Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers under ground; And sees them, when the rain is done, Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun. Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, From birth to death, from death to birth, Till glimpses more sublime Of things, unseen before,' Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 1845. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. SONG OF THE BROOK I COME from haunts of coot and hern, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. 80 90 By thirty hills I hurry down, Till last by Philip's farm I flow I chatter over stony ways, With many a curve my banks I fret I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river; I wind about, and in and out, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a foamy flake 12 20 With many a silvery waterbreak And draw them all along, and flow For men may come and men may go, I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, I murmur under moon and stars And out again I curve and flow 1855. Lord Tennyson. 32 36 40 44 48 52 FEBRUARY NOON-and the north-west sweeps the empty road, The rain-washed fields from hedge to hedge are bare; Beneath the leafless elms some hind's abode Looks small and void, and no smoke meets the air From its poor hearth: one lonely rook doth dare The gale, and beats above the unseen corn, Then turns, and whirling down the wind is borne. Shall it not hap that on some dawn of May Shalt thou not wonder, looking from thy bed. Through green leaves on the windless east a-fire, That this day too thine heart doth still desire? 14 Shalt thou not wonder that it liveth yet, That made thy face, that lonely noontide wet 2 21 MARCH SLAYER of the winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bring'st the summer nigh! The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, Now will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. 罩 Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry Make April ready for the throstle's song, Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong! 7 Yea, welcome, March! and though I die ere June, Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, Striving to swell the burden of the tune That even now I hear thy brown birds raise, Unmindful of the past or coming days;' / Who sing: "O joy! a new year is begun: What happiness to look upon the sun!” 14 |