They lived enamoured of the lovely moon, The dawn and twilight on their gentle lake. Then Passion marvellously born did shake Their breast and drave them into the mid-noon. Their lives did shrink to one desire, and soon They rose fire-eyed to follow in the wake Of one eternal thought,—when sudden brake Their hearts. They died, in miserable swoon. Of all their agony not a sound was heard. The glory of the Earth is more than they. She asks her lovely image of the day: A flower grows, a million boughs are green, And over moving ocean-waves the bird Chases his shadow and is no more seen.
Trumbull Stickney - 1874-1904
It's autumn in the country I remember How warm a wind blew here about the ways! And shadows on the hillside lay to slumber During the long sun-sweetened summer-days. It's cold abroad the country I remember. The swallows veering skimmed the golden grain At midday with a wing aslant and limber; And yellow cattle browsed upon the plain It's empty down the country I remember. I had a sister lovely in my sight: Her hair was dark, her eyes were very sombre; We sang together in the woods at night. It's lonely in the country I remember. The babble of our children fills my ears, And on our hearth I stare the perished ember To flames that show all starry thro' my tears. It's dark about the country I remember. There are the mountains where I lived. The path Is slushed with cattle-tracks and fallen timber, The stumps are twisted by the tempests' wrath. But that I knew these places are my own, I'd ask how came such wretchedness to cumber The earth, and I to people it alone. It rains across the country I remember.