These openings six in the ancient wall
Let in the breeze in seams.
The air in spark-lit, pouring streams
From hearth to heaven leaps.
Against the black of the chimney-soot
The forkèd flames upshoot,
And the blaze a-roaring keeps.
II
Every log is a separate flute;
And every chink a singing wire
Of some unseen Æolian lyre
Tuned to the music of the fire.
The little tinkling sounds; the low,
Sweet whistlings of the bubbling wood;
The thundering bass of winds that blow
In leafless maples by the road—
All make a music in the mind;
While, book in hand, in musing mood,—
My body here, my soul in flight,—
Through the true poet's world I wind,
And there a spirit-music find
That mixes with the sounding night.
THE NIGHT PASTURE
I
In a starry night of June, before the moon had come over into our valley from the high valley beyond,
Up the winding mountain-lane I wandered, and, stopping, leaned on the bars, and listened;
