Could I incase within a crystal vault Or wrap in crisping sheets of cellophane The burning-russet vesture of the wood, Its pungent fragrances, this quiet rain, And hold the beauty here, transfixed in time While summers, winters pass my little door. Could I but gather you, my tranquil days, My own September, that there be no more Of unclothed tendril clinging to the rag, Of seared corolla or of bursted pod, That I might learn beneath these coral boughs The less of earth, a little more of God. Could I but gather you, my burnished hills, My lakes grown bluer in placidity, The shocks of corn upon a smoky line -- Oh, could I gather, hoard you here for me! Then in the martins clanning on the fence With quaint sublimeness of departing birds, And in the leaves that wafted by my knee, In chilling winds came clear, unwhispered words, "Our strength is not the strength of pulchritude, In lands' fat offerings and festive dress, Our beauty, only charms of cyclic change; Our honor is of shame's own nakedness. So count us not unless you count the storm The lightening trail that leads to soil's dark breast; Unless you note the rotting, crumbling hulk Of germinating seed, discount the rest. The muddy ground, the bare and ugly forms Of baby birds, and mummied butterflies. It is in death, in death's dark silences And resurrection -- there our glory lies." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RAT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES ALMANZOR & ALMAHIDE, OR THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA: PART 2. EPILOGUE by JOHN DRYDEN THE UNSUNG HEROES by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE ENEMY'S PORTRAIT by THOMAS HARDY THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN by RUDYARD KIPLING SUMMER IN ENGLAND, 1914 by ALICE MEYNELL BARBARA FRIETCHIE [SEPTEMBER 13, 1862] by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |