Taddeo Gaddi built me.I am old, Five centuries old.I plant my foot of stone Upon the Arno, as St.Michael's own Was planted on the dragon.Fold by fold Beneath me as it struggles.I behold Its glistening scales.Twice hath it overthrown My kindred and companions.Me alone It moveth not, but is by me controlled, I can remember when the Medici Were driven from Florence; longer still ago The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf.
Florence adorns me with her jewelry;
And when I think that Michael Angelo Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself.
IL PONTE VECCHIO DI FIRENZE
Gaddi mi fece; il Ponte Vecchio sono;
Cinquecent' anni gia sull' Arno pianto Il piede, come il suo Michele Santo Pianto sul draco.Mentre ch' io ragiono Lo vedo torcere con flebil suono Le rilucenti scaglie.Ha questi affranto Due volte i miei maggior.Me solo intanto Neppure muove, ed io non l' abbandono.
Io mi rammento quando fur cacciati I Medici; pur quando Ghibellino E Guelfo fecer pace mi rammento.
Fiorenza i suoi giojelli m' ha prestati;
E quando penso ch' Agnolo il divino Su me posava, insuperbir mi sento.
NATURE
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN
Here lies the gentle humorist, who died In the bright Indian Summer of his fame!
A ****** stone, with but a date and name, Marks his secluded resting-place beside The river that he loved and glorified.
Here in the autumn of his days he came, But the dry leaves of life were all aflame With tints that brightened and were multiplied.
How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death!
Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer;Dying, to leave a memory like the breath Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.
ELIOT'S OAK
Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud With sounds of unintelligible speech, Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach, Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd;With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, Thou speakest a different dialect to each;To me a language that no man can teach, Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud.
For underneath thy shade, in days remote, Seated like Abraham at eventide Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote His Bible in a language that hath died And is forgotten, save by thee alone.
THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES
Nine sisters, beautiful in form and face, Came from their convent on the shining heights Of Pierus, the mountain of delights, To dwell among the people at its base.
Then seemed the world to change.All time and space, Splendor of cloudless days and starry nights, And men and manners, and all sounds and sights, Had a new meaning, a diviner grace.
Proud were these sisters, but were not too proud To teach in schools of little country towns Science and song, and all the arts that please;So that while housewives span, and farmers ploughed, Their comely daughters, clad in homespun gowns, Learned the sweet songs of the Pierides.
VENICE
White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest So wonderfully built among the reeds Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds, As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest!
White water-lily, cradled and caressed By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds, Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest!
White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of palaces and strips of sky;I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting In air their unsubstantial masonry.
THE POETS
O ye dead Poets, who are living still Immortal in your verse, though life be fled, And ye, O living Poets, who are dead Though ye are living, if neglect can kill, Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill, With drops of anguish falling fast and red From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head, Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil?
Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song Have something in them so divinely sweet, It can assuage the bitterness of wrong;Not in the clamor of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.
PARKER CLEAVELAND
WRITTEN ON REVISITING BRUNSWICK IN THE SUMMER OF 1875Among the many lives that I have known, None I remember more serene and sweet, More rounded in itself and more complete, Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone.
These pines, that murmur in low monotone, These walks frequented by scholastic feet, Were all his world; but in this calm retreat For him the Teacher's chair became a throne.
With fond affection memory loves to dwell On the old days, when his example made A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen;And now, amid the groves he loved so well That naught could lure him from their grateful shade, He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen!
THE HARVEST MOON
It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes And roofs of villages, on woodland crests And their aerial neighborhoods of nests Deserted, on the curtained window-panes Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests, With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows Of Nature have their image in the mind, As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;The song-birds leave us at the summer's close, Only the empty nests are left behind, And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.
TO THE RIVER RHONE