PRELUDE. OVER his keys the musing organist, Beginning doubtfully and far away, First lets his fingers wander as they list, And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay: Then, as the touch of his loved instrument Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent Along the wavering vista of his dream. Not only around our infancy. Doth heaven with all its splendors lie Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, We Sinais climb and know it not; Over our manhood bend the skies; Against our fallen and traitor lives The great winds utter prophecies; With our faint hearts the mountain strives, Its arms outstretched, the druid wood Waits with its benedicite; And to our age's drowsy blood Still shouts the inspiring sea. Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; At the Devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking: And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Whether we look, or whether we listen, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, grasping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, The little bird sits at his door in the sun, And lets his illumined being o'errun 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 of Nature which song is the best? Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away Into - Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; For other couriers we should not lack; |