Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 54

And here and there a foamy flake Upon me as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow To join the br.i.m.m.i.n.g river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and gra.s.sy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars, In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my s.h.i.+ngly bars; I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow To join the br.i.m.m.i.n.g river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._

June

(_From "The Vision of Sir Launfal"_)

No price is set on the lavish summer, June may be had by the poorest comer.

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in gra.s.s and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The b.u.t.tercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- In the nice ear of Nature, which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because G.o.d wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and gra.s.s is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-- And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his l.u.s.ty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is happy now, Everything is upward striving; 'T is as easy now for the heart to be true As for gra.s.s to be green or skies to be blue,-- 'T is the natural way of living.

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake, And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of pa.s.sion and woe Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

_James Russell Lowell._

The Planting of the Apple-Tree

Come, let us plant the apple-tree.

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care.

And press it o'er them tenderly, As round the sleeping infant's feet We softly fold the cradle-sheet; So plant we the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Sweets for a hundred flowery springs, To load the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky.

While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant gra.s.s Betrays their bed to those who pa.s.s, At the foot of the apple tree.

And when, above this apple tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine, And golden orange of the Line, The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds, and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.

The years shall come and pa.s.s, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree.

And time shall waste this apple tree.

Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still?

What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?"

The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: "A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple-tree."

_William Cullen Bryant._

Character of the Happy Warrior

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be?

--It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavors are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright: Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!

Turns his necessity to glorious gain; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower; Controls them and subdues, trans.m.u.tes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives: By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compa.s.sionate; Is placable--because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice; More skillful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence also, more alive to tenderness.

--'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labors good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows: --Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honorable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all; Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need: --He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling pa.s.sion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love:-- 'Tis, finally, the Man who lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity,-- Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not-- Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth Forever, and to n.o.ble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name-- Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is He That every Man in arms should wish to be.

_William Wordsworth._

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns," he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismay'd?

Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and sh.e.l.l, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of h.e.l.l Rode the six hundred,