300 POEMS

243. SYMPATHY

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;

When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,

And the river flows like a stream of glass;

When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,

And the faint perfume from its chalice steals--

I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing

Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;

For he must fly back to his perch and cling

When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;

And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars

And they pulse again with a keener sting--

I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,--

When he beats his bars and he would be free;

It is not a carol of joy or glee,

But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,

But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings--

I know why the caged bird sings!

244. THE TEACHER'S DREAM

The weary teacher sat alone

While twilight gathered on:

And not a sound wad heard around,--

The boys and girls were gone.

The weary teacher sat alone;

Unnerved and pale was he;

Bowed' neath a yoke of care, he spoke

In sad soliloquy:

"Another round, another round

Of labor thrown away,

Another chain of toil and pain

Dragged through a tedious day...

I squander on a barren field

My strength, my life, my all:

The seeds I sow will never grow,--

They perish where they fall.

247. THERE WAS A CHILD WENT FORTH

...

Men and women crowding fast in the streets--if they are not flashes and specks, what are they?...

248. "THERE WERE COME SOFT RAIN"

There will come soft rain and smell of the ground,

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,

And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire.

And not one will know of the war, not one

Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,

If mankind perished utterly.

And Spring herself when she woke at dawn,

Would scarcely know that we were gone.

251. THE THREAD OF LIFE

...Thus am I mine own prison. Everything

Around me free and sunny and at ease...

He bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?

And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?

256. To a Butterfly

Stay near me—do not take thy flight!

A little longer stay in sight!

Much converse do I find in Thee,

Historian of my Infancy!

Float near me; do not yet depart!

Dead times revive in thee:

Thou bring'st, gay Creature as thou art!

A solemn image to my heart,

My Father's Family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,

The time, when in our childish plays

My sister Emmeline and I

Together chaced the Butterfly!

A very hunter did I rush

Upon the prey:—with leaps and springs

I follow'd on from brake to bush;

But She, God love her! feared to brush

The dust from off its wings.

258. TO A TRAVELER

...Fare thee well, O strong heart! The tranquil night

Looks calmly on thee: and the sun pours down

His glory over thee, O heart of might!

Earth gives thee perfect rest:

Earth, whom thy swift feet pressed:

Earth, whom the vast stars crown.

259. TO A WITHERED ROSE

Thy span of life was all too short--

A week or two at best--

From budding-time, through blossoming,

To withering and rest.

Yet compensation hast thou--aye!--

For all thy little woes;

For was it not thy happy lot

To live and die a rose?

260. TO AUTUMN--John Keats

Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun...

267. TO YOU

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you,

that you be my poem;

I whisper with my lips close to your ear,

I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you...

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all;

From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color'd light;...

271. UNDER THE HARVEST MOON

Under the harvest moon,

When the soft silver

Drips shimmering

Over the garden nights,

Death, the gray mocker,

Comes and whispers to you

As a beautiful friend

Who remembers.

Under the summer roses...

272. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE--William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This city now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

278. 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...

281. WHEN WE TWO PARTED

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow;

It felt like warning

Of what I feel now.

The vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken

And share in its fame...

286. THE WHITE BIRDS

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!...

Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea.

287. A WHITE ROSE

The red rose whispers of passion,

And the white rose breathes of love;

O the red rose is a falcon,

And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud

With a flush on its petal tips;

For the love that is purest and sweetest

Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

289. THE WILD SWANS AT COOLE

The trees are in their autumn beauty,

The woodland paths are dry,

Under the October twilight the water

Mirrors a still sky;...

290. A WINDFLOWER

Between the roadside and the wood,

Between the dawning and the dew,

A tiny flower before the wind,

Ephemeral in time, I grew...

296. THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING--Robert Browning

The year's at the spring,

And day's at the morn;

Morning's at seven;

The hillside's dew-pearled;

The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn:

God's in His Heaven-

All's right with the world!

300. YOUTH AND AGE--Coleridge

Flowers are lovely! Love is flower-like;

Friendship is a sheltering tree;

O the joys, that came down shower-like,

Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,

Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere,

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!...

Dewdrops are the gems of morning,

But the tears of mournful eve!

Where no hope is, life's a warning

That only serves to make us grieve,

When we are old!

That only serves to make us grieve

With oft and tedious taking-leave,

Like some poor nigh-related guest

That may not rudely be dismist.

Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,

And tells the jest without the smile.