thou in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow breezy bass. Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound, In Indian wildernesses found ; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavoury or unclean Hath my insect never seen ; But violets, and bilberry bells, Maple-sap, and daffodils, Grass with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, 73 LONG DAYS, AND SOLID BANKS OF FLOWERS. THE POETRY OF NATURE Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue, And briar-roses, dwelt among : All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher, Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat. When the fierce north-western blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep ; Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. RALPH WALDO EMERSON 77 THE POETRY OF NATURE THE BAREFOOT BOY BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; From my heart I give thee joy, I was once a barefoot boy ! Prince thou art, the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride ! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! Oh, for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; 78 THE POETRY OF NATURE How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well ; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung ; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of grey hornet artisans ! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy ! Oh, for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees ; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade ; For my taste the blackberry cone 79 THE POETRY OF NATURE Purpled over hedge and stone ; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too ; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! Oh, for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread ; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, grey and rude ! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied frog's orchestra ; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch : pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy ! 80 THE POETRY OF NATURE Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil : Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground ; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 81 THE EVENING WIND SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day ! Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 83 THE POETRY OF NATURE Nor I alone, a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; And languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest ; Curl the still waters, bright with stars ; and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast. Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone, That they who near the churchyard willows stray, And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, May think of gentle souls who passed away, Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown ; Sent forth from heaven along the sons of men, And gone into the boundless heaven again. 85 THE POETRY OF NATURE The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. Go but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and sense from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more ; Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; And, listening to the murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN THE midges dance aboon the burn ; The dews begin to fa' ; The pairtricks down the rushy holm Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings through the briary shaw, While, flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'. 86 THE POETRY OF NATURE Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay ; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains To charm the lingering day ; While weary yeldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell ; The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell. Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that nature yields Are dearer far to me. ROBERT TANNAHILL BRIGHT STAR ! WOULD I WERE STEADFAST AS THOU ART BRIGHT star ! would I were steadfast as thou art- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 8? THE POETRY OF NATURE Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors No yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever or else swoon to death. JOHN KEATS DAYBREAK A WIND came up out of the sea, And said, " O mists, make room for me ! " It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone." And hurried landward far away, Crying, " Awake 1 it is the day." It said unto the forest, " Shout ! Hang all your leafy banners out ! " It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, " O bird, awake and sing." And o'er the farms, " O chanticleer, Your clarion blow ; the day is near." 88 THE POETRY OF NATURE It whispered to the fields of corn, "Bow down, and hail the coming morn." It shouted through the belfry-tower, " Awake, O bell ! proclaim the hour." It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie." HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE MARSHES OF GLYNN GLOOMS of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs, Emerald twilights, Virginal shy lights, Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, When lovers pace timidly down through the green colonnades Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods, Of the heavenly woods and glades, That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within The wide sea-marshes of Glynn ; Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire, Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire, 89 THE POETRY OF NATURE Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves, Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves, Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood, Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good ; O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine, While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did shine Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine; But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, And the sun is a- wait at the ponderous gate of the West, And the slant yellow beam down with the wood-aisle doth seem. Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream, Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken soul of the oak, And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of the stroke Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low, And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn 90 THE POETRY OF NATURE Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore, And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnameable pain Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain, Oh, now, afraid, I am fain to face The vast sweet visage of space. To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, Where the grey beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn, For a mete and a mark To the forest-dark : So: Affable live-oak, leaning low, Thus with your favour soft, with a reverent hand, (Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land !) Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand On the firm-packed sand, Free By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shim- mering band Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land. Inward and outward to northward and southward the beach-lines linger and curl THE POETRY OF NATURE As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows the firm sweet limbs of a girl. Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim grey looping of light. And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high ? The world lies east : how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky ! A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, To the terminal blue of the main. Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea ? Somehow my soul seems suddenly free From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn. Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-with- holding and free Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea ! Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won 92 THE POETRY OF NATURE God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain, And sight out of blindness and purity out of stain. As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, Behold 1 will build me a nest on the greatness of God : I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies : By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God : Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness of within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. And the sea lends large, as the marsh : lo, out of his plenty the sea Pours fast : full soon the time of the flood-tide must be: Look how the grace of the sea doth go About and about through the intricate channels that flow Here and there, Everywhere, Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow In the rose-and-silver evening glow, 93 THE POETRY OF NATURE Farewell, my lord Sun ! The creeks overflow : a thousand rivulets run 'Twixt the roots of the sod ; the blades of the marsh- grass stir ; Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr ; Passeth, and all is still ; and the currents cease to run ; And the sea and the marsh are one. How still the plains of the waters be ! The tide is in his ecstasy. The tide is at his highest height ; And it is night. And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters' sleep Roll in on the souls of men, But who will reveal to our waking ken The forms that swim and the shapes that creep Under the waters of sleep ? And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in On the length and breadth of the marvellous marshes of Glynn. SIDNEY LANIER 94 THE POETRY OF NATURE THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil ; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 95 F THE POETRY OF NATURE Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn ! