Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE POET'S JOURNAL: SECOND EVENING, by BAYARD TAYLOR Poet's Biography First Line: It was the evening of the second day Last Line: "the sole inscriptions they have left behind." Alternate Author Name(s): Taylor, James Bayard Subject(s): Evening; Hearts; Love; Memory; Poetry & Poets; Sunset; Twilight | ||||||||
IT was the evening of the second day, Which swifter, sweeter than the first had fled: My heart's delicious tumult passed away And left a sober happiness instead. For Ernest's voice was ever in mine ear, His presence mingled as of old with mine, But stronger, manlier, brighter, more divine Its effluence now: within his starry sphere Of love new-risen my nature too was drawn, And warmed with rosy flushes of the dawn. All day we drove about the lovely vales, Under the hill-side farms, through summer woods, The land of mingled homes and solitudes That Ernest loved. We told the dear old tales Of childhood, music new to Edith's ear, Sang olden songs, lived old adventures o'er, And, when the hours brought need of other cheer, Spread on the ferny rocks a tempting store Of country dainties 'T was our favorite dell, Cut by the trout-stream through a wooded ridge: Above, the highway on a mossy bridge Strode o'er it, and below, the water fell Through hornblende bowlders, where the dircus flung His pliant rods, the berried spice-wood grew, And tulip-trees and smooth magnolias hung A million leaves between us and the blue. The silver water-dust in puffs arose And turned to dust of jewels in the sun, And like a canon, in its close begun Afresh, the stream's perpetual lullaby Sang down the dell, and deepened its repose. Here, till the western hours had left the sky, We sat: then homeward loitered through the dusk Of chestnut woods, along the meadow-side, And lost in lanes that breathed ambrosial musk Of wild-grape blossoms: and the twilight died. Long after every star came out, we paced The terrace, still discoursing on the themes The day had started, intermixed with dreams Born of the summer night. Then, golden-faced, Behind her daybreak of auroral gleams, The moon arose: the bosom of the lawn Whitened beneath her silent snow of light, Save where the trees made isles of mystic night, Dark blots against the rising splendor drawn, And where the eastern wall of woodland towered, Blue darkness, filled with undistinguished shapes: But elsewhere, over all the landscape showered -- A silver drizzle on the distant capes Of hills -- the glory of the moon. We sought, Drawn thither by the same unspoken thought, The mound, where now the leaves of laurel clashed Their dagger-points of light, around the bower, And through the nets of leaf and elfin flower, Cold fire, the sprinkled drops of moonshine flashed. Erelong in Ernest's hand the volume lay, (I did not need a second time to ask,) And he resumed the intermitted task. "This night, dear Philip, is the Poet's day," He said: "the world is one confessional: Our sacred memories as freely fall As leaves from o'er-ripe blossoms: we betray Ourselves to Nature, who the tale can win We shrink from uttering in the daylight's din. So, Friend, come back with me a little way Along the years, and in these records find The sole inscriptions they have left behind." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOURNEY INTO THE EYE by DAVID LEHMAN FEBRUARY EVENING IN NEW YORK by DENISE LEVERTOV THE HOUSE OF DUST: 1 by CONRAD AIKEN TWILIGHT COMES by HAYDEN CARRUTH IN THE EVENINGS by LUCILLE CLIFTON NINETEEN FORTY by NORMAN DUBIE BEDOUIN [LOVE] SONG by BAYARD TAYLOR NATIONAL ODE; INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA by BAYARD TAYLOR |
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