Your logic, my friend, is perfect, I keep hearing that, and not you. Console if you will, I can bear it; It is pagan; but wait till you feel it; That jar of our earth, that dull shock When the ploughshare of deeper passion Tears down to our primitive rock. Communion in spirit! Forgive me! But I, who am earthy and weak, Would give all my incomes from dreamland For a touch of her hand on my cheek. That little shoe in the corner, [From Under the Willows.] FRANK-HEARTED hostess of the field and wood, Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree, June is the pearl of our New England year. Still a surprisal, though expected long, Her coming startles. Long she lies in wait, Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws coyly back, Then, from some southern ambush in the sky, With one great gush of blossom storms the world. A week ago the sparrow was divine; The blue-bird shifting his light load of song From post to post along the cheerless fence, Was as a rhymer ere the poet come: But now, O rapture! sunshine-winged and voiced, Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of the West, Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud, Gladness of woods, skies, waters all in one, The bobolink has come, and, like the soul Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what, Save June! Dear June! Now God be praised for June. AUF WIEDersehen. THE little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast, And said,-"Auf wiedersehen!" With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said,— “Auf wiedersehen !” The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair: I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare. Thinks she,-"Auf wiedersehen!" 'Tis thirteen years; once more I North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers You would never dream of in smooth weather, That toss and gore the sea for acres, Bellowing and gnashing and snarl ing together; Look northward, where Duck Island lies, And over its crown you will see arise, Against a background of slaty skies, A row of pillars still and white, That glimmer, and then are out of sight, As if the moon should suddenly kiss, While you crossed the gusty desert by night, The long colonnades of Persepolis; Look southward for White Island light, Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array; For all the Etruscan armies Prince of the Latian name. Now, from the rock Tarpeian, Could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages Red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City, They sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman came With tidings of dismay. To eastward and to westward Have spread the Tuscan bands, Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia Hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath stormed Janiculum, And the stout guards are slain. I wis, in all the Senate There was no heart so bold But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Consul, Up rose the Fathers all; In haste they girded up their gowns, And hied them to the wall. They held a council, standing Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. "The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Just then a scout came flying, All wild with haste and fear; "To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; Lars Porsena is here." On the low hills to westward And nearer fast and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still, and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpets' war-note proud, The trampling and the hum. And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, Fast by the royal standard, Lars Porsena of Clusium But when the face of Sextus But the Consul's brow was sad, And the Consul's speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe: "Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town ?" Then out spake brave Horatius, |