Textarchiv - Christopher Pearse Cranch https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch American writer and artist. Born on 8 March 1813 in the District of Columbia, United States. Died 20 January 1892, Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States. de A Child-savior https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch/a-child-savior <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>She stood beside the iron road,<br /> A little child of ten years old.<br /> She heard two meeting thunders rolled<br /> From north and south, that plainly showed<br /> Danger too fearful to be told.</p> <p>Nearer, still nearer, rumbling on,<br /> One train approached with crashing speed.<br /> What could she do? Who would give heed<br /> To her — a child, who stood alone<br /> And voiceless as a roadside weed?</p> <p>A feeble cry she raised, and stood<br /> Across the track, — and then untied<br /> Her little apron from her side,<br /> And waved it swiftly as she could —<br /> If only she might be espied!</p> <p>If only on the hissing back<br /> Of that huge monster nearing fast<br /> The engineer his eye might cast<br /> On her there on the curving track,<br /> And heed her signal ere he passed!</p> <p>She stands with shout and warning beck;<br /> On comes the train with thundering roar.<br /> The fireman sees — he looks once more —<br /> He sees a little waving speck,<br /> And slackening, slower moves and slower.</p> <p>&quot;Hi — little girl! what&#039;s all this row?&quot;<br /> &quot;Another train! — my ears it stuns!<br /> It rounds the curve like rattling guns!<br /> Back — back! — for I must signal now<br /> The other.&quot; And away she runs.</p> <p>So by this little maiden&#039;s hand<br /> Were hundreds saved from fearful lot.<br /> But when with awe they spoke of what<br /> They had escaped, and made demand<br /> About the child, they found her not.</p> <p>For she had vanished through the wood.<br /> None guessed her dwelling-place or name,<br /> Nor by what wondrous chance she came;<br /> While home she ran in blithesome mood,<br /> Nor knew she had done a deed of fame.</p> <p>But in the old times they would have said<br /> It was an angel had stood there —<br /> The hood above her golden hair<br /> A nimbus glowing round a head<br /> With supernatural radiance fair.</p> <p>The small white apron that she waved<br /> Across the dangerous iron track<br /> To warn the rushing engines back,<br /> Might have been wings, whose flashing saved<br /> Five hundred souls from mortal wrack.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/christopher-pearse-cranch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Christopher Pearse Cranch</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1887</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/christopher-pearse-cranch/a-child-savior" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="A Child-savior" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Sun, 07 Jan 2018 21:10:02 +0000 mrbot 8833 at https://www.textarchiv.com Venice https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch/venice <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>While the skies of this northern November<br /> Scowl down with a darkening menace,<br /> I wonder if you still remember<br /> That marvellous summer in Venice.</p> <p>When the mornings by clouds unencumbered<br /> Smiled on in unchanging persistence<br /> On the broad bright laguna that slumbered<br /> Afar in the magical distance.</p> <p>And the mirror of waters reflected<br /> The sails in their gay plumage grouping<br /> Like tropical birds that erected<br /> Their wings, or sat drowsily drooping.</p> <p>How by moonlight our gondola gliding<br /> Through gleams and through shadows of wonder,<br /> With its sharp flashing beak flew dividing<br /> The waves slipping silently under.</p> <p>Then almost too full seemed the chalice<br /> Of new brimming life and of beauty,<br /> As we floated by Riva and palace,<br /> Dogana and stately Salute —</p> <p>Through deep-mouthed canals overshaded<br /> By balconies gray, quaint and olden,<br /> Where ruins of centuries faded<br /> Stood stripped of their azure and golden.</p> <p>Do you call back the days when before us<br /> The masters of art shone revealing<br /> Their marvels of color — and o&#039;er us<br /> Glowed grand on the rich massy ceiling</p> <p>In the halls of the doges, where trembled<br /> The state in its turbulent fever,<br /> And purple-robed senates assembled<br /> In days that are shadows forever?