Classic and Contemporary Poetry
PICOMEGAN, by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN Poet's Biography First Line: Stars of gold the green sod fretting Last Line: Or the wisdom of its grief. Subject(s): Rivers; Wisdom; Grief | ||||||||
Stars of gold the green sod fretting, Clemantis the thicket netting, Silvery moss her locks down-letting Like a maiden brave: Arrowhead his dark flag wetting In thy darker wave. By the River's broken border Wading through the ferns, When a darker deep, and broader, Fills its bays and turns: Up along the winding ridges, Down the sudden-dropped descent, Rounding pools with reedy edges, Silent coves in alders pent, Through the river-flags and sedges Dreamily I went. Dreamily, for perfect Summer Hushed the vales with misty heat; In the wood a drowsy drummer, The woodpecker, faintly beat. Songs were silent, save the voices Of the mountain and the flood, Save the wisdom of the voices Only known in solitude: But to me, a lonely liver, All that fading afternoon From the undermining river Came a burthen in its tune, Came a tone my ear remembers, And I said, |DdWhat grief thee grieves, Pacing through thy leafy chambers, And thy voice of rest bereaves? Winds of change that wail and bluster, Sunless morns and shivering eves, Carry sweets to thee belonging; All of light thy rim receives: River-growths that fold and cluster Following where the waters lead, Bunches of the purple aster, Mints and blood-dropped jewelweed Like carnelians hanging 'Mid their pale-green leaves; Wherefore then with sunlight heaping Perfect joy and promised good, When thy flow should pulse in keeping With the beating of the blood, Through thy dim green shadows sweeping When the folded heart is sleeping, Dost thou mourn and brood?" Wider, wilder, round the headland, Black the River swung, Over skirt and hanging woodland Deeper stillness hung; As once more I stood a dreamer The waste weeds among: Doubt, and pain, and grief extremer Seemed to fall away, But a dim voluptuous sorrow Smote and thrilled my fancy thoro', Gazing over bend and bay: Saying, "Thou O mournful River As of old dost wind and waste, Falling down the reef forever, Rustling with a sound of haste Through the dry-fringed meadow bottom; But my hands aside thy bed Gather now no gems of Autumn, Or the dainties Summer shed; By the margin hoarsely flowing, Yellow dock and garget growing, Drifts of wreck and muddy stain, By river-wash and dregs of rain. Yet, though bound in desolation, Bound and locked, thy waters pour With a cry of exultation Uncontained by shore and shore, With a booming deep vibration; In its wind my cheek is wet, But unheeding woe or warning Thou through all the barren hours Seem'st to sing of Summer yet; Thou with voice all sorrow scorning Babblest on of leaves and flowers, Wearily, whilst I go mourning O'er thy fallen banks and bowers; O'er a life small grace adorning, With lost aims and broken powers Wreck-flung, like these wavetorn beaches, Tear trenched, as by winter showers. But a faith thy music teaches Might I to its knowledge climb, Still the yearning heart beseeches Truth, as when in summer time Through these dells I vaguely sought her, In the dreamy summer time." So the margin paths and reaches Once again I left to roam, Left behind the roaring water, Eddy knots, and clots of foam; But it still disturbed me ever, As a dream no reason yields, From the ruin of the river, Winding up through empty fields, That I could not gather something Of the meaning and belief, In the voice of its triumphing Or the wisdom of its grief. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONOMA FIRE by JANE HIRSHFIELD AS THE SPARKS FLY UPWARDS by JOHN HOLLANDER WHAT GREAT GRIEF HAS MADE THE EMPRESS MUTE by JUNE JORDAN CHAMBER MUSIC: 19 by JAMES JOYCE I HAVE FOLDED MY SORROWS by BOB KAUFMAN THE CRICKET by FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN |
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