Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be: About and about through the intricate channels that flow Everywhere, Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low lying lanes, And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, Farewell, my lord Sun! The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run "Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir; Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr; Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run; And the sea and the marsh are one. How still the plains of the waters be! The tide is at his highest height: And it is night. 15. And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep Roll in on the souls of men, But who will reveal to our waking ken The forms that swim and the shapes that creep Under the waters of sleep? And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes of Glynn. Lanier: The Marshes of Glynn.1 My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote: Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, Here Ischia smiles And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. 1 From The Poems of Sidney Lanier. Used with the kind permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sous. 6. Influence of emotion on inflection 16. Men told me, Lord, it was a vale of tears 1 Used with the kind permission of the publishers, J. B. Lippincott Com pany. When all was ended then should I demand Lord, here am I, my three-score years and ten I ask for nothing. Let the balance fall! Lo! I have dwelt with Thee, Lord. Let me die. I could no more through all Eternity. David Starr Jordan: Men Told Me, Lord.1 17. Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their confessions prayers and Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shadows and night-dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight 1 Used with the kind permission of the author. |