Oklahoma and Other Poems

"O, GENTLE SHADE OF QUIET WOODS." "O, GENTLE SHADE OF QUIET WOODS." O, gentle shade of quiet woods, Where nature dwells in leafy halls, I love the sacred voice that falls In music o'er thy solitudes! Within thine arms the weary heart Is hidden from the toils of men, And pleasure makes ambition start Into a nobler life again. Among the fragrant shadows throng With all the riches of their truth, Glad echoes from the days of youth And mingle into laughing song; While angel fingers touch the keys That slumber in the silent breast, Till mem'ry wakes her lullabies And childhood fancies rock to rest. Again the hours of early joy Upon the aged years intrude, And dance amid the summer wood The golden dreamings of the boy; Again the songs of wonder thrill The days of life with gladness wild, And lofty visions fondly fill The longing fancies of the child. Enchanted choirs of baby years, Sweet dirges from the cradle's keys, The glories of your harmonies Impel my secret soul to tears! The roses of my fancies fade Into the dust of wicked strife, And all the promise boyhood made Has proved the desert of my life. O, fragrant woods of happy times, Fair children of the glowing days, How sweet the music of your lays Is mingled into fairy chimes! Ye lisp again the songs of yore, The stories of my infant years, And throw a sweeter cadence o'er My hoary sorrows and my tears! LOVE. Angelic theme of ancient lays! By Doric hills, Athenian vales, The nations bound thy brows with bays And fanned thy cheeks with scented gales; While golden lamps illumed thy shrines Beside the Tiber and the Po, Till anthems thine were taught to flow Along the Alps and Appenines. The souls of sages and of slaves Were faithful servants unto thee, Whose rapture soothed the Grecian waves, And kissed the islands of the sea; And bounding on from strand to strand It crossed the coasts and climbed the slopes, To place a crown of tender hopes Upon the vine-clad Roman land. Great empress of that early time, Glad ruler of the gentle souls, Each year is changed to raptured rhyme That o'er thy laughing bosom rolls; For cycles as they sink to rest So closely guard thy joy and truth, That fondness and immortal youth Give sweet embraces to thy breast. Thou goddess of the Paphian shrine, Cytheran queen of Ion's isle, Fair Venus from the land of wine, The races love thy dewy smile; While silent hills and dewy glades Bear praises on each breeze that blows, Sweet as the breath of morning rose That blossoms in the woodland shades! Then crown, O, Love, these later days With mystic charms of wondrous bliss, That lived when thou wert wreathed with bays, And nations hungered for thy kiss! No more thy temples tower above, But lives and bosoms hold thee dear; Then come with all thy worth of cheer And gentleness, O, mighty Love! WINTERS ON THE FARM. Glad winters on the olden farm! How raptures from those early times Commingle into fairy chimes Which gently banish cries of harm! My fainting soul finds rest the whiles Within the arms of memory, And tender scenes of boyish glee Transform my sorrows into smiles. How brightly beamed the pleasures then, When frigid fingers came to throw A wintry winding sheet of snow Around the silent homes of men! But happiness found no alarm, For safe with cheer, secure with love, She gladly grew and sweetly throve Through winters on the olden farm. With merry bells and busy sleighs, That sung and flew o'er icy vales And climbed the hills as fleet as gales, Like singing phantoms died the days; Or then with coat and muffler warm Sweet children glided on the lake, Or chased the rabbit through the brake, In winters on the olden farm. How glad the joys at eventide When 'round the hearth-stone's pleasant heat The simple song in music sweet From loving voices floated wide! The mellowed apples gave a charm, While pop-corn white and cider bright With worlds of laughter lent delight To winters on the olden farm. Thrice happy nights and happy days, Sweet isles of pleasure in the past, May long your hallowed moments cast A sacred sunshine o'er my ways! And where life leads me, gladly arm My soul with angel songs of bliss, With true embrace and holy kiss, O, winters on the olden farm! "O, WEAK AND WEARY WORLD!" O weak and weary world Forever struggling on, When will thy toils in comfort be impearled, When will thy sorrows and thy cares be gone? When shall the races, all ambition dead, Forsake the stony slope and rocky steep, And in contentment sweetly wed The joys that never sleep? O, weak and weary world, Long hast thou toiled in vain; The smoky fumes of woe are darkly curled With endless troubles and enduring pain; When will thy bosom, faint and helpless grown, Rest sweetly in the balmy bowers of ease? Avoid the woes that constant groan And follow shapes that please? O, weak and weary world, Why search the hills and seas? All Nature is in secrecy enfurled And thou canst never solve her mysteries; Thou canst not understand