Hungry-hearted, you will see
Only the thin shadows fall
From yon bleak-topped poplar-tree,—
Icy fingers on the wall.
You will watch them come and go,
Telling o'er your count of woe.
—Nay, now, hear me, how I prate!
I, a foolish monk, and old,
Maundering o'er a life and fate
To me unknown, by you untold!
Yet I know you're like to weep
Soon, so, Brother, this night sleep.
IMPULSE.
A hollow on the verge of May.
Thick strewn with drift of leaves. Beneath
The densest drift a thrusting sheath
Of sharp green striving toward the day!
I mused—"So dull Obstruction sets
A bar to even violets,
When these would go their nobler way!"
My feet again, some days gone by.
The self-same spot sought idly. There,
Obstruction foiled, the adoring air
Caressed a blossom woven of sky
And dew, whose misty petals blue,
With bliss of being thrilled athrough,
Dilated like a timorous eye.
Reck well this rede, my soul! The good
The blossom craved was near, tho' hid.
Fret not that thou must doubt, but rid
Thy sky-path of obstructions strewed
By winds of folly. Then, do thou
The Godward impulse room allow
To reach its perfect air and food!
THE ISLES—AN ODE.
I.
Faithful reports of them have reached me oft!
Many their embassage to mortal court,
By golden pomp, and breathless-heard consort
Of music soft—
By fragrances accredited, and dreams.
Many their speeding herald, whose light feet
Make pause at wayside brooks, and fords of streams,
Leaving transfigured by an effluence fleet
Those wayfarers they meet.