Dirge for the Year As an earthquake rocks a corse So white Winter, that rough nurse, As the wild air stirs and sways January gray is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier; March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps-but, O, ye hours, 1353 Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] WOOD AND FIELD AND RUNNING BROOK WALDEINSAMKEIT I Do not count the hours I spend In wandering by the sea; Like God it useth me. In plains that room for shadows make Bound in by streams which give and take Or on the mountain-crest sublime, O what have I to do with time? Cities of mortals woe-begone But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides. Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad, But, sober on a fund of joy, The woods at heart are glad. There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, Through times that wear and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns. The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines. Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, See thou bring not to field or stone Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, Oblivion here thy wisdom is, Thy thrift, the sleep of cares; For a proud idleness like this Crowns all thy mean affairs. Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882] "WHEN IN THE WOODS I WANDER ALL ALONE" WHEN in the woods I wander all alone, The woods that are my solace and delight, Which I more covet than a prince's throne, My toil by day and canopy by night; (Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, 66 Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone, Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829] ASPECTS OF THE PINES TALL, somber, grim, against the morning sky Tall, somber, grim, they stand with dusky gleams A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable, Broods round and o'er them in the wind's surcease, And on each tinted copse and shimmering dell Rests the mute rapture of deep hearted peace. Last, sunset comes-the solemn joy and might Till every lock is luminous, gently float, Fraught with hale odors up the heavens afar, To faint when twilight on her virginal throat Wears for a gem the tremulous vesper star. Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886] THE WOODS THAT BRING THE SUNSET THE wind from out the west is blowing; "On Wenlock Edge" When o'er wide seas the sun declines, 1357 This house that looks to east, to west, UNDER THE LEAVES OFT have I walked these woodland paths, To-day the south-wind sweeps away O prophet-flowers!-with lips of bloom, The pearly tints of ocean shells,— Walk life's dark ways, ye seem to say, That where man sees but withered leaves, God sees sweet flowers growing. Albert Laighton [1829-1887] "ON WENLOCK EDGE" ON Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; |