Poems of James Russell Lowell Part 16

From the close-shut windows gleams no spark, The night is chilly, the night is dark, The poplars s.h.i.+ver, the pine-trees moan, My hair by the autumn breeze is blown, Under thy window I sing alone, Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The darkness is pressing coldly around, The windows shake with a lonely sound, The stars are hid and the night is drear, The heart of silence throbs in thine ear, In thy chamber thou sittest alone, Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The world is happy, the world is wide, Kind hearts are beating on every side; Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled Alone in the sh.e.l.l of this great world?

Why should we any more be alone?

Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

O, 'tis a bitter and dreary word, The saddest by man's ear ever heard!

We each are young, we each have a heart, Why stand we ever coldly apart?

Must we forever, then, be alone?

Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

1840.

WITH A PRESSED FLOWER.

This little flower from afar Hath come from other lands to thine; For, once, its white and drooping star Could see its shadow in the Rhine.

Perchance some fair-haired German maid Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk, And numbered over, half afraid, Its petals in her evening walk.

"He loves me, loves me not," she cries; "He loves me more than earth or heaven!"

And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven.

And thou must count its petals well, Because it is a gift from me; And the last one of all shall tell Something I've often told to thee.

But here at home, where we were born, Thou wilt find flowers just as true, Down-bending every summer morn With freshness of New-England dew.

For Nature, ever kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue, Whether with German skies above, Or here our granite rocks among.

1840.

THE BEGGAR.

A beggar, through the world am I,-- From place to place I wander by.

Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, For Christ's sweet sake and charity!

A little of thy steadfastness, Rounded with leafy gracefulness, Old oak, give me,-- That the world's blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro, While my stout-hearted trunk below And firm-set roots unshaken be.

Some of thy stern, unyielding might, Enduring still through day and night Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,-- That I may keep at bay The changeful April sky of chance And the strong tide of circ.u.mstance,-- Give me, old granite gray.

Some of thy pensiveness serene, Some of thy never-dying green, Put in this scrip of mine,-- That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light, And deck me in a robe of white, Ready to be an angel bright,-- O sweetly-mournful pine.

A little of thy merriment, Of thy sparkling, light content, Give me, my cheerful brook,-- That I may still be full of glee And gladsomeness, where'er I be, Though fickle fate hath prisoned me In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good To me, since I've been in the wood; Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart; But good-bye, kind friends, every one, I've far to go ere set of sun; Of all good things I would have part, The day was high ere I could start, And so my journey's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget To beg of thee, dear violet!

Some of thy modesty, That blossoms here as well, unseen, As if before the world thou'dst been, O, give, to strengthen me.

1839.

MY LOVE.

I.

Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near.

II.

Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; G.o.d giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

III.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her suns.h.i.+ne share.

IV.

She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes.

V.

She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth.

VI.

Blessing she is: G.o.d made her so, And deeds of weekday holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless.

VII.

She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

VIII.