Yet whenever I cross the river And I think how many thousands Each bearing his burden of sorrow, I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, The moon and its broken reflection SEAWEED. WHEN descends on the Atlantic 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 edges In some far-off, bright Azore; Surges of San Salvador; From the tumbling surf, that buries 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, ere long From each cave and rocky fastness, In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song: From the far-off isles enchanted, With the golden fruit of Truth; In the tropic clime of Youth; From the strong Will, and the Endeavor That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate; Ever drifting, drifting, drifting Currents of the restless heart; Till at length in books recorded, THE DAY IS DONE. THE day is done, and the darkness I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, Such songs have power to quiet That follows after prayer. 100 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. Then read from the treasured volume And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, THE ARROW AND THE SONG. I SHOT an arrow into the air, I breathed a song into the air, Long, long afterward, in an oak THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. SOMEWHAT back from the village street Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw. |