</p> <p>You remember the yellow light tipping<br /> The domes when the sunset was dying;<br /> The crowds on the quays, and the shipping;<br /> The pennons and flags that were flying; —</p> <p>Saint Mark&#039;s with its mellow-toned glory,<br /> The splendor and gloom of its riches;<br /> The columns Byzantine and hoary;<br /> The arches, the gold-crusted niches;</p> <p>And the days when the sunshine invited<br /> The painters abroad, until mooring<br /> Their bark in the shadow, delighted<br /> They wrought at their labors alluring;</p> <p>The pictures receding in stretches<br /> Of amber and opal around us —<br /> The joy of our mornings of sketches —<br /> The spell of achievement that bound us?</p> <p>Ah, never I busy my brushes<br /> With scenes of that radiant weather,<br /> But through me the memory rushes<br /> When we were in Venice together.</p> <p>Fair Venice, the pearl-shell of cities!<br /> Though poor the oblations we bring her —<br /> The pictures, the songs and the ditties —<br /> Ah, still we must paint her and sing her!</p> <p>A vision of beauty long vanished,<br /> A dream that is joy to remember,<br /> A solace that cannot be banished<br /> By all the chill blasts of November!</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/christopher-pearse-cranch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Christopher Pearse Cranch</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1887</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/christopher-pearse-cranch/venice" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Venice" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Wed, 27 Dec 2017 21:10:01 +0000 mrbot 8829 at https://www.textarchiv.com Rosamond https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch/rosamond <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>In the fragrant bright June morning, Rosamond, the queen of girls,<br /> Down the marble doorsteps loiters, radiant with her sunny curls;<br /> O&#039;er the green sward through the garden passes to the river&#039;s brink —<br /> Throws away an old bouquet, and wonders if &#039;t will float or sink.<br /> Then returning through the garden, round and round the lawn she goes,<br /> Singing, as she cuts fresh roses, she herself her world&#039;s fair rose;<br /> In her dainty morning-robe and straw hat shading half her face —<br /> Picturesque in form and feature, lovely in her youth and grace;<br /> In her hand a little dagger, sharp and glittering in the sun,<br /> Rifling hearts of thorny bushes, cutting roses one by one,<br /> Pink and white and blood-red crimson — some in bud and some full-blown,<br /> There through lawn and grove and garden sings she to herself alone;<br /> Softly sings in broken snatches some old song of Spain or France,<br /> As she holds her roses off at full arm&#039;s length, with sidelong glance,<br /> Shifting groups of forms and colors; for a painter&#039;s eye hath she,<br /> And all beauty pleaseth her, so artist-like and fancy-free.</p> <p>Now she enters her boudoir and sets her roses in a vase.<br /> There for seven days and nights their bloom and fragrance fill the place.<br /> When the petals droop and fade, she&#039;ll bear them to the river&#039;s brink;<br /> Singing, throw them on the waves, and wonder if they&#039;ll float or sink.</p> <p>Will she bear away to-night a bunch of lovers&#039; rose-hearts, pray?<br /> Set them in her vase a week — then throw them with her flowers away?</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/christopher-pearse-cranch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Christopher Pearse Cranch</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1887</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/christopher-pearse-cranch/rosamond" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Rosamond" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Mon, 25 Dec 2017 21:10:07 +0000 mrbot 8830 at https://www.textarchiv.com Ralph Waldo Emerson https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch/ralph-waldo-emerson <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>Out of the cloud that dimmed his sunset light,<br /> Into the unknown firmament withdrawn<br /> Beyond the mists and shadows of the night,<br /> We mourn the friend and teacher who has gone.</p> <p>As in the days of old when Plato freed<br /> The Athenian youths into a heavenlier sphere,<br /> Long will the age with reverence hear and heed<br /> The sweet deep music of our poet-seer.</p> <p>For to his eye all objects and events<br /> Spoke a symbolic language; and his mind<br /> Pierced with the poet&#039;s vision through the dense<br /> Dull surface to the larger truth behind.</p> <p>And yet no solitary mystic trained<br /> To spin a metaphysic web was he;<br /> But open-eyed to all that life contained,<br /> And the broad earth, of living harmony.