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Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving, with Other Ballads and Poems
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And pace through the vaulted hall,
And mark the stately columns,
And the pictures on the wall;
With the costly gems about them,
That send their light afar,
With a chaste and softened splendor
Like the light of a distant star!
And where is this wonderful castle,
With its rich emblazonings,
Whose pomp so far surpasses
The homes of the greatest kings?
Come out with me at morning
And lie in the meadow-grass,
And lift your eyes to the ether blue,
And you will see it pass.
There! can you not see the battlements;
And the turrets stately and high,
Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds,
And lost in the arching sky?
Dear friend, you are only dreaming,
Your castle so stately and fair
Is only a fanciful structure,—
A castle in the air.
Perchance you are right. I know not
If a phantom it may be;
But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel
That it lives, and lives for me.
For when clouds and darkness are round me,
And my heart is heavy with care,
I steal me away from the noisy crowd,
To dwell in my castle fair.
There are servants to do my bidding;
There are servants to heed my call;
And I, with a master's air of pride,
May pace through the vaulted hall.
And I envy not the monarchs
With cities under their sway;
For am I not, in my own right,
A monarch as proud as they?
What matter, then, if to others
My castle a phantom may be,
Since I feel, in the depths of my own heart,
That it is not so to me?
APPLE-BLOSSOMS
I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,
In the fragrant orchard close,
And around me floats the scented air,
With its wave-like tidal flows.
I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,
And call no king my peer;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
I lie on a couch of downy grass,
With delicate blossoms strewn,
And I feel the throb of Nature's heart
Responsive to my own.
Oh, the world is fair, and God is good,
That maketh life so dear;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,
The delicate blue of the sky,
And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints
That drift so lazily by.
And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,
And Heaven, it seemeth near;
Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
SUMMER HOURS
It is the year's high noon,
The earth sweet incense yields,
And o'er the fresh, green fields
Bends the clear sky of June.
I leave the crowded streets,
The hum of busy life,
Its clamor and its strife,
To breathe thy perfumed sweets.
O rare and golden hours!
The bird's melodious song,
Wavelike, is borne along
Upon a strand of flowers.
And mark the stately columns,
And the pictures on the wall;
With the costly gems about them,
That send their light afar,
With a chaste and softened splendor
Like the light of a distant star!
And where is this wonderful castle,
With its rich emblazonings,
Whose pomp so far surpasses
The homes of the greatest kings?
Come out with me at morning
And lie in the meadow-grass,
And lift your eyes to the ether blue,
And you will see it pass.
There! can you not see the battlements;
And the turrets stately and high,
Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds,
And lost in the arching sky?
Dear friend, you are only dreaming,
Your castle so stately and fair
Is only a fanciful structure,—
A castle in the air.
Perchance you are right. I know not
If a phantom it may be;
But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel
That it lives, and lives for me.
For when clouds and darkness are round me,
And my heart is heavy with care,
I steal me away from the noisy crowd,
To dwell in my castle fair.
There are servants to do my bidding;
There are servants to heed my call;
And I, with a master's air of pride,
May pace through the vaulted hall.
And I envy not the monarchs
With cities under their sway;
For am I not, in my own right,
A monarch as proud as they?
What matter, then, if to others
My castle a phantom may be,
Since I feel, in the depths of my own heart,
That it is not so to me?
APPLE-BLOSSOMS
I sit in the shadow of apple-boughs,
In the fragrant orchard close,
And around me floats the scented air,
With its wave-like tidal flows.
I close my eyes in a dreamy bliss,
And call no king my peer;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
I lie on a couch of downy grass,
With delicate blossoms strewn,
And I feel the throb of Nature's heart
Responsive to my own.
Oh, the world is fair, and God is good,
That maketh life so dear;
For is not this the rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
I can see, through the rifts of the apple-boughs,
The delicate blue of the sky,
And the changing clouds with their marvellous tints
That drift so lazily by.
And strange, sweet thoughts sing through my brain,
And Heaven, it seemeth near;
Oh, is it not a rare, sweet time,
The blossoming time of the year?
SUMMER HOURS
It is the year's high noon,
The earth sweet incense yields,
And o'er the fresh, green fields
Bends the clear sky of June.
I leave the crowded streets,
The hum of busy life,
Its clamor and its strife,
To breathe thy perfumed sweets.
O rare and golden hours!
The bird's melodious song,
Wavelike, is borne along
Upon a strand of flowers.
Другие электронные книги автора Horatio Alger
Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
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