The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold
November rain

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished

long ago,

12

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;

But on the hills. the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in au

tumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as

falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from

upland, glade, and glen.

18

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard,

though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the

stream no more.

24

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,

The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

1825.

William Cullen Bryant.

30

OUT OF THE CRADLE ENDLESSLY

ROCKING

OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking,

Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle,

Out of the Ninth-month midnight,

Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wandered alone, bareheaded, barefoot,

Down from the showered halo,

Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive.

Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, From the memories of the bird that chanted

to me,

From your memories, sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,

From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears,

10

From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist,

From the thousand responses of my heart never

to cease,

From the myriad thence-roused words,

From the word stronger and more delicious than any,

From such as now they start the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly,

A man, yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the

waves,

I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and

hereafter,

20

Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping

beyond them,

A reminiscence sing.

Once Paumanok,

When the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth-month grass was growing,

Up this seashore in some briers,

Two feathered guests from Alabama, two

together,

And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted

with brown.

And every day the he-bird to and fro near at

hand,

And every day the she-bird crouched on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,

And every day I, a curious boy, never too close,

never disturbing them,

Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.

"Shine! shine! shine!

Pour down your warmth, great Sun!
While we bask, we two together.

"Two together!

Winds blow south, or winds blow north,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,

While we two keep together."

Till of a sudden,

Maybe killed, unknown to her mate,

One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the

nest,

Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next,

Nor ever appeared again.

And thenceforward all summer in the sound

of the sea,

30

And at night under the full of the moon in calmer

weather,

Over the hoarse surging of the sea,

Or flitting from brier to brier by day,

I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the

I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me."

Yes, when the stars glistened,

All night long on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake,

Down almost amid the slapping waves,

Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears.

He called on his mate,

He poured forth the meanings which I of all men

know.

Yes, my brother, I know,

The rest might not, but I have treasured every

note,

For more than once dimly down to the beach

gliding,

60

Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,

Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts,

The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,

I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my '!

hair,

Listened long and long.