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The Reaper and the Flowers
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Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door, The beloved, the true-hearted Come to visit me once more.
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Chateau de Souvenir in
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Emaux et Camees, and confess the truth, which poet brings the break into the reader's voice? It is not the dainty, accomplished Frenchman, the jeweller in words; it is the simpler speaker of our English tongue who stirs you as a ballad moves you. I find one comes back to Longfellow, and to one's old self of the old years. I don't know a poem
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as Sir Barnes Newcome would have called it, that I like better than Thackeray's
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Cane-bottomed Chair. Well,
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The Fire of Driftwood
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And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saintlike, Looking downward from the skies.
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Voices of the Night from the same book with us, how long ago! So long ago that one was half-frightened by the legend of the
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Beleaguered City.
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The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmed air;
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Three Brethren's Cairn, that I half-hoped to watch when
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--fled with battered banners of mist drifting through the pines, down to the Tweed and the sea. The
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Skeleton in Armour comes out once more as terrific as ever, and the
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Wreck of the Hesperus
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Endymion.
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And silver white the river gleams As if Diana in her dreams Had dropt her silver bow Upon the meadows low.
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Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, Love gives itself, but is not bought.
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Some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own.
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My Lost Youth is needed to remind one of what the author really was,
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What a lovely verse this is, a verse somehow inspired by the breath of Longfellow's favourite Finnish
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Kalevala,
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I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tide, tossing free, And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and the mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea.