IL PONTE VECCHIO DI FIRENZE

Gaddi mi fece; il Ponte Vecchio sono;
  Cinquecent' anni gia sull' Arno pianto
  Il piede, come il suo Michele Santo
  Pianto sul draco.  Mentre ch' io ragiono
Lo vedo torcere con flebil suono
  Le rilucenti scaglie.  Ha questi affranto
  Due volte i miei maggior.  Me solo intanto
  Neppure muove, ed io non l' abbandono.
Io mi rammento quando fur cacciati
  I Medici; pur quando Ghibellino
  E Guelfo fecer pace mi rammento.
Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m' ha prestati;
  E quando penso ch' Agnolo il divino
  Su me posava, insuperbir mi sento.

NATURE

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
  Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
  Half willing, half reluctant to be led,
  And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door,
  Nor wholly reassured and comforted
  By promises of others in their stead,
  Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
  Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
  Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
  Being too full of sleep to understand
  How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN

Here lies the gentle humorist, who died
  In the bright Indian Summer of his fame!
  A simple stone, with but a date and name,
  Marks his secluded resting-place beside
The river that he loved and glorified.
  Here in the autumn of his days he came,
  But the dry leaves of life were all aflame
  With tints that brightened and were multiplied.
How sweet a life was his; how sweet a  death!
  Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours,
  Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer;
Dying, to leave a memory like the breath
  Of summers full of sunshine and of showers,
  A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.

ELIOT'S OAK

Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud
  With sounds of unintelligible speech,
  Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach,
  Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd;
With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed,
  Thou speakest a different dialect to each;
  To me a language that no man can teach,
  Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud.
For underneath thy shade, in days remote,
  Seated like Abraham at eventide
  Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown
Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote
  His Bible in a language that hath died
  And is forgotten, save by thee alone.

THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES

Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face,
  Came from their convent on the shining heights
  Of Pierus, the mountain of delights,
  To dwell among the people at its base.
Then seemed the world to change.  All time and space,
  Splendor of cloudless days and starry nights,
  And men and manners, and all sounds and sights,
  Had a new meaning, a diviner grace.
Proud were these sisters, but were not too proud
  To teach in schools of little country towns
  Science and song, and all the arts that please;
So that while housewives span, and farmers ploughed,
  Their comely daughters, clad in homespun gowns,
  Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides.

VENICE

White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest
  So wonderfully built among the reeds
  Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds,
  As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest!
White water-lily, cradled and caressed
  By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds
  Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds,
  Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest!
White phantom city, whose untrodden streets
  Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting
  Shadows of palaces and strips of sky;
I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets
  Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting
  In air their unsubstantial masonry.

THE POETS

O ye dead Poets, who are living still
  Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,
  And ye, O living Poets, who are dead
  Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,
  With drops of anguish falling fast and red
  From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head,
  Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil?
Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song
  Have something in them so divinely sweet,
  It can assuage the bitterness of wrong;
Not in the clamor of the crowded street,
  Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,
  But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

PARKER CLEAVELAND

WRITTEN ON REVISITING BRUNSWICK IN THE SUMMER OF 1875

Among the many lives that I have known,
  None I remember more serene and sweet,
  More rounded in itself and more complete,
  Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone.
These pines, that murmur in low monotone,
  These walks frequented by scholastic feet,
  Were all his world; but in this calm retreat
  For him the Teacher's chair became a throne.
With fond affection memory loves to dwell
  On the old days, when his example made
  A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen;
And now, amid the groves he loved so well
 That naught could lure him from their grateful shade,
 He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen!

THE HARVEST MOON