Where the Blue Begins by Various - HTML preview

Ain't my business
Important's his'n is?
That Icarus
Was a silly cuss,--

Him an' his daddy Daedalus.
They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax Wouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks.

I'll make mine o' luther,

 

Er suthin' er other."

And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: "But I ain't goin' to show my hand
To mummies that never can understand
The fust idee that's big an' grand.

They'd 'a' laft an' made fun
O' Creation itself afore't was done!"
So he kept his secret from all the rest
Safely buttoned within his vest;
And in the loft above the shed
Himself he locks, with thimble and thread And wax and hammer and buckles and screws, And all such things as geniuses use;--
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!
A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;
An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as
Some wire and several old umbrellas;
A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;
A piece of harness; and straps and strings;

And a big strong boxs

 

In which he locks

 

These and a hundred other things.

His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke
And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk
Around the corner to see him work,--
Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk,
Drawing the waxed end through with a jerk,
And boring the holes with a comical quirk
Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk.
But vainly they mounted each other's backs,
And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks; With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks; And a bucket of water, which one would think He had brought up into the loft to drink

When he chanced to be dry,
Stood always nigh,
For Darius was sly!

And whenever at work he happened to spy
At chink or crevice a blinking eye,
He let a dipper of water fly.
"Take that! an' ef ever ye get a peep,
Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!"

And he sings as he locks
His big strong box:--
"The weasel's head is small an' trim,
An' he is leetle an' long an' slim,
An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb,

An' ef yeou'll be

 

Advised by me

Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him!" So day after day
He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, Till at last 'twas done,--
The greatest invention under the sun!
"An' now," says Darius, "hooray fer some fun!"

'Twas the Fourth of July,

And the weather was dry,
And not a cloud was on all the sky,
Save a few light fleeces, which here and there,

Half mist, half air,
Like foam on the ocean went floating by: Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen For a nice little trip in a flying-machine.

Thought cunning Darius: "Now I sha'n't go Along 'ith the fellers to see the show. I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough! An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off

I'll hev full swing
For to try the thing,
An' practyse a leetle on the wing."
"Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" Says Brother Nate. "No; botheration! I've got sich a cold--a toothache--I-- My gracious!--feel's though I should fly!"

Said Jotham, "Sho!
Guess ye better go."
But Darius said, "No!

Shouldn't wonder 'f yeou might see me, though, 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red
O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." For all the while to himself he said:--

"I'll tell ye what!
I'll fly a few times around the lot,
To see how 't seems, then soon's I've got The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not,

I'll astonish the nation,
And all creation,
By flyin' over the celebration!
Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle;
I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull; I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' on the steeple; I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people! I'll light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow;
An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below,
'What world's this 'ere
That I've come near?'
Fer I'll make 'em believe I'm a chap f'm the moon! An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' bulloon."
He crept from his bed;
And, seeing the others were gone, he said, I'm a-gittin' over the cold 'n my head."
And away he sped,
To open the wonderful box in the shed.

His brothers had walked but a little way When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, "What on airth is he up to, hey?"
"Don'o,--the' 's suthin' er other to pay, Er he wouldn't 'a' stayed to hum to-day." Says Burke, "His toothache's all 'n his eye! _He_ never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July,
Ef he hedn't some machine to try.
Le's hurry back and hide in the barn,
An' pay him fer tellin' us that yarn!"
"Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back, Along by the fences, behind the stack, And one by one, through a hole in the wall, In under the dusty barn they crawl,
Dressed in their Sunday garments all; And a very astonishing sight was that, When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat Came up through the floor like an ancient rat.

And there they hid;

 

And Reuben slid

The fastenings back, and the door undid. "Keep dark!" said he,
"While I squint an' see what the' is to see."

As knights of old put on their mail,--
From head to foot
An iron suit,

Iron jacket and iron boot,
Iron breeches, and on the head
No hat, but an iron pot instead,

And under the chin the bail,--
I believe they called the thing a helm;
And the lid they carried they called a shield; And, thus accoutred, they took the field,

Sallying forth to overwhelm
The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm:-- So this modern knight
Prepared for flight,

Put on his wings and strapped them tight; Jointed and jaunty, strong and light; Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip,-- Ten feet they measured from tip to tip! And a helm had he, but that he wore, Not on his head like those of yore,

But more like the helm of a ship.

 

"Hush!" Reuben said,

 

"He's up in the shed!

