[ow, erect, at the outermost gates of the City Celestial he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, hat, crowded with angels unnumbered, 'y Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night? he Angels of Wind and of Fire ut serene in the rapturous throng, From the spirits on earth that adore, rom the souls that entreat and implore In the fervor and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed. It is but a legend, I know, - Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; more. When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white, All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing His pinions in nebulous bars. And the legend, I feel, is a part The frenzy and fire of the brain, By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, And there will I keep you forever, ENCELADUS. UNDER Mount Etna he lies, It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies Are hot with his fiery breath. The crags are piled on his breast, The earth is heaped on his head; But the groans of his wild unrest, Though smothered and half suppressed, Are heard, and he is not dead. And the nations far away Are watching with eager eyes; They talk together and say, "To-morrow, perhaps to-day, Enceladus will arise!" And the old gods, the austere Ah me! for the land that is sown With the harvest of despair! Where the burning cinders, blown 'UT of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, ver the woodlands brown and bare, Silent, and soft, and slow ven as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; A DAY OF SUNSHINE. ) GIFT of God! O perfect day: Through every fibre of my brain, I hear the wind among the trees Towards yonder cloud-land in the West, Blow, winds and waft through all the rooms The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms! O Life and Love! O happy throng SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. LABOR with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair, Like a mendicant it waits; Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid; By the cares of yesterday Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear, Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere. And we stand from day to day, Like the dwarfs of times gone by, Who, as Northern legends say, On their shoulders held the sky. |