nor comprehend Her varied movements nor the intricate, The systems that so far extend, Creation wide and great. O, weak and weary world, Why more attempt advance? Long have thy forces in confusion whirled In circles through the misty maze of chance; The nations rise and sink in sepulchres, Thy peoples perish in a common grave; Progression dies, perfection errs, Wrong rules the wood and wave. O, weak and weary world, Let thy ambition rest! Long have defeat and gloomy ruin twirled In dark embrace the purest and the best; Destruction is thy portion, death thy part, Ashes thy glory, and thy splendor dust; Then ease the longings of thy breast; Serve pleasures well; and trust! EX ANIMA. The gloomy hours of silence wake Remembrance and her train, And phantoms through the fancies chase The mem'ries that remain; And hidden in the dark embrace Of days that now are gone, I see a form, a fairy form, And fancy hurries on! I see the old familiar smile, I hear the tender tone, I greet the softness of the glance That cheered me when alone; The ruby chains of rich romance That bound our bosoms o'er, I still can know, I still can feel, As they were felt before. I name the vows, the fresh young vows, That we together said; What matters it? She can not know; She slumbers with the dead! Again the fields of fate I sow, As she and I have sown; I dream again the same old dreams, But I am left alone! The twining grasses verdant wreathe Above her silent grave; The rose and violet over all Their purest blossoms wave; Unbidden from their fountains fall The tender tides of tears; A sorrow winds among the days, And chains the passing years. My life commingles shine with shade, The lily with the rose, And in my heart a loathsome weed Beside each lily grows; Through every thought, through every deed, The somber shadows play; And I am sad, alone and sad, And life is never gay. "LO, ALL THE AGE IS RANK WITH WRONG." Lo, all the age is rank with wrong! The nations kneel to monstrous might, And horrid cries that haunt the night, Have hushed the notes of happy song; Mankind the deepest truth has missed, The best emotions have grown dim; We praise the God that dwelt in Christ, But crucify the man in him. Laws, noble, good, and great at first, With plan perverted, bind again The regal rights of mind and men And prove of tyrants far the worst; With blinded eyes is Nature made, And knows her constant purpose crossed, While crafty Jacob plies his trade And Esau finds his blessing lost. Earth yields her fruits in ample store; Her children all are heirs that trace Their lineage through the royal race, And all her wealth is theirs—and more; But one with cunning hand controls The portions that his brothers fed, While thousands—just and worthy souls— In aimless anguish cry for bread! No royal blood by caste or creed, No pride of place, no gild of gold Can warm the weak, accursed with cold, Or light the awful nights of need; Labor alone can blessings bring To crown the brows of freedom's brave; The toiler is the truest king, The idler is the only slave! But laugh, O, Labor, dry thy tears! A better day is drawing nigh; Hope brightens all the somber sky; The golden age of Love is near! Behold! But yonder stands a Star! The ancient lies are downward hurled; A man—a child—is greater far Than all the wealth of all the world! "LOVE, THOU GAYEST FANCY-WEAVER." Love, thou gayest fancy-weaver, Heart-betrayer, soul-deceiver, Come with all thy clinging kisses; Bringing all thy beaming blisses; It may serve the cynic's parts, If he curse and if he scout thee, But, O, where were gentle hearts, If they had to live without thee! Weave the spells of thy beguiling 'Round and 'round me with thy smiling, Till the ashen cheek is beaming, And the faded eye is gleaming; Millions may endure the fight In the battle vain to end thee, But when taste they thy delight They will serve thee and defend thee. Bring thy little winsome graces And the sweets of glad embraces, Till the pleasures all are dancing Into mazy whirls entrancing; It may please the icy breast To despise thee and distress thee, But the burning hearts find rest When they bless thee and caress thee. Send thy gladness, laughing rover, All my sorrows o'er and over, Till the strains of happy pleasure Mingle in melodious measure; It may give a transient glee To condemn thy ways and sever, But the sweets of melody Thou wilt murmur on forever. Bind my heart in silken chaining, Till from thee is none remaining; Clothe my soul in glad completeness Of thy happiness and sweetness; When the times are true, the soul May not hunger for thy gladness, But when surging sorrows roll Thou alone shall banish sadness. THE FARMER. Let nations encircle the brows of the brave With glory the greatest that glitters below, Who make in the blood of the battle a grave For all that are found in the ranks of the foe; But I from the greatness, the grandeur, and gleam, Would turn to the light of clear-glowing hearth, And choose from his