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Are moulted and the feathers blown away。 I weary for desires never
guessed； For alien passions； strange imaginings； To be some other
person for a day。
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
Market Day
White； glittering sunlight fills the market square； Spotted and
sprigged with shadows。 Double rows Of bartering booths spread out
their tempting shows Of globed and golden fruit； the morning air Smells
sweet with ripeness； on the pavement there A wicker basket gapes and
overflows Spilling out cool； blue plums。 The market glows； And
flaunts； and clatters in its busy care。 A stately minster at the northern side
Lifts its twin spires to the distant sky； Pinnacled； carved and buttressed；
through the wide Arched doorway peals an organ； suddenly Crashing；
triumphant in its pregnant tide； Quenching the square in vibrant harmony。
Epitaph in a Church…Yard in Charleston； South
Carolina
GEORGE AUGUSTUS CLOUGH A NATIVE
OF LIVERPOOL； DIED SUDDENLY OF 〃STRANGER'S FEVER〃
NOV'R 5th 1843 AGED 22
He died of 〃Stranger's Fever〃 when his youth Had scarcely melted
into manhood； so The chiselled legend runs； a brother's woe Laid bare
for epitaph。 The savage ruth Of a sunny； bright； but alien land； uncouth
With cruel caressing dealt a mortal blow； And by this summer sea where
flowers grow In tropic splendor； witness to the truth Of ineradicable race
he lies。 The law of duty urged that he should roam； Should sail from fog
and chilly airs to skies Clear with deceitful welcome。 He had come
With proud resolve； but still his lonely eyes Ached with fatigue at never
seeing home。
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
Francis II； King of Naples
Written after reading Trevelyan's 〃Garibaldi and the making of Italy〃
Poor foolish monarch； vacillating； vain； Decaying victim of a race of
kings； Swift Destiny shook out her purple wings And caught him in their
shadow； not again Could furtive plotting smear another stain Across his
tarnished honour。 Smoulderings Of sacrificial fires burst their rings
And blotted out in smoke his lost domain。 Bereft of courtiers； only with
his queen； From empty palace down to empty quay。 No challenge
screamed from hostile carabine。 A single vessel waited； shadowy； All
night she ploughed her solitary way Beneath the stars； and through a
tranquil sea。
To John Keats
Great master！ Boyish； sympathetic man！ Whose orbed and ripened
genius lightly hung From life's slim； twisted tendril and there swung In
crimson…sphered completeness； guardian Of crystal portals through whose
openings fan The spiced winds which blew when earth was young；
Scattering wreaths of stars； as Jove once flung A golden shower from
heights cerulean。 Crumbled before thy majesty we bow。 Forget thy
empurpled state； thy panoply Of greatness； and be merciful and near； A
youth who trudged the highroad we tread now Singing the miles behind
him； so may we Faint throbbings of thy music overhear。
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
The Boston Athenaeum
The Boston Athenaeum
Thou dear and well…loved haunt of happy hours； How often in some
distant gallery； Gained by a little painful spiral stair； Far from the halls and
corridors where throng The crowd of casual readers； have I passed Long；
peaceful hours seated on the floor Of some retired nook； all lined with
books； Where reverie and quiet reign supreme！ Above； below； on every
side； high shelved From careless grasp of transient interest； Stand books
we can but dimly see； their charm Much greater that their titles are unread；
While on a level with the dusty floor Others are ranged in orderly
confusion； And we must stoop in painful posture while We read their
names and learn their histories。 The little gallery winds round about The
middle of a most secluded room； Midway between the ceiling and the
floor。 A type of those high thoughts； which while we read Hover between
the earth and furthest heaven As fancy wills； leaving the printed page； For
books but give the theme； our hearts the rest； Enriching simple words with
unguessed harmony And overtones of thought we only know。 And as we
sit long hours quietly； Reading at times； and at times simply dreaming； The
very room itself becomes a friend； The confidant of intimate hopes and
fears； A place where are engendered pleasant thoughts； And possibilities
before unguessed Come to fruition born of sympathy。 And as in some gay
garden stretched upon A genial southern slope； warmed by the sun； The
flowers give their fragrance joyously To the caressing touch of the hot
noon； So books give up the all of what they mean Only in a congenial
atmosphere； Only when touched by reverent hands； and read By those who
love and feel as well as think。 For books are more than books； they are the
life； The very heart and core of ages past； The reason why men lived； and
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A Dome of Many…Coloured Glass
worked； and died； The essence and quintessence of their lives。 And we
may know them better； and divine The inner motives whence their actions
sprang； Far better than the men who only knew Their bodily presence； the
soul forever hid From those with no ability to see。 They wait here quietly
for us to come And find them out； and know them for our friends； These
men who toiled and wrote only for this； To leave behind such modicum of
truth As each perceived and each alone could tell。 Silently waiting that
from time to time It may be given them to illuminate Dull daily facts with
pristine radiance For some long…waited…for affinity Who lingers yet in the
deep womb of time。 The shifting sun pierces the young green leaves Of
elm trees； newly coming into bud； And splashes on the floor and on the
books Through old； high； rounded windows； dim with age。 The noisy city…
sounds of modern life Float softened to us across the old graveyard。 The
room is filled with a warm； mellow light； No garish colours jar on our
content； The books upon the shelves are old and worn。 'T was no belated
effort nor attempt To keep abreast with old as well as new That placed
them here； tricked in a modern guise； Easily got； and held in light esteem。
Our fathers' fathers； slowly and carefully Gathered them； one by one；
when they were new And a delighted world received their thoughts
Hungrily； while we but love the more； Because they are so old and grown
so dear！ The backs of tarnished gold； the faded boards； The slightly
yellowing page； the strange old type； All speak the fashion of another age；
The thoughts peculiar to the man who wrote Arrayed in garb peculiar to
the time； As though the idiom of a man were caught Imprisoned in the
idiom of a race。 A nothing truly； yet a link that binds All ages to their own
inheritance； And stretching backward； dim and dimmer still； Is lost in a
remote antiquity。 Grapes do not come of thorns nor figs of thistles； And
even a great poet's divinest thought Is coloured by the world he knows and
sees。 The little intimate things of every day； The trivial nothings that we
think not of； These go to make a part of each man's life； As much a part as
do the larger thoughts He takes account of。 Nay； the little things Of daily
life it is which mold； and shape； And make him apt for noble deeds and
true。 And as we read some much…loved masterpiece； Read it as long ago
the author read； With eyes that brimme