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Ye open the eastern windows,
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
Come to me, O ye children!
For what are all our contrivings,
Ye are better than all the ballads
And all the rest are dead.
THE BRIDGE OF CLOUD.
URN, O evening hearth, and waken Pleasant visions, as of old! Though the house by winds be shaken, Safe I keep this room of gold!
Ah! no longer wizard Fancy
Builds its castles in the air, Luring me by necromancy
Up the never-ending stair.
But, instead, it builds me bridges
Cataracts dash and roar unseen.
And I cross them, little heeding
Blast of wind or torrent's roar, As I follow the receding
Footsteps that have gone before.
Naught avails the imploring gesture,
'T is the gray robe of the rain.
Baffled I return, and, leaning
O'er the parapets of cloud, Watch the mist that intervening
Wraps the valley in its shroud.
And the sounds of life ascending
Faintly, vaguely, meet the ear, Murmur of bells and voices blending With the rush of waters near.
Well I know what there lies hidden,
Reassumes its vanished charm.
Well I know the secret places,
And the nests in hedge and tree;
In what hearts a thought of me.
Through the mist and darkness sinking,
Blown by wind and beaten by shower,
LAY upon the headland-height, and listened
In caverns under me,
And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened, Until the rolling meadows of amethyst
Melted away in mist.
Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started;
Of those whom I had known in days departed,
A moment only, and the light and glory
And the wild roses of the promontory
There was an old belief that in the embers
Could recreate the rose with all its members
Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science
What craft of alchemy can bid defiance
“O, give me back," I cried, "the vanished splendors, The breath of morn, and the exultant strife, When the swift stream of life
Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders
And the sea answered, with a lamentation, Like some old prophet wailing, and it said, "Alas! thy youth is dead!
It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation,
Then said I, "From its consecrated cerements
But, still remembering all the lost endearments,
Into what land of harvests, what plantations
Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations
Amid what friendly greetings and caresses,
What households, though not alien, yet not mine,
To what temptations in lone wildernesses,
I do not know; nor will I vainly question
But without rash conjecture or suggestion
FROM THE SPANISH.
AUGH of the mountain!-lyre of bird and tree!
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count!
Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!