A Vista .
T HE river winding onward till it seems
To part the dusky hills on either side
And make a highway to the land of dreams;
Slim elms whose slender branches arching wide
Enmesh the stars that shimmer through them there,
Like gems that gleam in Berenice's hair!
D AWN M USIC .
W HEN from her window-bars the maiden Morn,
Shakes down the star-drops from her shining hair,
Athwart the meadow silences is borne
A golden hint of music hushed in air:
Is it the winding of Diana's horn?
N IGHT S ILENCE .
Is it not beautiful, the perfect night?
So still not one leaf's darker side uplifts
Unto the moon; nor where the broken light
In clear-clipped shapes falls through the azure rifts
Upon the dew besilvered sward below,
Stirs one slight stem a moth's frail wing might blow.
G LOAMING .
T HE arching splendor, momently more faint,
Burns round the cold, white crest of yonder height,
As o'er the forehead of a dying saint
'Tis said the halo, glimpse of heaven's own light,
Was seen by those who knelt to gaze and pray.
Lo! gleam by gleam, it fails and fades away.
P URSUIT .
O H ! pilgrim night, art thou not weary,
Returning on the self-same way
O'er dusky wold and woodland dreary,
Pursuing still the flying day?
The self-same hill, the self-same meadow,
While seasons wax and seasons wane,
Grow sad beneath thy coming shadow,
Grow glad when thou art gone again.
W INTER Beauty .
S ILENCE of snow and gloom of frowning skies,
Splendor of death, or wonder of white sleep,
Cold, stately beauty, perfect marble-wise,
Like as a statue whose still features keep
A spectral semblance with unseeing eyes!
S OLITUDE .
A WILD , wind-beaten coast where no man dwells,
And no lone sea-bird builds its mateless nest,
Where ever like the chime of goblin bells
That ring some Runic measure of unrest,
Some weird lament, some wordless litany,
Sounds the unsleeping sea.
A waste of cloven crag and wrinkled sand,
Wave-winnowed miles of grass and sluggish stream,
Where ever through the blown and barren land,
Like vehement, strange voices in a dream
That wail and warn in muffled monotone,
The wind makes desolate moan.
R EVISITED .
L AST night some nameless longing led me thither,
Some memory from the buried years upcast; —
I wandered idly on, I knew not whither,
Lost in the lightless caverns of the past.
Like hooded friars with foreheads bent to pray,
Pacing before some minster's lighted pane,
Gray cloud-shapes swept across the waning day,
With shifting gleams and sudden gusts of rain.
And wailing shrilly like a childless woman,
The bleak wind moaned and clamored fitfully,
And like the stealthy step of nothing human,
The dead leaves softly seemed pursuing me.
T HE river winding onward till it seems
To part the dusky hills on either side
And make a highway to the land of dreams;
Slim elms whose slender branches arching wide
Enmesh the stars that shimmer through them there,
Like gems that gleam in Berenice's hair!
D AWN M USIC .
W HEN from her window-bars the maiden Morn,
Shakes down the star-drops from her shining hair,
Athwart the meadow silences is borne
A golden hint of music hushed in air:
Is it the winding of Diana's horn?
N IGHT S ILENCE .
Is it not beautiful, the perfect night?
So still not one leaf's darker side uplifts
Unto the moon; nor where the broken light
In clear-clipped shapes falls through the azure rifts
Upon the dew besilvered sward below,
Stirs one slight stem a moth's frail wing might blow.
G LOAMING .
T HE arching splendor, momently more faint,
Burns round the cold, white crest of yonder height,
As o'er the forehead of a dying saint
'Tis said the halo, glimpse of heaven's own light,
Was seen by those who knelt to gaze and pray.
Lo! gleam by gleam, it fails and fades away.
P URSUIT .
O H ! pilgrim night, art thou not weary,
Returning on the self-same way
O'er dusky wold and woodland dreary,
Pursuing still the flying day?
The self-same hill, the self-same meadow,
While seasons wax and seasons wane,
Grow sad beneath thy coming shadow,
Grow glad when thou art gone again.
W INTER Beauty .
S ILENCE of snow and gloom of frowning skies,
Splendor of death, or wonder of white sleep,
Cold, stately beauty, perfect marble-wise,
Like as a statue whose still features keep
A spectral semblance with unseeing eyes!
S OLITUDE .
A WILD , wind-beaten coast where no man dwells,
And no lone sea-bird builds its mateless nest,
Where ever like the chime of goblin bells
That ring some Runic measure of unrest,
Some weird lament, some wordless litany,
Sounds the unsleeping sea.
A waste of cloven crag and wrinkled sand,
Wave-winnowed miles of grass and sluggish stream,
Where ever through the blown and barren land,
Like vehement, strange voices in a dream
That wail and warn in muffled monotone,
The wind makes desolate moan.
R EVISITED .
L AST night some nameless longing led me thither,
Some memory from the buried years upcast; —
I wandered idly on, I knew not whither,
Lost in the lightless caverns of the past.
Like hooded friars with foreheads bent to pray,
Pacing before some minster's lighted pane,
Gray cloud-shapes swept across the waning day,
With shifting gleams and sudden gusts of rain.
And wailing shrilly like a childless woman,
The bleak wind moaned and clamored fitfully,
And like the stealthy step of nothing human,
The dead leaves softly seemed pursuing me.