« 前へ次へ »
We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods ; And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,
Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broodsYet, even there, a restless thought will steal To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.
Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet, The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meetStrange—that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
There's no contentment in a world like this,
Save in forgetting the immortal dream; We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,
That through the cloud-rists radiantly stream; Bird-like, the prisoned soul will lift its eye And pine till it is hooded from the sky.
THE TORN HAT.
(A PICTURE BY SULLY.)
. . . . “A leaf
THERE's something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one, With his unchecked, unbidden joy,
His dread of books and love of fun, And in his clear and ready smile, Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed by sadnessWhich brings me to my childhood back, As if I trod its very track,
And felt its very gladness.
And yet it is not in his play,
When every trace of thought is lost, And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall,
His merry laugh like music trill, And I in sadness hear it all —
For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things nowBut when, amid the earnest game,
He stops, as if he music heard,
As of the carol of a bird,
'Tis then that on his face I look, His beautiful but thoughtful face,
And, like a long-forgotten book, Its sweet, familiar meanings trace,
Remembering a thousand things
Which passed me on those golden wings, Which time has fettered now
Things that came o’er me with a thrill,
A holier and a gentler cast,
”Tis strange how thought upon a child
Will, like a presence, sometimes press,
And life itself is in excess-
How. in his heart will spring
And on its silent wing,
“ A violet by a mossy stone,
Half hidden from the eye,
I HAVE found violets. April hath come on,