Poems (Whitney)/The prospect
THE PROSPECT.
O wondrous delight of a window A fair three stories high,With its view to the southward and west, And its limitless boon of sky!
With its murmur and coo of pigeons, Settling upon the roof—And a distant stir that betokens A world that is well aloof!
And here when the heavens are azure, And no dunce that you know is nearTo hint at a weather-breeder, In the magical atmosphere;
When swallows on cleaving pinions, Disdaining the earth and you,Follow the hunt far up In the calm, embosoming blue;
Or when in the west mount Prospect Indues its purple; and ah!When my planet looks down on the mill-stream My porphyro-genita;
I look with a half enchantment Over regions that wait renown,The triple crest of Waltham, And vales of Watertown;
Over orchard, and woodland, and meadow, Where the Beaver its raving stills,O'er fair little ups and downs To the mighty, girdling hills,
What silence of expectation— What dreaming on the to-come,When up through these valleys and hillsides Yon hive shall swarm and hum!
For yonder, beyond our paling Of elm, and ash, and oak,Hangs soft on the purple distance A visible, brooding smoke;
There, masked in brick, Trimountain Rears somewhat snobbish and chill,But returns in its way the salute Of oak-crowned Meetinus hill
But here, while I may, I am laughing. To think how pleasant a thing,To fly to this skiey quiet, And freshen a ruffled wing.
My poverty and its vexations Vanish and leave me free:—From Cushing's, inclusive, eastward To the feet of the journeying sea;
From the hither wall of Barnard To Knobscot's blue recess—Through lands of Locke to the south 'With acres more or less,
In the yield of all farms and woodlands, We, Robin and I, go shares;And our landlords are sunbeams and waters, And grudge us no repairs.
Ah world, if you yet must have me, Sing me a better strain,Or hold me a moment, I pray, Lightly, and loose me again.