Page images
PDF
EPUB

.

L'EN VOI.

TO THE MUSE.

HITHER? Albeit I follow fast,

In all life's circuit I but find,

Not where thou art, but where thou wast,
Sweet beckoner, more fleet than wind!
I haunt the pine-dark solitudes,
With soft brown silence carpeted,
And plot to snare thee in the woods:
Peace I o'ertake, but thou art fled!

I find the rock where thou didst rest,
The moss thy skimming foot hath prest;
All Nature with thy parting thrills,

Like branches after birds new-flown;
Thy passage hill and hollow fills
With hints of virtue not their own;
In dimples still the water slips

Where thou hast dipt thy finger-tips;

Just, just beyond, forever burn
Gleams of a grace without return;

Upon thy shade I plant my foot,

And through my frame strange raptures shoot; All of thee but thyself I grasp;

I seem to fold thy luring shape,

And vague air to my bosom clasp,
Thou lithe, perpetual Escape!

One mask and then another drops,
And thou art secret as before:

Sometimes with flooded ear I list,
And hear thee, wondrous organist,
From mighty continental stops
A thunder of new music pour;
Through pipes of earth and air and stone.
Thy inspiration deep is blown;

Through mountains, forests, open downs,
Lakes, railroads, prairies, states, and towns,
Thy gathering fugue goes rolling on
From Maine to utmost Oregon;

The factory-wheels in cadence hum,

« PreviousContinue »