It is the Harvest Moon!  On gilded vanes
  And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
  And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
  Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
  And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
  Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
  With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
  Of Nature have their image in the mind,
  As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
  Only the empty nests are left behind,
  And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

TO THE RIVER RHONE

Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower
  In chambers purple with the Alpine glow,
  Wrapped in the spotless ermine of the snow
  And rocked by tempests!--at the appointed hour
Forth, like a steel-clad horseman from a tower,
  With clang and clink of harness dost thou go
  To meet thy vassal torrents, that below
  Rush to receive thee and obey thy power.
And now thou movest in triumphal march,
  A king among the rivers!  On thy way
  A hundred towns await and welcome thee;
Bridges uplift for thee the stately arch,
  Vineyards encircle thee with garlands gay,
  And fleets attend thy progress to the sea!

THE THREE SILENCES OF MOLINOS

TO JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Three Silences there are: the first of speech,
  The second of desire, the third of thought;
  This is the lore a Spanish monk, distraught
  With dreams and visions, was the first to teach.
These Silences, commingling each with each,
  Made up the perfect Silence, that he sought
  And prayed for, and wherein at times he caught
  Mysterious sounds from realms beyond our reach.
O thou, whose daily life anticipates
  The life to come, and in whose thought and word
  The spiritual world preponderates.
Hermit of Amesbury! thou too hast heard
  Voices and melodies from beyond the gates,
  And speakest only when thy soul is stirred!

THE TWO RIVERS

I

Slowly the hour-hand of the clock moves round;
  So slowly that no human eye hath power
  To see it move!  Slowly in shine or shower
  The painted ship above it, homeward bound,
Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground;
  Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower
   The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour,
   A mellow, measured, melancholy sound.
Midnight! the outpost of advancing day!
  The frontier town and citadel of night!
  The watershed of Time, from which the streams
Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way,
  One to the land of promise and of light,
  One to the land of darkness and of dreams!

II

O River of Yesterday, with current swift
  Through chasms descending, and soon lost to sight,
  I do not care to follow in their flight
  The faded leaves, that on thy bosom drift!
O River of To-morrow, I uplift
  Mine eyes, and thee I follow, as the night
  Wanes into morning, and the dawning light
  Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift!
I follow, follow, where thy waters run
  Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields,
  Fragrant with flowers and musical with song;
Still follow, follow; sure to meet the sun,
  And confident, that what the future yields
  Will be the right, unless myself be wrong.

III

Yet not in vain, O River of Yesterday,
  Through chasms of darkness to the deep descending,
  I heard thee sobbing in the rain, and blending
  Thy voice with other voices far away.
I called to thee, and yet thou wouldst not stay,
  But turbulent, and with thyself contending,
  And torrent-like thy force on pebbles spending,
  Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay.
Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings,
  Regrets and recollections of things past,
  With hints and prophecies of things to be,
And inspirations, which, could they be things,
  And stay with us, and we could hold them fast,
  Were our good angels,--these I owe to thee.

IV

And thou, O River of To-morrow, flowing
  Between thy narrow adamantine walls,
  But beautiful, and white with waterfalls,
  And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing;
I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing,
  I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls,
  And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's halls,
  Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going!
It is the mystery of the unknown
  That fascinates us; we are children still,
  Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling
To the familiar things we call our own,
  And with the other, resolute of will,
  Grope in the dark for what the day will bring.

BOSTON

St. Bototlph's Town!  Hither across the plains
  And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere,
  There came a Saxon monk, and founded here
  A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes,
So that thereof no vestige now remains;
  Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear,
  And echoed in another hemisphere,
  Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes.
St. Botolph's Town!  Far over leagues of land
  And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower,
  And far around the chiming bells are heard;
So may that sacred name forever stand
  A landmark, and a symbol of the power,
  That lies concentred in a single word.

ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE