. Seven great American poets. re boys, — always playing- with tongue or with pen, —And I sometimes have asked, —Shall we be men ?Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and the last dear companion drops smiling a^\ay ? Then heres to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!The stars of its winter, the dews of its ]May !And when we have done with our life-lasting Father, take eare of thy children, the urns. The Boys,1869. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 1819-1S91 There is Lowell, whos strivins; riiriiassns to climbAVitli a wliole bale of isms tieil toi^L-thin- with rhyme,He might get
. Seven great American poets. re boys, — always playing- with tongue or with pen, —And I sometimes have asked, —Shall we be men ?Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and the last dear companion drops smiling a^\ay ? Then heres to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!The stars of its winter, the dews of its ]May !And when we have done with our life-lasting Father, take eare of thy children, the urns. The Boys,1869. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 1819-1S91 There is Lowell, whos strivins; riiriiassns to climbAVitli a wliole bale of isms tieil toi^L-thin- with rhyme,He might get on ;iloiie, spite of brambles and bouldiis,But he cant with that bundle he has on his shoulders,The top of the hill he will neer eome nigh reauhinnTill he learns tlie distinction twixt singing and preaching ;His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty hed rather by half make a drum of the rattle away till hes old as Meihusalem,At the head of a march to the last New Jerusalem. A Fable fur JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL And what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays ;Whether we look or whether we listen,We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ;Every clod feels a stir of might. An instinct within it that reaches and towers,And, groping blindly above it for light. Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ;The flush of life well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys ;The cowslip startles in meadows green. The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,And theres ne\ei a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creatmcs palace ;The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the lets his illumined being oerruu With the deluge of summer it receives ;His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, —In the nice ear
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, booksubjectamerica, bookyear1901
