Close to my spirit, and a while it seems As if the blue sky were enough of heaven! My thoughts are like tense chords that give their music Or a dove's flight across the silent sky. Oh, in this sun-bright Sabbath of the heart, And the sun-quickened germ, or the poor moss SUMMER. HE early Spring hath gone; I see her stand THE Afar off on the hills-white clouds, like doves, Yoked by the South-wind to her opal car, And at her feet a lion and a lamb Couched, side by side. Irresolute Spring hath gone! And Summer comes like PSYCHE, Zephyr-borne She is here! Amid the distant vales she tarried long, But she hath come, oh joy !—for I have heard Are platformed for the Zephyr's dancing feet. Most beautiful things; the Spring's pale orphans lie She is a gentle mother, all night long Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews. The Hours are spendthrifts of her wealth; the Days Are dowered with her beauty. Then let her sleep; Her dreams Are bliss. Dear Saviour, keep, Near Eden's streams, The lamb we weep. THE THE HE summer flowers, above her breast, The winter snow-flakes lightly rest No heedless footstep may invade That holy hill-side plot; No father, mother, sister near, She sleeps, in silence and alone, For God's own hand hath sealed the stone Above that grave so green. So shall she sweetly, safely sleep Among the prairie flowers; While we this grateful memory keep— "One little bud is ours." NE year ago, a ringing voice, And clustering curls of sunny hair, Only a year, no voice, no smile, No clustering curls of golden hair, One year ago,—what loves, what schemes Far into life! What joyous hopes, what high resolves, The silent picture on the wall, The burial-stone, Of all that beauty, life, and joy, Remain alone! One year,—one year,—one little year, And so much gone ! * These lines refer to the death, July 9, 1857, of a son, a student of Dartmouth College, who went with some classmates to the Connecticut River to bathe, got beyond his depth, and was drowned. |