What is it? a learned man Could give it a clumsy name. Let him name it who can, The beauty would be the same.
The tiny cell is forlorn, Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill? Did he push, when he was uncurled, A golden foot or a fairy horn Through his dim water-world?
Slight, to be crush'd with a tap Of my finger-nail on the sand! Small, but a work divine! Frail, but of force to withstand, Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three-decker's oaken spine Athwart the ledges of rock, Here on the Breton strand!
O THE Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it,
And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it.
I know the realms where people say The flowers have not their fellow; I know where they shine out like suns, The purple and the yellow.
I know where ladies live enchained In luxury's silken fetters,
And flowers as bright as glittering gems Are used for written letters.
But ne'er was flower so fair as this, In modern days or olden; It groweth on its nodding stem Like to a garland golden.
And all about my mother's door Shine out its glittering bushes, And down the glen, where clear as light The mountain water gushes.
Take all the rest, but give me this, And the bird that nestles in it. I love it for it loves the Broom, The green and yellow linnet.
Well, call the rose the queen of flowers, And boast of that of Sharon,
Of lilies like to marble cups
And the golden rod of Aaron.
I care not how these flowers may be Beloved of man and woman;
The Broom it is the flower for me, That groweth on the common.
O the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it.
THE golden-rod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
The gentian's bluest fringes Are curling in the sun, In dusky pods the milkweed Its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest In every meadow-nook, And asters by the brookside Make asters in the brook.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here,
With summer's best of wealth
And autumn's best of cheer.
I SEE the Moon, and the Moon sees me; God bless the Moon, and God bless me!
LADY MOON, Lady Moon, where are you roving? "Over the sea."
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? "All that love me."
Are you not tired with rolling, and never Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale and so sad, as forever Wishing to weep?
"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me: You are too bold:
I must obey my dear Father above me, And do as I'm told."
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? "Over the sea."
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? "All that love me."
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION.
Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong; What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing and loving, all come back together; Then the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, "I love my Love, and my Love loves me."
THE BALLAD OF THE THRUSH.
ACROSS the noisy street,
I hear him careless throw One warning utterance sweet; Then, faint at first and low, The full notes closer grow— Hark! what a torrent gush! They pour, they overflow- Sing on,-sing on, O Thrush!
What trick, what dream's deceit Has fooled his fancy so
To scorn of dust and heat?
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