Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN INVITATION, by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Nine years have slipt like hour-glass sand Last Line: The orange lifts its golden moons. | ||||||||
NINE years have slipt like hour-glass sand From life's still-emptying globe away, Since last, dear friend, I clasped your hand, And stood upon the impoverished land, Watching the steamer down the bay. I held the token which you gave, While slowly the smoke-pennon curled O'er the vague rim 'tween sky and wave, And shut the distance like a grave, Leaving me in the colder world. The old worn world of hurry and heat, The young, fresh world of thought and scope, While you, where beckoning billows fleet Climb far sky-beaches still and sweet, Sank wavering down the ocean-slope. You sought the new world in the old, I found the old world in the new, All that our human hearts can hold, The inward world of deathless mould, The same that Father Adam knew. He needs no ship to cross the tide, Who, in the lives about him, sees Fair window-prospects opening wide O'er history's fields on every side, To Ind and Egypt, Rome and Greece. Whatever moulds of various brain E'er shaped the world to weal or woe, Whatever empires' wax and wane, To him that hath not eyes in vain, Our village-microcosm can show. Come back our ancient walks to tread, Dear haunts of lost or scattered friends, Old Harvard's scholar-factories red, Where song and smoke and laughter sped The nights to proctor-haunted ends. Constant are all our former loves, Unchanged the icehouse-girdled pond, Its hemlock glooms, its shadowy coves, Where floats the coot and never moves, Its slopes of long-tamed green beyond. Our old familiars are not laid, Though snapt our wands and sunk our books; They beckon, not to be gainsaid, Where, round broad meads that mowers wade, The Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks. Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow, From glow to gloom the hillsides shift Their plumps of orchard-trees arow, Their lakes of rye that wave and flow, Their snowy whiteweed's summer drift. There have we watched the West unfurl A cloud Byzantium newly born, With flickering spires and domes of pearl, And vapory surfs that crowd and curl Into the sunset's Godlen Horn. There, as the flaming occident Burned slowly down to ashes gray, Night pitched o'erhead her silent tent, And glimmering gold from Hesper sprent Upon the darkened river lay, Where a twin sky but just before Deepened, and double swallows skimmed, And, from a visionary shore, Hung visioned trees, that more and more Grew dusk as those above were dimmed. Then eastward saw we slowly grow Clear-edged the lines of roof and spire, While great elm-masses blacken slow, And linden-ricks their round heads show Against a flush of widening fire. Doubtful at first and far away, The moon-flood creeps more wide and wide; Up a ridged beach of cloudy gray, Curved round the east as round a bay, It slips and spreads its gradual tide. Then suddenly, in lurid mood, The moon looms large o'er town and field As upon Adam, red like blood, 'Tween him and Eden's happy wood, Glared the commissioned angel's shield. Or let us seek the seaside, there To wander idly as we list, Whether, on rocky headlands bare, Sharp cedar-horns, like breakers, tear The trailing fringes of gray mist, Or whether, under skies full flown, The brightening surfs, with foamy din, Their breeze-caught forelocks backward blown, Against the beach's yellow zone, Curl slow, and plunge forever in. And, as we watch those canvas towers That lean along the horizon's rim, "Sail on," I'll say; "may sunniest hours Convoy you from this land of ours, Since from my side you bear not him!" For years thrice three, wise Horace said, A poem rare let silence bind; And love may ripen in the shade, Like ours, for nine long seasons laid In deepest arches of the mind. Come back! Not ours the Old World's good, The Old World's ill, thank God, not ours; But here, far better understood, The days enforce our native mood, And challenge all our manlier powers. Kindlier to me the place of birth That first my tottering footsteps trod; There may be fairer spots of earth, But all their glories are not worth The virtue of the native sod. Thence climbs an influence more benign Through pulse and nerve, through heart and brain; Sacred to me those fibres fine That first clasped earth. O, ne'er be mine The alien sun and alien rain! These nourish not like homelier glows Or waterings of familiar skies, And nature fairer blooms bestows On the heaped hush of wintry snows, In pastures dear to childhood's eyes, Than where Italian earth receives The partial sunshine's ampler boons, Where vines carve friezes 'neath the eaves, And, in dark firmaments of leaves, The orange lifts its golden moons. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN INTERVIEW WITH MILES STANDISH by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL AUF WIEDERSEHEN! SUMMER by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL AUSPEX by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL BEAVER BROOK by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL COMMEMORATION ODE READ AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL IN A COPY OF OMAR KHAYYAM by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL IN THE TWILIGHT by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL LINES; SUGGESTED BY GRAVES TWO ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL MY LOVE by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL ON BOARD THE '76; WRITTEN FOR BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL |
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