Poems – Page 23 – Poetry Out Loud

Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood

The glory of its native wood,

By storms destroyed, or length of years,

Demands the tribute of our tears.

The pile, that took long time to raise,

To dust returns by slow decays:

But, when its destined years are o’er,

We must regret the loss the more.

So long accustomed to your aid,

The world laments your exit made;

So long befriended by your art,

Philosopher, ’tis hard to part!—

When monarchs tumble to the ground,

Successors easily are found:

But, matchless Franklin! what a few

Can hope to rival such as you,

Who seized from kings their sceptred pride,

And turned the lightning’s darts aside!

^{To Principal Booker T. Washington of Tuskegee Industrial School}

To you who now so nobly do
A noble deed;
Who now instill the virtues true
To virtuous need;
Whose mission is so truly good—
So full of kindly brotherhood—
Who live the life you surely should—
A trusty lead;

Who early saw that skillful head
And skillful hands
Should, surely, be in union wed
‘Gainst life’s quicksands—
For people whose unhappy state
Was, surely, in the hands of fate,
Would make a combination great
As iron hands.

Long may your daring presence live
And works instill,
Long may your kingly reasons give
A forceful will.
Long may your glowing, useful days
Shine forth their bright illuming rays,
And to gloomy lives always
A happy thrill.

Whether awake or sleeping,
I cannot rest for long:
By my casement comes creeping
A distant song.

A song like the chiming of silver
Bells which the breezes play,
Seeming to float for ever
Towards an unseen day:

A song that is weary with sorrow,
Yet knows not any defeat:
Through the past, through to-day, through to-morrow,
It echoes on life’s long street.

Could I but make words of its power,
Bring it from the future here,
Men’s souls would be waking, that hour,
To the victory against fear.

But the vague sweet stanza befools me
With its calm joy, time after time,
And no failure here ever schools me
To cease from an idle rhyme.

That music afar, unspoken,
’Tis I have done it wrong:
I caught, and I have broken,
A distant song.

(November, 1861.)

In time and measure perfect moves

  All Art whose aim is sure;

 Evolving rhyme and stars divine

  Have rules, and they endure.

Nor less the Fleet that warred for Right,

  And, warring so, prevailed,

 In geometric beauty curved,

  And in an orbit sailed.

The rebel at Port Royal felt

  The Unity overawe,

 And rued the spell. A type was here,

  And victory of Law.

I know not why, but it is true—it may,
In some way, be because he was a child
Of the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled—
I love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day
Was spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled,
When not along his path shone forth one ray
Of light, of hope, to guide him on the way,
That to earth’s cares he might be reconciled.
Not one of all Columbia’s tuneful choir
Has pitched his notes to such a matchless key
As Poe—the wizard of the Orphic lyre!
Not one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he,
Who, like an echo came, an echo went,
Singing, back to his mother element.

^{translated from the Spanish by Agnes Blake Poor}

In thee, the spirit of thy native soil
Draws breath and stirs with potent fruitful life.
Thou, from the field of elemental strife,
Seizest the guerdon of thy noble toil.

Franklin before, along the slender coil
Called down the fiery sparks in heaven rife.
Traced the quick ray, like sharp dividing knife;
And to the earth brought down the lightning’s spoil.

And thou, the living glory of thy race,
Preservest for all time the spoken word;
Defying ignorance’s numbing trace;
Despising falsehood’s deadly withering breath.
The immortal tree of life thy hand conferred,
Even on the edge of the abyss of death.

If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfulest scene and show,
‘Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser-loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon’s white cones—nor Huron’s belt of mighty lakes—nor Mississippi’s stream:
—This seething hemisphere’s humanity, as now, I’d name—the still small voice vibrating—America’s choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the quadriennial choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous’d—sea-board and inland—Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia, California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and conflict,
The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict,
Yet more than all Rome’s wars of old, or modern Napoleon’s:) the peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross:
—Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the heart pants, life glows:
These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships,
Swell’d Washington’s, Jefferson’s, Lincoln’s sails.

Golden-eyed girl, do you see what I see?
Do you see behind the veil that Life
laughs through?
Golden-eyed girl, I would like to laugh
with you.
But my veil is torn, and I see things pass
Like shadows in the depths of a crystal glass.

Golden-eyed girl, you are young as springtime,
Your great eyes are dreamful, your rare
lips sweet.
Shadows matter little to youth with dancing feet
All of Life’s skeletons wear gay dresses
And youth is deceived by even Death’s caresses.

Golden-eyed girl, you have years to dance and
wonder
Before your Life’s curtain will wear into holes
And let you see the hopelessness hidden in souls.
You have many moons of laughter, many
years to go
Before you’ll learn how heavy dancing feet
can grow.

Oh let me go I’m weary here

And fevers scorch my brain,

I long to feel my native air

Breathe o’er each burning vein.

I long once more to see

My home among the distant hills,

To breathe amid the melody

Of murmering brooks and rills.

My home is where eternal snow

Round threat’ning craters sleep,

Where streamlets murmer soft and low

And playful cascades leap.

Tis where glad scenes shall meet

My weary, longing eye;

Where rocks and Alpine forests greet

The bright cerulean sky.

Your scenes are bright I know,

But there my mother pray’d,

Her cot is lowly, but I go

To die beneath its shade.

For, Oh I know she’ll cling

‘Round me her treasur’d long,

My sisters too will sing

Each lov’d familiar song.

They’ll soothe my fever’d brow,

As in departed hours,

And spread around my dying couch

The brightest, fairest flowers.

Then let me go I’m weary here

And fevers scorch my brain,

I long to feel my native air,

Breathe o’er each burning vein.

Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,—
     My being is attuned to thee.
Thou settest all my words a-wing,
     And meltest me to melody.

Thou art my life, by thee I live,
     From thee proceed the joys I know;
Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give
     The meed of love—the cup of woe.

Thou art my love, by thee I lead
     My soul the paths of light along,
From vale to vale, from mead to mead,
     And home it in the hills of song.

My song, my soul, my life, my all,
     Why need I pray or make my plea,
Since my petition cannot fall;
     For I’m already one with thee!