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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MUSIC OF NATURE, by E. JUSTINE BAYARD Poet's Biography First Line: I am here lonely! There was once a time Last Line: Thine is perennial strength, mute weakness mine. Alternate Author Name(s): Cutting, E. Justine Subject(s): Nature | |||
I am here lonely! There was once a time I could divine no sorrow in that word; I carried in my heart a sweeter chime Than in the voice of other men is heard; And Nature spake to me in sun and shade, And my own thought a pleasant music made. The air was instinct with a lovely spell, The winds awoke in mystic harmonies, And moonlit waves at summer eve could tell Strange tales to me, as playfully the breeze Swept o'er their crests, no longer still or mute, Like fairy fingers over harp or lute. There was a soul in trees, which to my ear Came often when their leaves of gossamer Swayed with the soft south wind; I seem'd to hear Elves all invisible, with singing stir The quiet atmosphere of summer noon, A low, and lingering, and loving tune. The mountains had another tone. Their's was No melody of voice or instrument, But verse unrhymed, sublime and stately as His words inspired, who saw the firmament With eyes to earth-scenes wrapt in dark eclipse, Or the Italian's rapt apocalypse. And heaven's deep azure, over-arching all, Spake to my spirit as an old church bell Heard from afar, with hymnings musical Drawn from the organ's full melodious swell, Angelic music with high bliss elate, To Nature's great Designer consecrate. The soul of Nature is in Nature still; But there has gone from me I know not what Of power to catch her whispers, as they fill With untaught poesy each lovely spot, Therefore her beauty most awakes my heart To mourn the absence of her votary's art. Like those sad exiles from the realm of sound, Those mute and lone ones, unto whom the hum Of life comes not, in their deep silence bound Nature to me is beautiful but dumb; And wrapt for ever in a speechless gloom, What is e'en beauty but a living tomb? Ah no! bright goddess, no. I will not stain The lips which have been thine with words like these; There are whose sense still notes the exalted strain, Though mine be deadened to thy minstrelsies. Sing on for them sweet harmonist divine, Thine is perennial strength, mute weakness mine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INTERRUPTED MEDITATION by ROBERT HASS TWO VIEWS OF BUSON by ROBERT HASS THE FATALIST: HOME by LYN HEJINIAN WRITING IS AN AID TO MEMORY: 17 by LYN HEJINIAN LET US GATHER IN A FLOURISHING WAY by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA IN MICHAEL ROBINS?ÇÖS CLASS MINUS ONE by HICOK. BOB BREADTH. CIRCLE. DESERT. MONARCH. MONTH. WISDOM by JOHN HOLLANDER |
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