spoken.

day deux.

Spoke.

Sort.

Let us quit the leafy arbor, 

And the torrent murmuring by; 

For the sun is in his harbor, 

Weary of the open sky. 

Evening now unbinds the fetters 

Fashioned by the glowing light; 

All that breathe are thankful debtors 

To the harbinger of night. 

Yet by some grave thoughts attended 

Eve renews her calm career; 

For the day that now is ended, 

Is the longest of the year. 

Dora! sport, as now thou sportest, 

On this platform, light and free; 

Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest, 

Are indifferent to thee! 

Who would check the happy feeling 

That inspires the linnet's song? 

Who would stop the swallow, wheeling 

On her pinions swift and strong? 

Yet at this impressive season, 

Words which tenderness can speak 

From the truths of homely reason, 

Might exalt the loveliest cheek; 

And, while shades to shades succeeding 

Steal the landscape from the sight, 

I would urge this moral pleading, 

Last forerunner of "Good night!" 

Summer ebbs; -- each day that follows 

Is a reflux from on high, 

Tending to the darksome hollows 

Where the frosts of winter lie. 

He who governs the creation, 

In his providence, assigned 

Such a gradual declination 

To the life of human kind. 

Yet we mark it not; -- fruits redden, 

Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown, 

And the heart is loth to deaden 

Hopes that she so long hath known. 

Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden! 

And when thy decline shall come, 

Let not dowers, or boughs fruit-laden, 

Hide the knowledge of thy doom. 

Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber, 

Fix thine eyes upon the sea 

That absorbs time, space, and number; 

Look thou to Eternity! 

Follow thou the flowing river 

On whose breast are thither borne 

All deceived, and each deceiver, 

Through the gates of night and morn; 

Through the year's successive portals; 

Through the bounds which many a star 

Marks, not mindless of frail mortals, 

When his light returns from far. 

Thus when thou with Time hast travelled 

Toward the mighty gulf of things, 

And the mazy stream unravelled 

With thy best imaginings; 

Think, if thou on beauty leanest, 

Think how pitiful that stay, 

Did not virtue give the meanest 

Charms superior to decay. 

Duty, like a strict preceptor, 

Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown; 

Choose her thistle for thy sceptre, 

While youth's roses are thy crown. 

Grasp it, -- if thou shrink and tremble, 

Fairest damsel of the green, 

Thou wilt lack the only symbol 

That proclaims a genuine queen; 

And ensures those palms of honor 

Which selected spirits wear, 

Bending low before the Donor, 

Lord of heaven's unchanging year! 

William Wordsworth

Draw.

A Whirl-Blast from behind the hill 

Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; 

Then--all at once the air was still, 

And showers of hailstones pattered round. 

Where leafless oaks towered high above, 

I sat within an undergrove 

Of tallest hollies, tall and green; 

A fairer bower was never seen. 

From year to year the spacious floor 

With withered leaves is covered o'er, 

And all the year the bower is green. 

But see! where'er the hailstones drop 

The withered leaves all skip and hop; 

There's not a breeze--no breath of air-- 

Yet here, and there, and everywhere 

Along the floor, beneath the shade 

By those embowering hollies made, 

The leaves in myriads jump and spring, 

As if with pipes and music rare 

Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 

And all those leaves, in festive glee, 

Were dancing to the minstrelsy. 

William Wordsworth

Phosphene.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure:---

But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature's holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man? 

William Wordsworth