joy for the soul of my theme The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth. Let millions give worship to riches and wealth, That gay in their brilliancy sparkle and gleam, And serve with the hands of their happiest health The haughty who idle and revel and dream; In hall or in hamlet, in cottage or cave, Or sickened with sorrow or maddened with mirth, There's none I shall serve with the will of a slave But the farmer, the lord and the king of the earth. Let poets in praises heart-swelling and sweet With rapture that rises in beautiful song, Make sages immortal and ages replete With hundreds of heroes who wrestled the wrong; All honest men well from the Muses may claim The numbers that murmur to merit and worth, And so I would fold in the mantles of fame The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth. Let orators over the deeds of the great Re-echo the tributes of tenderest praise, And over the ashes that slumber in state Let peoples their marbles and monuments raise; But I, from the frenzied applauses uncouth, To those who are chained in the bondage of birth, Would flee to surround with the lilies of truth The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth. Let hearts that are grateful in gratitude crown The friend of the many and foe of the few; Let souls in their secret admiring enthrone Whatever a martyr or minion may do; But down in my bosom while reasonings reign, Of friendship and love there is never a dearth For him who is toiling in pleasure or pain, The farmer, the lord and the king of the earth. "NATURE HAS A THOUSAND CHOIRS." Nature has a thousand choirs Singing in the sylvan shadows, And the music of her lyres Echoes in the merry meadows; Always glad with golden glee Sounds her happy melody, Swelling wild in fairy measure With the songs of purest pleasure. Where the dancing fountains play Winding warbles shake and shiver, And soft carols rise alway From the ripples of the river; Sweetest voices fondly call From the fleecy waterfall, And the joyful chimes are creeping Where the lovely lake is sleeping. Raptures echo in the wood, Where the pimpernel reposes; Gladness fills the solitude Where the blushes kiss the roses; Sunny beam and somber gloom Utter hymns from bowers of bloom, Where the vernal winds are crying And the vocal birds are flying. O'er the smiling scenes of earth Nature throws no sullen weather; All her soul is full of mirth, Song and springtime walk together; For the harps of happy days Wake the woodlands with their lays, And where lilies white are springing Gentle melodies are ringing. O, wild Nature, from thy soul Fill the human hearts with gladness, Till their lives shall gladly troll Songs that banish all their sadness! Bathe their breasts with songs of love From the Edens found above, Till their lips shall sing the story Of their happiness and glory! THE WORKINGMAN. God bless the brawny arms of toil, The noble hearts and royal hands, That plow the plain and seed the soil, And grow the grains of laughing lands! King in the blessed vales of life Where perfect pleasures first began, May blessings come with raptures rife To crown the humble workingman! His kingdoms wave with bannered corn And meadows bright with fairy bloom, While duties of his heart are born Where sylvan shadows hide the gloom; Sweet Nature fills his heart with health, While rustic warbles lead his soul Where rill and fountain sing by stealth And breezes soft with music roll. He lives where simple wishes throng, And give contentment to his breast, While tender lullabies of song Bring angel gladness to his rest; No praises linger o'er his name Where he in silence works apart, And honor never links with fame The modest glories of his heart. He needs no kiss of royal crown To wield the axe or guide the plow, Or woo the smiles of heaven down To cling in clusters on his brow; But in the sacred shine of love, With humble deeds he lives his days, And, drinking from the founts above, He scatters gladness o'er his ways. Proud monarch of the tattered vest, Thy toil is fraught with greater gains Than his that bleeds where warrior crest Slays thousands on the battled plains! Thy duty prompts to build, to grow, The forest fell, the city plan And scatter seeds of love below, Where'er thou art, O, workingman! GIVING AND FORGIVING. 