It is a glorious morning. Storm
Hath left no traces, and the warm,
Rich sunshine cometh like a strain
Of parted music, back again.
The trees are bare, but like a true
And changeless friend, the sun shines through,
And round the sad and fallen leaves
His mesh of light he softly weaves.
I see and feel how very fair
This summer sun, and breezes are;
I see the white, thin vapors wreathed
About the hills as if they breathed;
I see the sky’s pure, delicate blue,
Like a soft eye which melts me through,
And I’ve remembered the sweet eyes
I likened to those gentle skies,
And gazed this hour as if their look
Were written in that azure book,
And the long echo came but now
Of my hot speech and silly vow.
I cannot wander; but I know
How earth’s deep voices softly flow;
I know how light the waters run
O’er the sere grass and fretful stone;
I know how fountains leap, how still
The winds creep over lake and hill;
The Autumn birds, the last leaf-fall,
The morn’s sweet breath--I know them all.
I know them all--and yet my feet
Are not where singing waters meet;
My books are for the running streams,
And stupid schoolmen for the dreams
Of gentle spirits; I am tied
While nature joyeth like a bride;
Chained down to reason on the cool,
Dull precepts of a skeptic’s rule,
While beauty over earth and sea
Is gushing as a fount let free.
It hath its lesson. Beautiful things
Are given like retreating wings;
Not to be gathered, never won,
But sent to lead the spirit on;
Winning the upward eye of prayer,
As ’twere a finger pointing there,
Till we have followed to the sky
An angel, imperceptibly.