Who never defers and never demands, Seeing it good as when God first saw And O the joy that is never won, But follows and follows the journeying sun, By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream, Delusion afar, delight anear, From morrow to morrow, from year to year, A jack-o'-lantern, a fairy fire, A dare, a bliss, and a desire! The racy smell of the forest loam, When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home; (O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you, Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!) The broad gold wake of the afternoon; The sound of the hollow sea's release With only another league to wend; And two brown arms at the journey's end! These are the joys of the open road- Bliss Carman O1 AMONG THE ROCKS H, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth; Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you: Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! Robert Browning S TO AUTUMN EASON 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 thatcheaves run. To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 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? Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fumes of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by 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; 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 A AN AUTUMN DAY SOUL is in the sunlight. Not one breath Troubles the stainless and translucent sky. Methinks the spirits of the mountain fly Heavenward like flames. Blue air encompasseth The congregated Alps that lift on high Their crowned brows, to hear what Summer saith. She, having whispered, will depart; and death Comes in the clasp of Winter by and by. Hushed are the pines. There is no stir, no strife, No fretful wailing of frore winds that blow Earth's winding-sheet of cold uncolored snow. This morn, upon the brink of dying, Life Draws a deep draft of peace, and rapture thrills Thro' all the pulses of the impassioned hills. John Addington Symonds ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF EARTH IN AUTUMN F AIR Mother Earth lay on her back last night, To gaze her fill on Autumn's sunset skies, When at a waving of the fallen light, Sprang realms of rosy fruitage o'er her eyes. Bronzed, and the beamy winged bloom that flew 'Mid those bunched fruits and thronging figures failed. A green-edged lake of saffron touched the blue, With isles of fireless purple lying through: And Fancy on that lake to seek lost treasures sailed. Not long the silence followed: O glorious South-west, Along the gloom-horizon halloa'd; Warning the valleys with a mellow roar Through flapping wings; then sharp the woodland bore A shudder and a noise of hands: A thousand horns from some far vale Forth from the cloven sky came bands strips Burst screaming through the lighted town: And scudding sea-ward, some fell on big ships: Or mounting the sea-horses blew Bright foam-flakes on the black review Still on the farthest line, with outpuffed cheeks, His mantle streaming thunderingly behind, |