'Tis not by selfish miser's greed The great rewards of love are given; 'Tis not the cynic's haughty creed Which gladly makes this world a heaven; But tender word and loving deed Increase the angel joys of living, And mortals gain life's grandest meed By acts of giving and forgiving. Let warriors bold with armies fight Their awful battles brave and gory, To reap the harvest of their might And fill a gaping world with glory! The humble heroes, out of sight, Where hidden tears and woes are striving, Win victories for truth and right By deeds of giving and forgiving. Let mighty kings of loyal lands Despise the faithful sons of duty, And with the swords of vandal hands Destroy the homes of joy and beauty; The honest lords of low commands Will find a nobler way of thriving, In lonely vales where sorrow stands, By sweets of giving and forgiving. Let rich men with their heaps of gold Be servants of the shining splendor, And crush the bosom, poor and old, That lives by mercies pure and tender; But still the soul with saints enrolled Will keep its charity surviving, And have its humble glory told In tales of giving and forgiving. O, helping hands and Christian hearts, Twin parents of the race's gladness, God speed the time when your sweet arts Shall banish every sign of sadness! When mournful cries, when pain's wild darts, Shall cease to curse the days of living, And Heaven's love to man imparts The joys of giving and forgiving. "O, SACRED SOULS THAT GRANDLY SING." O sacred souls that grandly sing The secret songs of human hearts, Where your wild music madly starts, The sorrows into raptures spring! Within the warbles of your chimes Man reads the longings of his days, And finds, amid your lofty lays, Glad music for his gloomy times. How sweet the mute, melodious cries Which only lives like yours may hear, Where pleasures thrill the singer's ear With laughing strains of lullabies! You know soft voices, rich with love, That mingle in the fields and woods, To bless the silent solitudes With carols coming from above. Your golden harps resound alway, Where valley bound with blossom lies, And rugged mountains highest rise, And silver fountains softly play; While in the gladness of your songs The fainting bosoms hope again, And toil among their fellow men, Forgetful of their ancient wrongs. You sport with singing meadows bright, With fragrant winds and scented gales, Where shine and shadow kiss the vales In fairy fondness of delight; For where the meads and forests blend, The sweetest songs of life are found, And where the lonely hills abound The soul of music meets a friend. Glad hearts that warble songs divine, Sweet singers of a mourning race, The ages long your brows shall grace With crowns where bays and laurels twine! For man the grandest garland brings, To bless the tender lives that tell, And with their mystic music swell, The lays that Nature fondly sings! CHRISTMAS TIME. How sweet the brazen belfries chime Across the hills and through the dales, And o'er the breasts of meadowed vales, Beneath the smiles of Christmas time! Rough sorrow's thorny fingers grow As soft and waxen as a child's, And balmy pleasures o'er the wilds Chant music to the drifting snow. Ah, scattered locks that fringe my face, With wintry wisps of white and gray! Ah, sad, dimmed eyes that look away To artless childhood's tender grace! To-night those years with joys sublime Steal over me and fill my soul With lullabies of bliss that roll The golden glees of Christmas time. Again I live in wondrous days, When baby hands with chubby glee Plucked gladness from the loaded tree Where loving burdens bent the sprays; The sunny songs of that sweet clime Sing softly in my soul again, Till I forget the ways of men And laugh and shout at Christmas time. Angelic joys that died in pain, Sweet raptures from the days of bliss, Your loving lips with clinging kiss Thrill all my heart and soul and brain; And turning from my weary rhyme To count my sorrows o'er and o'er, I'd give my life to know once more Those wondrous days of Christmas time. Ring, laughing bells, ring out to-night! From happy years that now are fled, You bring the faces of the dead, And bless me with a deep delight! Away, away, these thoughts of men, These toils of mine, that sadness give; My heart grows young and I would live My Christmas pleasures o'er again! TRUEST HEROES ARE UNKNOWN. All worthies are not sung in song. That live their lives and do their deeds Where wounded nature writhes and bleeds Beneath the savage blows of wrong; From humble duties tender grown, The truest heroes are unknown. The heart that toils where none may know And uncomplaining conquers care, To save his loved ones or to spare His fellows from the pangs of woe, Is more the hero than who shields His country on the bleeding fields. He claims no praises for his love, He seeks no tribute for his worth, But sows the desert hearts of earth With blossoms from the vales above; And in their sunshine warm and bright He holds these duties as his right. Where lives are dark with dismal groans Great men are often chained by fate, And oft are slaves more truly great Than princes on their purple thrones; But servant brows are bound with shame, While monarchs flutter into fame. Deeds pure and noble, gladly done, Unselfish work for sickly souls When sorrow in black surges rolls And gloomy darkness hides the sun,— These in their truth make more the man Than royal aim or princely plan. But sometime man shall rule by thought, And worth shall gain her just return, Till all shall every singer spurn Who in the ancient cycles taught That heroes rest in royal graves, But never in