THE SPIRIT OF POETRY The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter. Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds When the sun sets. Within her eye The heaven of April, with its changing light, And when it wears the blue of May, is hung, And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair Is like the summer tresses of the trees, When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath, As, from the morning's dewy flowers, it comes Is the rich music of a summer bird, Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence. ON sunny slope and beechen swell, At sunset, in its brazen leaves. Far upward in the mellow light Rose the blue hills. One cloud of white, Around a far uplifted cone, In the warm blush of evening shone; An image of the silver lakes, By which the Indian's soul awakes. But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band They sang, that by his native bowers A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin Before, a dark-haired virgin train Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd. They buried the dark chief-they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again. |