Stray Pebbles from the Shores of Thought. Gould Elizabeth PorterЧитать онлайн книгу.

      "I loafe and invite my soul."

      And what do I feel?

      An influx of life from the great central power

      That generates beauty from seedling to flower.

      "I loafe and invite my soul."

      And what do I hear?

      Original harmonies piercing the din

      Of measureless tragedy, sorrow, and sin.

      "I loafe and invite my soul."

      And what do I see?

      The temple of God in the perfected man

      Revealing the wisdom and end of earth's plan.

      Trip lightly, joyous hours,

      While Day her heart reveals.

      Such wealth from secret bowers

      King Time himself ne'er steals.

      O joy, King Time ne'er steals!

      Breathe gently, tireless hours,

      While Night in beauty sleeps.

      Hold back e'en softest showers, —

      Enough that mortal weeps.

      Ah me, that my heart weeps!

      "Cradled thus and wind caressed,"

      Under the trees,

      (Oh what ease.)

      Nature full of joyous greeting;

      Dancing, singing, naught secreting,

      Ever glorious thoughts repeating —

      Pause, O Time,

      I'm satisfied!

      Now all life

      Is glorified!

      Is life a farce?

      Tell me, O breeze,

      Bearing the perfume of flowers and trees,

      While gaily decked birds

      Pour forth their gladness in songs beyond words,

      And cloudlets coquette in the fresh summer air

      Rejoicing in everything being so fair —

      Is life a farce?

      How can it be, child,

      When Nature at heart

      Is but the great spirit of love and of art

      Eternally saying, "I must God impart."

      Is life a farce?

      Tell me, O soul,

      Struggling to act out humanity's whole

      'Midst Error and Wrong,

      And failure in sight of true victory's song;

      With Wisdom and Virtue at times lost to view,

      And love for the many lost in love for the few —

      Is life a farce?

      How can it be, child,

      When humanity's heart

      Is but the great spirit of love and of art

      Eternally crying, "I must God impart."

      O butterfly, now prancing

      Through the air,

      So glad to share

      The freedom of new living,

      Come, tell me my heart's seeking.

      Shall I too know

      After earth's throe

      Full freedom of my being?

      Shall I, as you,

      Through law as true,

      Know life of fuller meaning?

      O happy creature, dancing,

      Is time too short

      With pleasure fraught

      For you to heed my seeking?

      Ah, well, you've left me thinking:

      If here on earth

      A second birth

      Can so transform a being,

      Why may not I

      In worlds on high

      Be changed beyond earth's dreaming?

      The rustling leaves above me,

      The breezes sighing round me,

      A network glimpse of bluest sky

      To meet the upturned seeing eye,

      The greenest lawn beneath me,

      Loved flowers and birds to greet me,

      A well-kept house of ancient days

      To tell of human nature's ways, —

      Oh happy, happy hour!

      Whence comes all this to bless me,

      The soft wind to caress me,

      The life which does my strength renew

      For purer visions of the true?

      Alas! no one can tell me.

      But, hush! let Nature lead me.

      Let even wisest questions cease

      While I breathe in such life and peace

      This happy, happy hour.

      "The day is placid in its going,

      To a lingering motion bound,

      Like a river in its flowing —

      Can there be a softer sound?"

      O rare, sweet summer day,

      Could'st thou not longer stay?

      The soothing, whispering wind's caress

      Was bliss to weary brain,

      The songs of birds had power to bless

      As in fair childhood's reign.

      The tinted clouds were free from showers,

      The sky was wondrous clear,

      The precious incense of rare flowers

      Made sweet the atmosphere;

      The shimmering haze of mid-day hour

      Was balm to restlessness,

      While thought of silent hidden power

      Was strength for helplessness —

      O rare, sweet summer day,

      Could'st thou not longer stay?

      Blow