He's opened the winder,--I see his head!
He stretches it out,
An' pokes it about,

Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear,
An' nobody near;--
Guess he don'o' who's hid in here!
He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill!
Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still!
He's a climbin' out now--of all the things!
What's he got on? I van, it's wings!
An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail!
An' there he sets like a hawk on a rail!
Steppin' careful, he travels the length
Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength.
Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat;
Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that,
Fer to see 'f the' 's anyone passin' by;
But the' 's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh.
_They_ turn up at him a wonderin' eye,
To see--The dragon! he's goin' to fly!
Away he goes! Jimmmy! what a jump!
Flop-flop-an' plump
To the ground with a thump!
Flutt'rin an' flound'rin', all in a lump!"

As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, Heels over head, to his proper sphere,-- Heels over head, and head over heels, Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,-- So fell Darius. Upon his crown,
In the midst of the barnyard, he came down, In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, Broken braces and broken springs, Broken tail and broken wings,
Shooting-stars, and various things! Away with a bellow fled the calf,
And what was that? Did the gosling laugh?

'Tis a merry roar

From the old barn-door,
And he hears the voice of Jotham crying, "Say, D'rius! how de yeou like flyin'?
Slowly, ruefully, where he lay,
Darius just turned and looked that way, As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff. "Wall, I like flyin' well enough,"
He said; "but the' ain't sich a thunder-in' sight O' fun in 't when ye come to light."

MORAL

I just have room for the moral here: And this is the moral,--Stick to your sphere. Or if you insist, as you have the right, On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, The moral is,--Take care how you light.

_John T. Trowbridge._

 

Song of the Shirt

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work--work--work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where a woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

"Work--work--work,
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work--work--work,
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

"O men, with sisters dear!
O men, with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
Stitch--stitch--stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,--
Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt!

"But why do I talk of Death,-- That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own,--
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work! work! work!
My labor never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread--and rags,
That shattered roof--this naked floor-- A table--a broken chair--
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there!

"Work--work--work!
From weary chime to chime!
Work--work--work
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,--
Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

"Work--work--work!
In the dull December light!
And Work--work--work!
When the weather is warm, and bright!
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the spring.

"Oh, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,--

With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet!
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh, but for one short hour,-- A respite, however brief!
No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart; But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread,--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch--
Would that its tone could reach the rich!-- She sang this "Song of the Shirt."

_Thomas Hood._

 

Christmas Everywhere

Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night! Christmas in lands of the fir-tree and pine,
Christmas in lands of the palm-tree and vine, Christmas where snow-peaks stand solemn and white, Christmas where corn-fields lie sunny and bright, Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night!

Christmas where children are hopeful and gay, Christmas where old men are patient and gray, Christmas where peace, like a dove in its flight, Broods o'er brave men in the thick of the fight; Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight!

For the Christ-child who comes is the Master of all, No palace too great and no cottage too small, The angels who welcome Him sing from the height: "In the city of David, a King in his might." Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight!

Then let every heart keep its Christmas within, Christ's pity for sorrow, Christ's hatred of sin, Christ's care for the weakest, Christ's courage for right, Christ's dread of the darkness, Christ's love of the light. Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight!

So the stars of the midnight which compass us round Shall see a strange glory, and hear a sweet sound, And cry, "Look! the earth is aflame with delight, O sons of the morning, rejoice at the sight." Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas tonight!

_Philllips Brooks._

 

The Cloud

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, Lightning my pilot sits,
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my windbuilt tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen thro' me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch thro' which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, Whilst the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I pass thro' the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when, with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again,

_Percy Bysshe Shelley._

 

To a Skylark

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning
of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear. Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.

All the earth and air

 

With thy voice is loud,

 

As, when night is bare,

 

From one lonely cloud

 

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:--

Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden
In a palace-tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves:

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chaunt,
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,

 

Thou of death must deem

 

Things more true and deep

 

Than we mortals dream,

 

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to a shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found.
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness

 

That thy brain must know,

 

Such harmonious madness

 

From my lips would flow,

 

The world should listen then, as I am listening now,

 

_Percy Bysshe Shelley._ The Brook

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake Upon me as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars, In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._

 

June

 

(_From "The Vision of Sir Launfal"_)

 

No price is set on the lavish summer, June may be had by the poorest comer.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping 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,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
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
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We 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 flo