the tombs of slaves. IF WE BUT KNEW. If we but knew the weary way, The poisoned paths of hostile hate, The roughened roads of fiercest fate, Through which our brother's journey lay, Would we condemn, as now we do, His faults and failures,—if we knew? Would we forget the shadows grim, The lonely hours of grief and pain, The follies dead, the pleasures slain, The tears and toils that hindered him, And only prize the deeds that grew To mighty conquest, if we knew? Would careless hand sow tares of strife, Amid the blooms of happy care, And plant, in spite of sigh and prayer, Wild thorns amid the blameless life, Till sorrows rule the nations through, With scarce a rival, if we knew? Would we be quicker with our praise, And gladly give the greatest meeds As recompense for noble deeds, And heroes crown with brightest bays, And slay all foes that hearts imbue With doubt and weakness, if we knew? From lofty kings would constant worth On peasant brows their crowns bestow, And rising from her overthrow Eternal justice rule the earth, While right would strip the favored few To bless the many, if we knew? If we but knew! Ah, well-a-day! From lives that murmur, full of ills, Behind the shadows of the hills, God hides our brother's heart away; And we shall know in vales of rest That His eternal ways are best! HOPE. When man from pure perfection fell, And bathed his life in grief and woe, His angel heart had overthrow From all the joys he loved so well, And only Hope of all the host Remained to comfort him when lost. And when the other passions throw Their phantoms in the arms of death, And pour their last remaining breath Within the dismal haunts of woe, Then Hope alone of all remains To soothe our sorrows and our pains. Hope makes the fearful millions brave, The helpless and the weary strong, Gives courage to the fainting throng And whispers freedom to the slave, And unto each, where'er he lives, Unceasing cause to struggle gives. In heavy hours of ghostly gloom When raging billows dash and beat Around the weak and weary feet Which tremble on the yawning tomb, The harp of Hope divinely sings Exalted songs of better things. It lifts the gaze of mortal eyes Above the desert and the dearth, Above the barren fields of earth, Unto the promise of the skies, And to the last expiring breath Gives comfort in the hour of death. O, sacred light of human life, Eternal star of Heaven's love, Thy brightness ever shines above The darkest hours of woe and strife, To raise our souls above the sod Into the holy home of God! DESPONDENCY. O, gloomy world that rolls in weary space, And moans wild music to the broken spheres, Whose rivers wander into seas of tears, Despair has bound thee in a close embrace; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more! Death grows beside existence, and with time Is comrade of its changes; cycles roll Their heavy circles through the human soul, And pour their dirges into mournful rhyme; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more! He gropes in shadows for a happy beam That shall delight his bosom; into mist Dissolves the substance that ambition kissed, While greatness grows the garland of a dream; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more! Endeavor struggles to an open grave; The past is lost in monumental dust, Where age on age in angry ire has thrust The wise, the strong, the mighty, and the brave; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more! The years are shades that totter from their tombs, The ages, ghosts that live in catacombs And lure the Present to their awful homes, Where ancient races wander in the glooms; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more! Oblivion welcomes men with gentle arms, And presses them like infants to her breast, Repeats to them her lullabies of rest, And guards them from all sorrows and alarms; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more! Then hasten, world, and let my battle cease; I care not where I stay nor when I go; For action gives unhappiness and woe, But Lethe brings forgetfulness and peace; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more! IF LOVE WERE KING. If Love were king, That sacred Love which knows not selfish pleasure, But for its children spends its fondest treasure, Sad hearts would sing, And all the hosts of misery and wrong Forget their anguish in the happy song That joy would bring. If Love were king, Gaunt wickedness would hide his loathsome features, And virtue would to all the world's sad creatures Her treasures fling; Till drooping souls would rise above their fate, And find sweet flowers for all the desolate And sorrowing. If Love were king, Before the scepter of his might should vanish Toil's curse and care, and happiness should banish Want's awful sting; While laughing plenty from sweet hands would throw Delightful raptures over all below, And gladness bring. If Love were king, The nations would eternal sunshine borrow, And conquer all the heavy clouds