Too sweet and too subtle for pen or for tongue
In phrases unwritten and measures unsung,
As deep and as strange as the sounds of the sea,
Is the song that my spirit is singing to me.
In the midnight and tempest when forest trees shiver,
In the roar of the surf, and the rush of the river,
In the rustle of leaves and the fall of the rain,
And on the low breezes I catch the refrain.
From the vapors that frame and envelope the earth,
And beyond, from the realms where my spirit had birth,
From the mists of the land and the fogs of the sea,
Forever and ever the song comes to me.
I know not its wording--its import I know--
For the rhythm is broken, the measure runs low,
When vexed or allured by the things of this life
My soul is merged into its pleasures or strife.
When up to the hill tops of beauty and light
My soul like a lark in the ether takes flight,
And the white gates of heaven shine brighter and nearer,
The song of the spirit grows sweeter and clearer.
Up, up to the realms where no mortal has trod--
Into space and infinity near to my God--
With whiteness, and silence, and beautiful things,
I am borne when the voice of eternity sings.
When once in the winds or the drop of the rain
Thy spirit shall listen and hear the refrain,
Thy soul shall soar up like a bird on the breeze,
And the things that have pleased thee will never more please.
[THE PILGRIM FATHERS.]
And now when poets are singing
Their song of olden days,
And now, when the land is ringing
With sweet Centennial lays,
My muse goes wandering backward
To the groundwork of all these,
To the time when our Pilgrim Fathers
Came over the winter seas.
The sons of a mighty kingdom,
Of a cultured folk were they,
Born amidst pomp and splendor,
Bred in it, day by day.
Children of bloom and beauty,
Reared under skies serene,
Where the daisy and hawthorne blossomed
And the ivy was always green.