Poems (Jones)/My Glade in the West
DROP the drained pen ere the song is complete,
And sighing for solitude, silence, and rest,
I mind me, with sighs, of a tranquil retreat,—
A glade far removed, in the wilds of the West.
MY GLADE IN THE WEST.
DROP the drained pen ere the song is complete,And sighing for solitude, silence, and rest,
I mind me, with sighs, of a tranquil retreat,—
A glade far removed, in the wilds of the West.
Sleep, world-weary senses! afflict me no more;
Too long has my soul by your fetters been weighed;
Like the freed dove, unhooded, I flutter, I soar,
My wings gather strength for their flight to my glade.
Too long has my soul by your fetters been weighed;
Like the freed dove, unhooded, I flutter, I soar,
My wings gather strength for their flight to my glade.
On I speed to the West: O ye forests of mine,
I enter your soft summer-twilight of rest;
Dumb with rapturous freedom, I sink, I recline
On the dew-nurtured mosses, your lover and guest.
I enter your soft summer-twilight of rest;
Dumb with rapturous freedom, I sink, I recline
On the dew-nurtured mosses, your lover and guest.
The drooping beech-branches sweep low at my feet;
The trefoil spreads o'er me her tremulous screen;
The tubes of the partridge-vine lowly and sweet,
Are rosily flushing their tendrils of green.
The trefoil spreads o'er me her tremulous screen;
The tubes of the partridge-vine lowly and sweet,
Are rosily flushing their tendrils of green.
The fair uniflora, in infantile white;
Lies crouched 'neath the royal-fern's plumiest crest;
We are buried in greenery, deep out of sight,—
This flower and my soul,—in the wilds of the West.
Lies crouched 'neath the royal-fern's plumiest crest;
We are buried in greenery, deep out of sight,—
This flower and my soul,—in the wilds of the West.
While the thrush—ah the thrush! if the flower of the rose
Spell-changed into music from vision should fade,
All her bountiful being, her raptures, her woes,
Would pour through the song of this bird of the glade.
Spell-changed into music from vision should fade,
All her bountiful being, her raptures, her woes,
Would pour through the song of this bird of the glade.
Cease, minstrel of love! lift thy wings and depart;
Let the low, liquid cadences falter and close;
For their sadness and sweetness are brimming my heart;
I am filled with the soul of the flower of the rose.
Let the low, liquid cadences falter and close;
For their sadness and sweetness are brimming my heart;
I am filled with the soul of the flower of the rose.
It is I who arise from the grave of the mold,—
'T is I whom the wind and the rain have made strong;
'T is the bud of my heart that begins to unfold,—
'T is the flower of my being resolved into song.
'T is I whom the wind and the rain have made strong;
'T is the bud of my heart that begins to unfold,—
'T is the flower of my being resolved into song.
Fly on, changeling throstle, the spell is complete:
Faint echoes, like fragrance, float far in the glade;
And oh, if the voice of my soul were as sweet,
From the sun and the dew it were heaven to fade!
Faint echoes, like fragrance, float far in the glade;
And oh, if the voice of my soul were as sweet,
From the sun and the dew it were heaven to fade!
In holy content to lie yielding the ghost,
Mid silence and solitude shadowed and gray;
While the rose of existence, in melody lost,
Would, fold after fold, vanish lightly away!
Mid silence and solitude shadowed and gray;
While the rose of existence, in melody lost,
Would, fold after fold, vanish lightly away!
Hark! the pines are alert! from the South they have caught
A rustling, a surging, a soft rolling sound;
Now comes the wind! tearing the meshes of thought,
And waking my soul from its quiet profound.
A rustling, a surging, a soft rolling sound;
Now comes the wind! tearing the meshes of thought,
And waking my soul from its quiet profound.
Approaching, delaying, on-rushing with speed,
This secret, seraphic repose to invade,
With music of organ, harp, timbrel, and reed,
It sweeps through the grand gothic arch of my glade.
This secret, seraphic repose to invade,
With music of organ, harp, timbrel, and reed,
It sweeps through the grand gothic arch of my glade.
The wind—oh the wind! far above me it rolls;
The trefoil rocks not, leaning over my breast;
It breaks on the pines, like the sea among shoals,
They burst into song, they are tortured from rest.
The trefoil rocks not, leaning over my breast;
It breaks on the pines, like the sea among shoals,
They burst into song, they are tortured from rest.
Haste, wild winds of Poesy, hitherward roll!
Let me die not this soft-breathing death of repose;
Though I break in the blast, grant me music of soul,
For the torn pine grows nearer to heaven than the rose.
Let me die not this soft-breathing death of repose;
Though I break in the blast, grant me music of soul,
For the torn pine grows nearer to heaven than the rose.
Wake, world-weary senses; fair visions, depart;
Green forest nor glade to the minstrel belong;
And a rapturous anthem is brimming my heart—
I suffer, I strive, I am vibrant with song!
Green forest nor glade to the minstrel belong;
And a rapturous anthem is brimming my heart—
I suffer, I strive, I am vibrant with song!