Sketches

by Nathaniel Parker Willis

SCRAPS FROM A JOURNAL.

I.

My heart is like a sleeping lake

Which takes the hue of cloud and sky,

And only feels its surface break

When birds of passage wander by,

Who dip their wings and upward soar,

And leave it quiet as before.

Thus change comes on me. If the light

Of the gay sun is drank by clouds,

And dulness sleeps upon the bright,

Clear garniture whose greenness shrouds

The naked nature; if the creep

Of lazy rain-clouds tells alone

Earth does not on its axle sleep,

And winds go over with a moan

Like birds wing-broken; if the sea

Looks like an agitated pall,

And sullied foam heaves mournfully,

And pitches from the dull green wall

Of waters; if the wild fowl rise

From the cold ocean with a plash,

And heavily wheel up the skies,

As if they would forget the dash

Of billows, and could pass away

From earthly sorrows as from earth;

If not one shorn, but sunny ray,

Leaps out like a stray thought of mirth;

If heaven looks sad, and seas look dull,

And nature’s beauty is a blank—

I feel as if my heart were full

Of waters from oblivion drank;

For I forget, like flowers, the hue

Of beauty, without sun and dew.

But a bright morning—when the lark

Is painted on the light blue sky,

And vapors rest upon the dark,

Deep pools of ebony that lie

In the hill shadows; when the leaves

Are stirring with the scented air,

And the bright drops that evening weaves

Like diamonds in the wavy hair

Of nature, glisten; when the wing

Of the light wind is but a shrine

On which the lowliest flower may fling

Its gift of odors; when the vine

Hath lifted its coarse leaf to show

Its azure clusters to the sun,

And quickened by his amorous glow,

The curling shoots stir one by one;

When every fibre, blade, and stem

That lifteth to the arch of blue,

Is jewelled with its droplet gem,

And every bathed and dainty hue

Hath a clear April freshness; when

The birds go caroling like streams

O’er pebbly courses, and the glen

Reechoes patiently the themes

A thousand summers and their birds

Have given in those very words;

When every nerve is nobly strung,

And leaping pulses swiftly pass,

And care is from the spirit flung

Like rain-drops from the swaying grass—

I feel as if my spirit took

From nature a new gift of sight,

And I could read her living book

By perfect and immediate light,

And knew, as angels know, how broad

Is the benevolence of God.

II.

It is a glorious morning. Storm

Hath left no traces, and the warm,

Rich sunshine cometh like a strain

Of parted music, back again.

The trees are bare, but like a true

And changeless friend, the sun shines through,

And round the sad and fallen leaves

His mesh of light he softly weaves.

I see and feel how very fair

This summer sun, and breezes are;

I see the white, thin vapors wreathed

About the hills as if they breathed;

I see the sky’s pure, delicate blue,

Like a soft eye which melts me through,

And I’ve remembered the sweet eyes

I likened to those gentle skies,

And gazed this hour as if their look

Were written in that azure book,

And the long echo came but now

Of my hot speech and silly vow.

I cannot wander; but I know

How earth’s deep voices softly flow;

I know how light the waters run

O’er the sere grass and fretful stone;

I know how fountains leap, how still

The winds creep over lake and hill;

The Autumn birds, the last leaf-fall,

The morn’s sweet breath—I know them all.

I know them all—and yet my feet

Are not where singing waters meet;

My books are for the running streams,

And stupid schoolmen for the dreams

Of gentle spirits; I am tied

While nature joyeth like a bride;

Chained down to reason on the cool,

Dull precepts of a skeptic’s rule,

While beauty over earth and sea

Is gushing as a fount let free.

It hath its lesson. Beautiful things

Are given like retreating wings;

Not to be gathered, never won,

But sent to lead the spirit on;

Winning the upward eye of prayer,

As ’twere a finger pointing there,

Till we have followed to the sky

An angel, imperceptibly.

III.

It is a holy night. The moon

Hath made it like a gentler noon,

And every deep and starry eye

Is waking in the summer sky,

As if its light were made alone

For restless hearts to gaze upon.

There are no voices, and the stir

Of the soft south goes lightlier

Among the branches, and the deep,

Felt stillness of a world asleep,

Is on my spirit like the touch

Of a sweet friend who loveth much.

I’ve left my books. I cannot damp

My heart beside a weary lamp

While heaven is set with stars, and I

Am not to sit down quietly,

And on a musty altar fling

The birthright of a glorious wing.

Reason who will; while skies of June

Are molten by this silent moon,

While flowers have breath, and voices creep

From running brook and fountain-leap,

While any thing is left to love

In this fair earth and heaven above,

I would not wear a fettered limb

To make Chaldea’s wisdom dim.

Why, what is duty? Sky and sea,

Thou promised heaven! are types of thee;

The earth is like a flowing cup

Of perfect beauty mingled up;

The very elements of heaven,

Life, light, and music, freely given;

The world an Eden, and we thirst

For every voice and fountain-burst;

And yet, we’re told, at duty’s call

We must forego—forget them all!

How has the foot of nature trod

The pathway of a perfect God,

How are the springs of earnest thought

With his diviner cunning wrought,

If all that makes us feel our fate

Not altogether desolate—

This burning love for beautiful things,

Is sealed among forbidden springs,

And we must throw a gift of fire

Aside like a neglected lyre?