Te Deum
If I could paint you the autumn color, the melting glow upon all
things laid,
The violet haze of Indian summer, before its splendor begins to fade,
When scarlet has reached its breathless moment, and gold the hush
of its glory now,
That were a mightier craft than Titian's, the heart to lift and
the head to bow.
I should be lord of a world of rapture, master of magic and gladness,
too,—
The touch of wonder transcending science, the solace escaping from
line and hue;
I would reveal through tint and texture the very soul of this earth
of ours,
Forever yearning through boundless beauty to exalt the spirit with
all her powers.
See where it lies by the lake this morning, our autumn hillside
of hardwood trees,
A masterpiece of the mighty painter who works in the primal mysteries.
A living tapestry, rich and glowing with blended marvels, vermilion
and dun,
Hung out for the pageant of time that passes along an avenue
of the sun!
The crown of the ash is tinged with purple, the hickory leaves
are Etruscan gold,
And the tulip-tree lifts yellow banners against the blue for
a signal bold;
The oaks in crimson cohorts stand, a myriad sumach torches mass
In festal pomp and victorious pride, when the vision of spring
is brought to pass.
Down from the line of the shore's deep shadows another and
softer picture lies,
As if the soul of the lake in slumber should harbor a dream
of paradise,—
Passive and blurred and unsubstantial, lulling the sense and
luring the mind
With the spell of an empty fairy world, where sinew and sap
are left behind.
So men dream of a far-off heaven of power and knowledge and
endless joy,
Asleep to the moment's fine elation, dull to the day's divine
employ,
Musing over a phantom image, born of fantastic hope and fear,
Of the very happiness life engenders and earth provides—our
privilege here.
Dare we dispel a single transport, neglect the worth that is
here and now,
Yet dream of enjoying its shadowy semblance in the by-and-by
somewhere, somehow?
I heard the wind on the hillside whisper, "They ill prepare for
a journey hence
Who waste the senses and starve the spirit in a world all made
for spirit and sense.
"Is the full stream fed from a stifled source, or the ripe fruit
filled from a blighted flower?
Are not the brook and the blossom greatened through many a busy
beatified hour?
Not in the shadow but in the substance, plastic and potent at our
command,
Are all the wisdom and gladness of heart; this is the kingdom of
heaven at hand."