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll ! Leave thy low- vaulted past ! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES EACH AND ALL LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height ; 9 5 THE POETRY OF NATURE Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbour's creed has lent. All are needed by each one ; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; He sings the song, but it cheers not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky ; He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore ; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid, As mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best-attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir, At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage ; The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, " I covet truth ; 97 THE POETRY OF NATURE Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat ; I leave it behind with the games of youth " : As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs ; I inhaled the violet's breath ; Around me stood the oaks and firs ; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity ; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird ; Beauty through my senses stole ; I yielded myself to the perfect whole. RALPH WALDO EMERSON IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea : Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder everlastingly. 98 THE POETRY OF NATURE Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US THE world is too much with us ; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers ; For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 99 THE POETRY OF NATURE TINTERN ABBEY FIVE years have past ; five summers, with the length Of five long winters ! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur. Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of a more deep seclusion, and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din IOO THE POETRY OF NATURE Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration : feelings too Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, In which the burden of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened : that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight ; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, JOI THE POETRY OF NATURE Have hung upon the beatings of my heart How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer through the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee ! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again : While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 1 came among these hills ; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever Nature led : more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then (The coarser pleasure of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite ; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thoughts supplied, nor any interest 102 THE POETRY OF NATURE Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains ; and of all that we behold From this green earth ; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear, both what they half create, And what perceive ; well pleased to recognise In Nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. 103 THE POETRY OF NATURE Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay : For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river ; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy : for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee : and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 104 THE POETRY OF NATURE Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance, If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together ; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service : rather say With warmer love oh ! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 105 ODE TO EVENING IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales, O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed : 107 THE POETRY OF NATURE Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing ; Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum : Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May, not unseemly, with its stillness suit, As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return ! For when thy folding-star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant hours, and elves Who slept in flowers the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Prepare thy shadowy car. Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile, Or upland fallows grey Reflect its last cool gleam 109 THE POETRY OF NATURE But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut, That from the mountain's side, Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires ; And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest eve ! While summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light ; While sallow autumn fills thy lap with leaves ; Or winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes ; So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, Shall fancy, friendship, science, rose-lipp'd health, Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy favourite name ! WILLIAM COLLINS no THE POETRY OF NATURE TEARS, IDLE TEARS TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign' d On lips that are for others ; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; O Death in Life, the days that are no more ! LORD TENNYSON in THE POETRY OF NATURE THE LIGHT OF STARS THE night is come, but not too soon ; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven But the cold light of stars ; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love ? The star of love and dreams ? Oh no ! from that blue tent above A hero's armour gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength ! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain ; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. I 12 tf THE POETRY OF NATURE Within my breast there is no light But the cold light of stars ; I give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run ; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 113 c THE POETRY OF NATURE To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers : And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are they ? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. JOHN KEATS 114 SONG A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : To himself he talks ; For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks ; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers : Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. "5 THE POETRY OF NATURE The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death ; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. LORD TENNYSON TO A MOUSE WEE, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie, Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need not start awa sae hasty Wi' bickering brattle ! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee Wi' murdering pattle ! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion An' fellow mortal ! 117 THE POETRY OF NATURE I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve ; What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request ; I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, An' never miss't ! Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! And naething, now, to big a new ane O' fgg a g e green ! An' bleak December's win's ensuin', Baith snell an' keen ! Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld ! But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain : 118 THE POETRY OF NATURE The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy. Still thou art blest, compared wi' me ! The present only toucheth thee : But och ! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear ! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear. ROBERT BURNS TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN THOU blossom bright with autumn dew, And coloured with the heavens' own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night. Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end. 119 THE POETRY OF NATURE Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue blue as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall. I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT SEAWEED WHEN descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with seaweed from the rocks : From Bermuda's reefs ; from the edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore ; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador ; 120 THE POETRY OF NATURE From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas ; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main ; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, erelong From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song : From the far-off isles enchanted, Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth ; From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth ; THE POETRY OF NATURE From the strong Will, and the Endeavour That for ever Wrestle with the tides of Fate ; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate ; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart ; Till at length in books recorded, They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW AUTUMN I SAW old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn ; Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn. Where are the songs of summer ? With the sun, Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, Till shade and silence waken up as one, And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. 122