The Unconquered Air, and Other Poems. Florence Earle Coates
thou, sublime, who on the throne
Of eyeless Night sat, awful and alone,
Before the birth of Cronos—brooding deep
Upon the voiceless waters which asleep
Held all things circled in their gelid zone:
O Silence! how approach thy shrine
Nor falter in the listening void to raise
A mortal voice in praise,
Nor wrong with words such eloquence as thine?
Amid the fragrant forest hush,
The nightingale or solitary-thrush
May, on thy quiet breaking, give no wound;
For they such beauty bring as all redeems,
Nor fear to interrupt thy dreams
Or trouble thy Nirvana with a sound!
And though more fitting worship seem the breath
Of violets in the sequestered wood,
The zephyr that low whispereth
To the heart of Solitude,
The first unfolding of the bashful rose
That noiseless by the wayside buds and blows;
More fitting worship the far drift of clouds
O'er azure floating with a swan-like motion,
The Siren-lays faint heard amid the shrouds,
The voiceless swell of the unfathomed ocean,
The silver Dian pours on the calm stream
Where pale the lotus-blossoms lie adream—
Yet, mother of all high imaginings,
In whom is neither barrenness nor dearth,
Wise guardian of the sacred springs
Whose fresh primordial waters heal the earth—
O soul of muted fire,
Of whom is born the passionate desire
That gives to beauty birth—
All music that hath been, howe'er divine,
All possibilities of sound are thine!
The syrinx-reed, the flute Apollo owns,
Symphonic chords, and lyric overtones,
First draw their inspiration at thy shrine.
There come heart-broken mortal things;
There once again they find their wings;
There garner dreams benign—
O nurse of genius! unto whom belong
Beethoven's harmonies and Homer's deathless song!
the poetry of earth
For other versions of this work, see The Poetry of Earth.
THE POETRY OF EARTH
"The poetry of earth is never dead."—Keats.
There is always room for beauty: memory
A myriad lovely blossoms may enclose,
But, whatsoe'er hath been, there still must be
Room for another rose.
Though skylark, throstle, whitethroat, whip-poor-will,
And nightingale earth's echoing chantries throng,
When comes another singer, there will be
Room for another song.
how wonderful is love!
For other versions of this work, see How Wonderful is Love.
HOW WONDERFUL IS LOVE!
How wonderful is love!
More wonderful, I wis,
Than cherry-blossoms are when spring's first kiss
Warms the chill breast of earth,
And gives new birth
To beauty! High above
All miracles—the miracle of love,
Which by its own glad and triumphant power
Brings life to flower.
Oh, love is wonderful!
More wonderful than is the dew-fed rose
Whose petals half unclose,
In welcome of the light,
When first the Dawn comes robed in vesture cool
Of fragrant, shimmering white!—
More wonderful and strange
Than moonrise, which doth change
Dulness to glory—
Yea, with a touch transforms the mountains hoary,
And fills the darkling rills with living silver bright!
Not music when it wings
From the far azure where the skylark sings
Is wonderful as love!—
Not music when it wells
From the enchanted fairy-haunted dells
Where, shrined mid thorn and vine—
An ecstasy apart,
Drawn from the life-blood of a yearning heart—
The nightingale pours forth forever
The rapture and the pain, that naught can sever,
Of love which mortal is, yet knows itself divine!
his face
For other versions of this work, see His Face.
HIS FACE
They tell you Lincoln was ungainly, plain?
To some he seemed so: true.
Yet in his look was charm to gain
E'en such as I, who knew
With how confirmed a will he tried
To overthrow a cause for which I would have died.
The sun may shine with naught to shroud
Its beam, yet show less bright
Than when from out eclipsing cloud
It pours its radiant light;
And Lincoln, seen amid the shows of war
Clothed in his sober black, was somehow