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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529148" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elmwood</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, in the twilight, at the well-known gate<br>I linger, with no heart to enter more.<br>Among the elm-tops the autumnal air<br>Murmurs, and spectral in the fading light<br>A solitary heron wings its way<br>Southward--save this no sound or touch of life.<br>Dark is the window where the scholar's lamp<br>Was used to catch a pallor from the dawn.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet I must needs a little linger here.<br>Each shrub and tree is eloquent of him,<br>For tongueless things and silence have their speech.<br>This is the path familiar to his foot<br>From infancy to manhood and old age;<br>For in a chamber of that ancient house<br>His eyes first opened on the mystery<br>Of life, and all the splendor of the world.<br>Here, as a child, in loving, curious way,<br>He watched the bluebird's coming; learned the date<br>Of hyacinth and goldenrod, and made<br>Friends of those little redmen of the elms,<br>And slyly added to their winter store<br>Of hazel-nuts: no harmless thing that breathed,<br>Footed or winged, but knew him for a friend.<br>The gilded butterfly was not afraid<br>To trust its gold to that so gentle hand,<br>The bluebird fled not from the pendent spray.<br>Ah, happy childhood, ringed with fortunate stars!<br>What dreams were his in this enchanted sphere,<br>What intuitions of high destiny!<br>The honey-bees of Hybla touched his lips<br>In that old New-World garden, unawares.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So in her arms did Mother Nature fold<br>Her poet, whispering what of wild and sweet<br>Into his ear--the state-affairs of birds,<br>The lore of dawn and sunset, what the wind<br>Said in the tree-tops--fine, unfathomed things<br>Henceforth to turn to music in his brain:<br>A various music, now like notes of flutes,<br>And now like blasts of trumpets blown in wars.<br>Later he paced this leafy academe<br>A student, drinking from Greek chalices<br>The ripened vintage of the antique world.<br>And here to him came love, and love's dear loss;<br>Here honors came, the deep applause of men<br>Touched to the heart by some swift-winged word<br>That from his own full heart took eager flight--<br>Some strain of piercing sweetness or rebuke,<br>For underneath his gentle nature flamed<br>A noble scorn for all ignoble deed,<br>Himself a bondman till all men were free.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus passed his manhood; then to other lands<br>He strayed, a stainless figure among courts<br>Beside the Manzanares and the Thames.<br>Whence, after too long exile, he returned<br>With fresher laurel, but sedater step<br>And eye more serious, fain to breathe the air<br>Where through the Cambridge marshes the blue Charles<br>Uncoils its length and stretches to the sea:<br>Stream dear to him, at every curve a shrine<br>For pilgrim Memory. Again he watched<br>His loved syringa whitening by the door,<br>And knew the catbird's welcome; in his walks<br>Smiled on his tawny kinsmen of the elms<br>Stealing his nuts; and in the ruined year<br>Sat at his widowed hearthside with bent brows<br>Leonine, frosty with the breath of time,<br>And listened to the crooning of the wind<br>In the wide Elmwood chimneys, as of old.<br>And then--and then....</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The after-glow has faded from the elms,<br>And in the denser darkness of the boughs<br>From time to time the firefly's tiny lamp<br>Sparkles. How often in still summer dusks<br>He paused to note that transient phantom spark<br>Flash on the air--a light that outlasts him!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The night grows chill, as if it felt a breath<br>Blown from that frozen city where he lies.<br>All things turn strange. The leaf that rustles here<br>Has more than autumn's mournfulness. The place<br>Is heavy with his absence. Like fixed eyes<br>Whence the dear light of sense and thought has fled,<br>The vacant windows stare across the lawn.<br>The wise sweet spirit that informed it all<br>Is otherwhere. The house itself is dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O autumn wind among the sombre pines,<br>Breathe you his dirge, but be it sweet and low.<br>With deep refrains and murmurs of the sea,<br>Like to his verse--the art is yours alone.<br>His once--you taught him. Now no voice but yours!<br>Tender and low, O wind among the pines.<br>I would, were mine a lyre of richer strings,<br>In soft Sicilian accents wrap his name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Bailey+Aldrich">Thomas Bailey Aldrich</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529148" data-title="Elmwood de Thomas Bailey Aldrich" data-description="Here, in the twilight, at the well-known gate
I linger, with no heart to enter more.
Among the elm-tops the autumnal air
Murmurs, and spectral in the fading light
A solitary heron wings its way
Southward--save this no sound or touch of life.
Dark ..."></div>
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