Vesuvius, purple under purple skies
Beyond the purple, still, unrippling sea;
Sheer amber lightning, streaming ceaselessly
From heaven to earth, dazzling bewildered eyes
With all the terror of beauty; thus day dies
That dawned in blue, unclouded innocency;
And thus we look our last on Italy
That soon, obscured by night, behind us lies.
And night descends on us, tempestuous night,
Night, torn with terror, as we sail the deep,
And like a cataract down a mountain-steep
Pours, loud with thunder, that red perilous fire...
Yet shall the dawn, O land of our desire,
Show thee again, re-orient, crowned with light!
THE ORPHANS
At five o'clock one April morn
I met them making tracks,
Young Benjamin and Abel Horn,
With bundles on their backs.
Young Benjamin is seventy-five,
Young Abel, seventy-seven--
The oldest innocents alive
Beneath that April heaven.
I asked them why they trudged about
With crabby looks and sour--
"And does your mother know you're out
At this unearthly hour?"
They stopped: and scowling up at me
Each shook a grizzled head,
And swore; and then spat bitterly,
As with one voice they said:
"Homeless, about the country-side
We never thought to roam;
But mother, she has gone and died,
And broken up the home."
THE PESSIMIST
His body bulged with puppies--little eyes
Peeped out of every pocket, black and bright;
And with as innocent, round-eyed surprise
He watched the glittering traffic of the night.
"What this world's coming to I cannot tell,"
He muttered, as I passed him, with a whine--
"Things surely must be making slap for hell,
When no one wants these little dogs of mine."
?
Mooning in the moonlight
I met a mottled pig,
Grubbing mast and acorn,
On the Gallows Rigg.
"Tell, oh, tell me truly,
While I wander blind,
Do your peepy pig's eyes
Really see the wind--
"See the great wind flowing
Darkling and agleam,
Through the fields of heaven,
In a crystal stream?
"Do the singing eddies
Break on bough and twig,
Into silvery sparkles
For your eyes, O pig?
"Do celestial surges
Sweep across the night,
Like a sea of glory
In your blessed sight?
"Tell, oh, tell me truly!"
But the mottled pig
Grubbing mast and acorns
Did not care a fig.
THE SWEET-TOOTH
Taking a turn after tea
Through orchards of Mirabelea,
Where clusters of yellow and red
Dangled and glowed overhead,
Who should I see
But old Timothy,
Hale and hearty as hearty could be--
Timothy under a crab-apple tree.
His blue eyes twinkling at me,
Munching and crunching with glee,
And wagging his wicked old head,
"I've still got a sweet-tooth," he said.
"A hundred and three
Come January,
I've one tooth left in my head," said he--
Timothy under the crab-apple tree.
GIRL'S SONG