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A body of beauty is mine.O poet, moulder of me,Withhold not the breath divine,The soul of truth that makes free.Fair form in repose for a day(The body of beauty of me)With the pulse-beats of life all away,Is well, for beauty and thee.Yet give to me life all aglow,—Not a demon of darkness to blight,But a love-lit soul pure as snow,—Beckon me an angel of light.A body of beauty is mine.O poet, moulder of me,Inbreathe with breathings divine,Or body alone let it be.
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AT MINAS BASIN.
THE RAIN CLOUD.
A WILLOW AT GRAND PRÉ.
THE BOWING DYKE.
A DEEP-SEA SHELL.
A RED SUNRISE.
THE OPAL FIRES ARE GONE.
THE CUMULUS CLOUD.
SILAS TERTIUS RAND.
THE TIRELESS SEA.
THE VEILED PRESENCE.
THE SEA UNDINE.
THE CIRRUS CLOUD.
DAY AND NIGHT.
UNDER THE BEECHES.
IN THE MAYFLOWER COPSE.
AN INLAND SPRUCE.
THE GHOST FLOWER.
IN AUTUMN'S DREAMY EAR.
VICTOR IS HE!
THE HOUSE OF GOD.
LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.
NOW ARE THE BRIDALS OF THE LEAFY WOOD.
MAY'S FAIRY TALE.
THE WHITE ROSE.
THE WAR HERCULES.
IN THE COOL OF THE DAY.
THE GLAD GOLDEN YEAR.
IN CITY STREETS.
BAY OF FUNDY.
AT THE LOOK-OFF.
THE STORMY PETREL.
DIAN AND FUNDY.
THE OLD FISHER'S SONG.
"BY THE LOVE."
About the buried feet of Blomidon,Red-breasted sphinx with crown of grey and green,The tides of Minas swirl,—their veilëd queenFleet-oared from far by galleys of the sun.The tidal breeze blows its divinest gale!The blue air winks with life like beaded wine!—Storied of Glooscap, of Evangeline—Each to the setting sun this sea did sail.Opulent day has poured its living goldTill all the west is belt with crimson bars,Now darkness lights its silver moon and stars,—The festal beauty of the world new-old.Facing the dawn, in vigil that ne'er sleeps,The sphinx the secret of the Basin keeps.
Swift changed to storm tones is the golden air,And shut the heavens with the descending veilOf cloud,—here warm and brown, there cold and pale,White-veined with sudden fire and red with glare.Now falls the twisted rain, like unbound hair,Dusking the wooded hills and mountain trail,Now, marshalled by the trumpets of the gale,Sweeps wide with level lances to their blare.
O rain cloud, minister of cooling dewTo waiting harvests sheathed in mystery,Bearer of blessed balms for fevered ills!Thy rending veil breaks on the holiest blue,All quick and palpitant as angels see,And God's smile falls upon the breathing hills.
Five-petaled splendor set in hillside place,Parent of queenly sisterhood that stirTo every garden wind, and swift conferAttar to pour from out each precious vase!Symbol of secrecy to Latin race,Virtue and blood to York and Lancaster,Thy tint de Pompadour sweet arts transferTo Sevres', and erst "rose noble" bore thy grace.
To me thou art the glow of secret heatThat burneth at the heart of day and night,An odorous flush of beauty without blame,—Love's oriel wherethrough my eyes discreetMay look far in beyond the outward sightAnd, unconsumëd, see His fiery flame.
The fitful rustle of thy sea-green leavesTells of the homeward tide, and free-blown airUpturns thy gleaming leafage like a share,—A silvery foam thy bosom, as it heaves!O peasant tree, the regal Bay doth bareIts throbbing breast to ebbs and floods—and grieves!O slender fronds, pale as a moonbeam weaves,Joy woke your strain that trembles to despair!
Willow of Normandy, say, do the birdsOf Motherland plain in thy sea-chant low,Or voice of those who brought thee in the shipsTo tidal vales of Acadie?—Vain words!Grief unassuaged makes moan that GaspereauBore on its flood the fleet with iron lips!
Sea-widowed lands more fair than Tantramar!Winter's green providence in July's sun!The clattering steel till all was over and done,Flashed on thy breast from dawn to evening star.Soon herds of sweet-breathed kine of sere Canard,Whose eager hoofs the hasting morn outrun,Sea of lush clover aftermath has won,And golden-girdled bees anear and far.
Lo, as the harvest moon comes up the sky,Her shield of argent mellowed to the rim,The phantom of the buried tide doth flow;And without noise of wave or sea-bird's cryFills all thy ancient channels to the brim,Thy levels of a thousand years ago!
I watch the cloud soft-poised in upper airAnd feel a presence bodied in its folds,The wind in dark and shine a voice aye holds,The noontide forest listens to my prayer.The trampling seas with rumbling chariots bearSignificant behests in heats and colds,Urim fire throbs intense on barren wolds—The crystal globëd dew-drops Love declare!
The silence of the wheeling heavens by night,By day, is but the pealing anthem sweetBeyond the pitch of my dull ears to hear,While veiling shadows are the excess of lightThat marks the goings of His power so near,And hides Love's regal presence on His seat.
O veiled enchantress of my days and nights,That in sweet wonder's realm of witcheryTo fairer visions ever beckons me,Thou'st left the valleys for the rugged heights!A gladsome youth, the hill of thy delightsWinged my lithe spirit to speed after thee,But now, come down, close-veilëd Mystery,The garish sun but withers and affrights.
I feel thy charm, shy and elusive one,As in the gleaming springtide of my life,Whose zest was all thy unattained pursuit.Still flit before me till the race is run,And when with doubt the common day is rife,Thy wonder-wand set thick with flower and fruit.
Grey liegeman of sundown and dawn, who chidesWith a lone song the ocean-murmuring trees,I haste with thee at dusk to stalk the seasWhere feed the finny flocks of shepherding tides.O wild the pulses beat as round us glidesThe tidal spirit, like a midnight breeze,Burdened with moan of life-and-death decrees,—The deep night's tide-line pacing with our strides!
More weird than winkings of the ruddy MarsThese flitting gleams and breaths of hell and heaven,Searching the shadowy folds 'twixt peace and dread!—Nor dreamed I such solemnities did leavenLife's daily meal and league its dole of breadWith unseen forces vaster than the stars'.
[GEORGE V. DEARBORN.]
Arrived from out abysmal deeps of brine,A regal splendor glows within thy whorl,Like pomp of rosy morn in shimmering pearl.Surely "the hand that made thee is divine"!Ah, why so richly dight for beauty's shrine?No eye can feast on walls of gemmëd burlFar down the overwhelming rush and swirlOf awful wastes scarce plumbed of fathom-line!
Fit for the palace of high seneschal!Inlaid with colors which the Tyrian KingVain sought to rival on his royal scroll,And echoing yet the ocean's trembling string:Methinks the Master wrought this ivory hallTo please the love of beauty in His soul.
The naked Bay its silver notes is tellingSweeter than flute or harp or singing bird,Beatings of rosy rhythm in winsome wordOf lilting song are softly shoreward welling:Anear and far the ruddy waters swelling,In laughter-peals around the fair earth heard,Thrill swift the home-bound keels so long unstirred—The kiss of day the weary wings compelling.
Beware the elfin bugles sounding clearAs glows morn's pallid ash to crimson flame
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