of sorrow And every thing That binds the race in groans and agony; Life's changing seasons would forever be Unvaried spring. If Love were king! O, broken feet that wander worn and weary Beneath the crags and awful mountains dreary, With rapture cling Your anguished arms about him; drink delight Upon his perfect bosom soft and white And comforting! "SING ME THE OLD SONGS, MOTHER." Our souls are the deserts of sorrow, Our hearts are the ashes of hope, And madly from gladness we borrow The brightness where sadness may grope; My raptures in wretchedness vanish, My bosom is weeping with wrongs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs. My joys are in memory lying, Still ardently happy with youth, When smiles in ambition were dying, And life was the vision of youth; My brow for your gentle caresses And kisses of tenderness longs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs. Sweet murmurs in mystical measures Come soothingly over my soul, Where voices of babyish pleasures And echoes of lullabies roll; The struggles of all my endeavor Are bound in the darkest of thongs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs. I fain would return in my dreaming To years that proclaimed me a boy, When gladness was happily beaming And life was a musical toy; My sorrow has never Nepenthe, My woe in its bitterness throngs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs. TWO LIVES. Two infants in their cradles lie, Where lullabies of peace In gentle strains of tender music die. And carols never cease. Two urchins o'er the meadow lands Are bounding in their plays, Where sweet enjoyment with angelic hands Winds gladness o'er the days. Two boys, where golden fancies bless, Repose in sunny beams, And muse away the hours of happiness On couches made of dreams. Two men upon a summer sea Are toiling, brave and strong, Where pleasures roll their elfin harmony And labor ends in song. Two gray-haired sages, silvered o'er, In life meet once again, To name the wondrous happiness they bore Among their fellow-men. Two graves forever hide the twain Who found, in all their years, No secret shadows, where unbroken pain Held fountains full of tears. Two lives have passed from human reach, And few have heard of them, But joy had not been better served if each Had worn a diadem. Ah, bosoms here are strangely blest With perfect bliss that glows, And he above all others lives the best, Who has the fewest woes! "AWAY, AWAY, FROM THE SULTRY WAYS." Away, away, from the sultry ways Where the pleasures fall and fade, To the bannered corn and the meadowed bloom And the forest's cooling shade! Afar, afar, from the rooms of care With the toils of life distressed, To the grassy hills and the fragrant slopes And the quiet vales of rest! Away from the weary, dusty town, Where the sorrows dim the days, To the sleeping lake and the silent stream And the wildwood's tangled ways! To margins wide of the woodland pools, Where the wild birds troll their songs, Where the lilies laugh and the willows wave, And the pleasures dance in throngs! The dark-eyed nymphs and the fairy elves In their robes of laughing smiles, In the forests romp 'neath the leafy trees, Through the narrow long-drawn aisles. The bannered corn and the golden wheat In the ties of bliss are bound; The sweetest joys and highest hopes On the shady farms are found. The raptures reign in the holy scenes, And the old grow young once more, To roam the meadows and live again In the happy years of yore. Then haste, O, haste, to the country downs, Where the valleys are sweet with joys, And the soul grows young, and the heart is light, And the bosom is like a boy's! SPINSTERHOOD. Alone, alone, in the twilight gray, In the shadows so dark and dim, I watch through all of the weary hours, And I wait with my heart for him; For him who'll come, when he comes at all, As my king and warrior bold; Whose form so tall is my fortress wall And whose heart is a chunk of gold. Again, again, do I dream the dreams, All the dreams that my young heart knew, And through my soul do the yearnings thrill As of old they were wont to do; I know in truth when his face I see, I shall fall at his shining feet, Where'er it be and whoever is he, In the light of his glances sweet. I wait in vain for the sounds that rise From the tread of his horse's hoof, And still the mists hide his form away And forever he stays aloof; His shining face and his eyes so bright In the shades of the distance hide, And out of the night with the stars bedight He hath never approached my side! O, years, O, wonderful tide of years, From the shadows of time set free My king, my lover, my life, and bring To my heart what is most of me! Somewhere in pain do his yearnings grope For the joys that my love would bring; O, up the slope of his life-long hope, Guide the feet of my royal king! "SWEET FAIRIES FROM THE ISLES OF SONG."

Related documents

• Poems (1828)#36433
• Poems#65458
• Poems#65439
• Poems#61375
• Poems#59610