And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day And whenever the way seemed long, She would sing a more wonderful song, So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; Though at times he hears in his dreams The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold; And the mother at home says, “Hark! For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!" In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklets flow, But in mine is the wind of Autumn, And the first fall of the snow. And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks? Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead. SANDALPHON. HAVE you read in the Talmud of old, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? How, erect, at the outermost gates With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night? The Angels of Wind and of Fire With the song's irresistible stress; By music they throb to express. But serene in the rapturous throng, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, To sounds that ascend from below; From the spirits on earth that adore, Too heavy for mortals to bear. And he gathers the prayers as he stands, It is but a legend, I know,— A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old mediæval tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition, But haunts me and holds me the more. |