William Vaughn Moody

Poi disse un altro.... "Io son Buonconte: Giovanna o altri non ha di me cura; Per ch' io vo tra costor con bassa fronte."

Grey drizzling mists the moorlands drape, Rain whitens the dead sea, From headland dim to sullen cape

(After seeing at Boston the statue of Robert Gould Shaw, killed while storming Fort Wagner, July 18, 1863, at the head of the first enlisted negro regiment, the 54th Massachusetts.) I Before the solemn bronze Saint Gaudens made

Only two patient eyes to stare Out of the canvas. All the rest-- The warm green gown, the small hands pressed

A mile behind is Gloucester town Where the fishing fleets put in, A mile ahead the land dips down

At last the bird that sang so long In twilight circles, hushed his song: Above the ancient square

This string upon my harp was best beloved: I thought I knew its secrets through and through; Till an old man, whose young eyes lightened blue

To-night her lids shall lift again, slow, soft, with vague desire, And lay about my breast and brain their hush of spirit fire, And I shall take the sweet of pain as the laborer his hire.

Nay, move not! Sit just as you are, Under the carved wings of the chair. The hearth-glow sifting through your hair

I wonder can this be the world it was At sunset? I remember the sky fell Green as pale meadows, at the long street-ends,

Streets of the roaring town, Hush for him, hush, be still! He comes, who was stricken down

The faint stars wake and wonder, Fade and find heart anew; Above us and far under

Leave the early bells at chime, Leave the kindled hearth to blaze, Leave the trellised panes where children linger out the waking-time,

I IN NEW YORK He plays the deuce with my writing time,

The opal heart of afternoon Was clouding on to throbs of storm, Ashen within the ardent west

Through his might men work their wills. They have boweled out the hills For food to keep him toiling in the cages they have wrought;

This, then, is she, My mother as she looked at seventeen, When she first met my father. Young incredibly,

I I sat beside the glassy evening sea, One foot upon the thin horn of my lyre,

All day he drowses by the sail With dreams of her, and all night long The broken waters are at song

Thank God my brain is not inclined to cut Such capers every day! I 'm just about Mellow, but then--There goes the tent-flap shut.

Between the rice swamps and the fields of tea I met a sacred elephant, snow-white. Upon his back a huge pagoda towered

Before the coming of the dark, he dreamed An old-world faded story: of a knight, Much like in need to him, who was no knight!

Two hours, two hours: God give me strength for it! He who has given so much strength to me And nothing to my child, must give to-day