And here in the shade is a clear, cooling spring,
Which ceaselessly murmurs its song,
And down in a glade the brown thrushes sing,
In afternoons drowsy and long,
In hours that bear dreams on their wings;
And balm for the care-laden spirit have they,
Of duty forgetfulness sweet,
With fragrance of roses they lead you astray,
To realms of fair visions replete,
Bright visions of midsummer-day.
The fairies are here and the unreal things,
Derided by men of pure facts,
Though Science doth saunter here, sometimes she clings
To fancy’s prophetical acts,
And out of the dreamland them brings.
Yea, great things are born in this enchanted place,
Where poets do loiter and rest,
Beholding fair visions which beckon their race
To vistas more lofty and blest,
In beauty’s immaculate ways.
LAKE HARRIET
Behold the noiseless sailboat and canoe,
That slowly glide upon the glassy lake,
Which wedded seems to heaven’s lofty blue,
And every silver cloud within its wake;
The lonely youth dreams as he moves along,
And who can tell what wondrous dreams they be,
Fit theme, I ween, for any poet’s song,
Of sadness or of gladsome reverie.
There also sail the lover and his lass,
They laugh and chat, and have a gleeful time,
For them the golden moments swiftly pass,
Since they are living in life’s summer clime,
To them sweet nature’s beauty doth exist
As background only to their happiness,
And heav’n the blue-eyed Harriet has kist,
Because their own true love they dare confess.
And o’er the water strains from Lohengrin
Come floating from the Grecian-pillard stand,
And add enchantment to the charming scene,
The wedding-scene of sky and sea and land,—
The hymeneal of youth’s dreams of life,
Of hearts aglow with love’s sweet fervency,
Of thousand souls who here forget their strife,
And for an hour their wonted misery.
THE CUBIST
I wandered to-day in an institute,
A wonderful palace of art,
And this I can say in spirit and truth,
It was a delight to my heart,
To see how the masters of ages past
Have found a place in this shrine,
Till I came to a room, methinks ’twas the last,
Which the Cubist’s contortions confine.