Memory and Other Poems

By Aldrich, Thomas Bailey

Description
Poetry

Excerpt
Excerpt: Memory // My mind lets go a thousand things, // Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, // And yet recalls the very hour- // 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, // And on the last blue noon in May- // The wind came briskly up this way, // Crisping the brook beside the road; // Then, pausing here, set down its load // Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly // Two petals from that wild-rose tree. // Thomas Bailey Aldrich // Miracles // SICK of myself and all that keeps the light // Of the blue skies away from me and mine, // I climb this ledge, and by this wind-swept pine // Lingering, watch the coming of the night. // 'T is ever a new wonder to my sight. // Men look to God for some mysterious sign, // For other stars than those that nightly shine, // For some unnatural symbol of His might:- // Wouldst see a miracle as grand as those // The prophets wrought of old in Palestine? // Come watch with me the shaft of fire that glows // In yonder West; the fair, frail palaces, // The fading alps and archipelagoes, // And great cloud-continents of sunset-seas. // Thomas Bailey Aldrich // Enamored Architect of Airy Rhyme // ENAMORED architect of airy rhyme, // Build as thou wilt; heed not what each man says: // Good souls, but innocent of dreamers' ways, // Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time; // Others, beholding how thy turrets climb // 'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days; // But most beware of those who come to praise. // O Wondersmith, O worker in sublime // And heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all; // Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, // Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given: // Then, if at last the airy structure fall, // Dissolve, and vanish-take thyself no shame. // They fail, and they alone, who have not striven. // Thomas Bailey Aldrich // Reminiscence // THOUGH I am native to this frozen zone // That half the twelvemonth torpid lies, or dead; // Though the cold azure arching overhead // And the Atlantic's never-ending moan // Are mine by heritage, I must have known // Life otherwise in epochs long since fled; // For in my veins some Orient blood is red, // And through my thought are lotus blossoms blown, // I do remember... it was just at dusk, // Near a walled garden at the river's turn // (A thousand summers seem but yesterday!), // A Nubian girl, more sweet than Khoorja musk, // Came to the water-tank to fill her urn, // And, with the urn, she bore my heart away! // Thomas Bailey Aldrich // Heredity // A SOLDIER of the Cromwell stamp, // With sword and psalm-book by his side, // At home alike in church and camp: // Austere he lived, and smileless died. // But she, a creature soft and fine- // From Spain, some say, some say from France; // Within her veins leapt blood like wine- // She led her Roundhead lord a dance! // In Grantham church they lie asleep; // Just where, the verger may not know. // Strange that two hundred years should keep // The old ancestral fires aglow! // In me these two have met again; // To each my nature owes a part: // To one, the cool and reasoning brain; // To one, the quick, unreasoning heart. // Thomas Bailey Aldrich...