Twelve Songs , opus 91

Little brook! Little brook!
You have such a happy look-
Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and
curve and crook-
And your ripples, one and one,
Reach each other's hand and run
Like laughing little children in the sun!

 ... 

Little brook-sing a song
Of a leaf that sailed along
Down the golden-braided center of your current
swift and strong,
And a dragon-fly that lit
On the tilting rim of it,
And rode away and wasn't scared a bit.

Little brook, sing to me:
Sing about a bumblebee
That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled
mumblingly,
Because he wet the film
Of his wings, and had to swim,
While the water-bugs raced around and laughed
at him!

 ... 

And sing-how oft in glee
Came a truant boy like me,
Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting
melody,
Till the gurgle and refrain
Of your music in his brain
Wrought a happiness as keen to him as pain.

Little brook-laugh and leap!
Do not let the dreamer weep;
Sing him all the songs of summer till he sinks in
softest sleep;
And then sing soft and low
Through his dreams of long ago-
Sing back to him the rest he used to know!

One night came Winter noiselessly, and leaned 
Against my window-pane. 
In the deep stillness of his heart convened 
The ghosts of all his slain. 
Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth, 
And fugitives of grass, — 
White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth, 
He drew on the glass.

It was not in the Winter
  Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses -
  We pluck'd them as we passed!

The churlish season never frown'd
  On early lovers yet:
O no - the world was newly crown'd
  With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
  But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses -
  We pluck'd them as we pass'd!

Into the sunshine,
Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn to night;

Into the moonlight,
Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow;

Into the starlight
Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,
Happy by day;

Ever in motion,
Blithesome and cheery,
Still climbing heavenwards,
Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers,
Still seeming best,
Upward or downward.
Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature
Nothing can tame,
Chang'd every moment,
Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring,
Ceaseless content,
Darkness or sunshine
Thy element;

Glorious fountain.
Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant,
Upward, like thee!

I want to be a Soldier! --
A Soldier! --
A Soldier! --
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of my band;
I want to hear, high overhead, 
The Old Flag flap her wings
While all the Army, following, 
In chorus cheers and sings;
I want to hear 
the tramp and jar
Of patriots the million,
As gayly dancing off to war
As dancing  ...  cotillion.
I want to be a Soldier! --
A Soldier! --
A Soldier! --
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand
 ... 
I want to see the battle, 
and be in it to the end; --
I want to hear the cannon clear 
their throats and catch the prattle
Of all the pretty compliments 
the enemy can send! --
And then I know 
my wits will go, --
and where I should'nt be --
Well, there's the spot, in any fight, 
that you may search for me.
So, when our foes have had their fill,
Though I'm among the dying,
To see The Old Flag flying still,
I'll laugh to leave her flying!
I want to be a Soldier! --
A Soldier! --
A Soldier! --
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder,
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band.

Solemnly, mournfully,
  Dealing its dole,
The Curfew Bell
  Is beginning to toll.
Cover the embers,
  Put out the light;
Toil comes with the morning,
  And rest with the night.
Dark grow the windows,
  And quenched is the fire;
Sound fades into silence,--
  All footsteps retire.
No voice in the chamber,
  No sound in the hall!
Sleep and oblivion
  Reign over all!

 ... 

As we rush, as we rush in the train
The trees and the houses go wheeling back,
But the starry heavens above the plain
Come flying on our track

All the beautiful stars of the sky,
The silver doves of the forest of Night
Over the dull earth swarm and fly
Companions of our flight.

We will rush ever on without fear;
Let the goal be far, the flight be fleet
For we carry the Heavens with us dear,
While the earth slips from our feet!

I think I shall never see
A poem lovely like a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

They are waiting on the shore
For the bark to take them home:
They will toil and grieve no more;
The hour for release has come.

All their long life lies behind
Like a dimly blending dream:
There is nothing left to bind
To the realms that only seem.

They are waiting for the boat;
There is nothing left to do:
What was near that grows remote,
Happy silence falls like dew;
Now the shadowy bark is come,
And the weary may go home.

By still water they would rest
In the shadow of the tree:
After battle sleep is best,
After noise, tranquillity.

Blossom on the plum, 
  Wild wind and merry;
Leaves upon the cherry, 
  And one swallow comes.

Red windy dawn,
  Swift rain and sunny;
  Wild bees seeking honey,
Crocus on the Lawn;
  Blossom on the plum,

Grass begins to grow,
  Dandelions come;
Snowdrops haste to go
After last month's snow;
Rough winds beat and blow,
  Blossom on the plum.

My life is but a leaf upon the1 tree-
A growth upon the stem that feedeth all.
A touch of frost-and suddenly I fall,
To follow where my sister-blossoms be.

The selfsame sun, the shadow, and the rain,
That brought the budding verdure to the bough,
Shall strip the fading foliage as now,
And leave the limb in nakedness again.

My life is but a leaf upon a tree;
The winds of birth and death upon it blow;
But whence it came and whether it shall go,
Is mystery of mysteries to me.

With rosy cheeks, and merry-dancing curls,
And eyes of tender light,
O, very beautiful are little girls,
And goodly to the sight!

Here comes a group to seek my lonely bower,
Ere waning Autumn dies, -
How like the dew-drops on a drooping flower,
Are smiles from gentle eyes!

What beaming gladness lights each fairy face
The while the elves advance,
Now speeding swiftly in a gleesome race,
Now whirling in a dance!

What heavenly pleasure o'er the spirit rolls,
When all the air along
Floats the sweet music of untainted souls,
In bright, unsullied song!

The sacred nymphs that guard this sylvan ground
May sport unseen with these,
And joy to hear their ringing laugh resound
Among the clustering trees!

With rosy cheeks, and merry-dancing curls,
And eyes of tender light,
O, very beautiful are little girls,
And goodly to the sight!