Stray Pebbles from the Shores of Thought. Gould Elizabeth PorterЧитать онлайн книгу.
breezes, fresh breezes, on Love's swiftest wing,
And bear her the message my heart dares to sing.
Pause not on the highways where gathers earth's dust,
Nor in the fair heavens, though cloudlets say must.
But blow through the valleys where flowers await
To give of their essence ere yielding to fate;
Or blow on the hill tops where atmospheres lie
Imbued with the health which no money can buy.
But fail not, O breezes, on Love's swiftest wing
To bear her the message my heart dares to sing.
The breezes, thus ladened, sped on in their flight,
As, cradled in hammock, I sang in delight,
On that blest summer day in the years long ago,
When life was all sunshine and youth all aglow.
The sweets of the valleys, the breath of the hills
Were gathered – the best that our loved earth distills —
As, obedient still to my wish, on they flew
To the home of my darling they now so well knew.
Alas for the breezes, alas for my heart,
Alas for my message, so full of love's art!
If only the breezes had followed their will,
And loitered among the pure cloudlets so still,
They'd have met a fair soul from the earth just set free
In search of their help for its message to me;
The message my darling, with last fleeting breath,
In vain tried to utter, o'ertaken by death.
The breezes, fresh breezes, have blown on since then,
With messages laden again and again.
As for me, I send none. I wait only their will
To bring me that message my lone heart to fill.
They'll find it some day in a light zephyr chase,
For nothing is lost in pure love's boundless space.
ON JEFFERSON HILL
The sovereign mountains bask in sunset rays,
The valleys rest in peace;
The lingering clouds melt into twilight haze,
The birds their warbling cease;
The villagers' hour of welcome sleep is near,
The cattle wander home,
While wrapped in summer-scented atmosphere,
Calm evening comes to roam
With gentle pace
Through star-lit space,
Till moon-kissed Night holds all in her embrace,
And Morning waits to show her dawn-flushed face.
ON SUGAR HILL
The lovely valleys nestling in the arms
Of glorious mountain peaks;
The purple tint of sunset hour, and charms
The evening hour bespeaks;
The monarch peak kissed by the rising sun,
While clouds keep guard below;
Grand, restful views, with foliage autumn-won,
And Northern lights rare glow, —
Will e'er recall,
In memory's hall,
The happy days when on fair "Look-Off's" height,
Sweet friendship cast her hues of golden light.
Hotel Look-Off, September, 1891.
AT FAIRFIELDS1, WENHAM
Buttercups and daisies,
Clover red and white,
Ferns and crown-topped grasses
Waving with delight,
Dainty locust-blossoms,
All that glad June yields,
Welcome me with gladness
To dearly-loved "Fairfields."
But where's my happy collie dog,
My Rosa?
The orioles sing greeting,
The butterflies come near,
The hens cease not their cackling,
The horses neigh "I'm here,"
The cows nod "I have missed you,"
The pigs' eyes even shine,
And from the red-house hearth-stone
Comes pet cat Valentine.
But where's my happy collie dog,
My Rosa?
I miss her joyful greeting,
Her handsome, high-bred face,
Her vigorous, playful action
In many a fair field chase.
Not even lively Sancho
Can fill for me her place.
O Rosa, happy Rosa,
Gone where the good dogs go,
Dost find such fields as "Fairfields,"
More love than we could show?
BLOSSOM-TIME
Blossoms floating through the air,
Bearing perfumes rich and rare,
Free from trouble, toil, and care.
Would I were a blossom!
Robins singing in the trees,
Feeling every velvet breeze,
Free from knowledge that bereaves.
Would I were a robin!
Violets peaceful in the vale,
Telling each its happy tale,
Free from worldly noise and sale.
Would I were a violet!
Blessed day of needed wealth,
Full of Nature's perfect health,
Fill me with thy power.
Then like blossoms I shall be,
Wafting only purity,
Or like robins, singing free
'Midst the deepening mystery,
Or like violets, caring naught
Only to reflect God's thought."
Porter Manse.
THE PRIMROSE
Who tells you, sweet primrose, 'tis time to wake up
After dreaming all day?
Who changes so quickly your sombre green dress
To the yellow one gay,
And makes you the pet of the twilight's caress,
And of poet's sweet lay?
Who does,
"Fairfields" is but another name for "Porter Manse."