</p> <p>Nature adopted him from boyhood&#039;s hour.<br /> The pines, the elms, the willows knew him well.<br /> The lonely streams where blushed the cardinal-flower,<br /> And where the shy Rhodora&#039;s petals fell.</p> <p>And well his mother&#039;s lore he loved and learned;<br /> His master-hand her crudest stuff refined.<br /> All that she gave he back to her returned<br /> Woven with figures of the shaping mind.</p> <p>It seemed as if the hill-tops where he met<br /> The sunrise still the livery put on<br /> Of nobler days, and never could forget<br /> The Syrian splendors of the poet&#039;s dawn.</p> <p>And books to him unfolded all their store;<br /> What soul was in them he had eyes to see.<br /> And past and present turned up golden ore,<br /> Transmuted by his mind&#039;s fine alchemy.</p> <p>He drew his circles of so wide a sweep<br /> That they encompassed every sect and creed.<br /> Beneath the thought which seemed to others deep<br /> His swifter spirit dived with brilliant speed.</p> <p>His keen, clear intuition knit the threads<br /> Of truths disjoined in one symmetric whole;<br /> And barren wayside weeds and scattered shreds<br /> Of facts found mystic meanings in his soul.</p> <p>He dared to ope the windows to the breeze<br /> Of Nature, when sectarians shuddering frowned,<br /> While through the close air of their cloistered ease<br /> The leaves of creeds fell fluttering to the ground;</p> <p>Yet lived to see harsh theologians change<br /> From blind mistrust to love the truth he taught;<br /> And shallow wits grow dumb beneath his range<br /> Of brilliant apothegm and daring thought.</p> <p>Choice words and images like Shakspeare&#039;s best<br /> Dropped from his lips and waited on his pen.<br /> His voice in tuneful eloquence expressed<br /> The manliest minds of Plutarch&#039;s noblest men.</p> <p>For him our Western world its keen, dry lore<br /> Recorded with a stenographic hand,<br /> While the far Orient climes for tribute bore<br /> The scriptures old of many a pagan land.</p> <p>He saw the Soul whose breath all being breathes; —<br /> The Life that glows in atoms and in suns;<br /> The Law that binds; the Beauty that enwreathes;<br /> The Ideal that all mortal wit outruns.</p> <p>Yet close to earth and common duties bound,<br /> Pledged to all true and gracious tasks he stood.<br /> His presence made a sunshine all around,<br /> His daily life a bond of brotherhood.</p> <p>He needed not to worship at a shrine<br /> Purer than private hours might well approve.<br /> His missal was illumed with thoughts divine,<br /> His rosary strung with kindly deeds of love.</p> <p>Yet love and justice were at one with him;<br /> And on the base oppressor&#039;s brow the stain<br /> And brand were laid, not in derision grim,<br /> But sad and fateful as the mark of Cain.</p> <p>Thus, true as needle to the polar star,<br /> He espoused the righteous cause, rebuked the wrong,<br /> And flashed chivalric &#039;gainst a nation&#039;s bar<br /> Of precedent, though fixed and sanctioned long.</p> <p>Poet and sage! thy lofty muse demands<br /> An insight deeper than the times attain.<br /> Across the stagnant pools and drifting sands<br /> Of thought I see thee like a sacred fane</p> <p>Rise sunlit in the broad expanse of time;<br /> And young and old shall greet from far thy light,<br /> And pilgrims turn from many an old-world clime<br /> To hail thy star-like dome of stainless white.</p> <p>The wise will know thee, and the good will love.<br /> The age to come will feel thy impress given<br /> In all that lifts the race a step above<br /> Itself, and stamps it with the seal of heaven.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/christopher-pearse-cranch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Christopher Pearse Cranch</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1887</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/christopher-pearse-cranch/ralph-waldo-emerson" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Ralph Waldo Emerson" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Sat, 23 Dec 2017 21:10:02 +0000 mrbot 8831 at https://www.textarchiv.com Summer Dawn https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch/summer-dawn <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>Some summer mornings — when you&#039;ve taken tea<br /> Too late the night before — perhaps you&#039;ll see,<br /> If at some Berkshire farmhouse far away<br /> You chance to wake while yet the sky is gray,<br /> A glory, to your landscape-painter men<br /> Unknown, yet worthy of a poet&#039;s pen.</p> <p>Look from your window. Long gray banks of cloud<br /> The fields, the hills, the distant view enshroud.<br /> Faint stars still glimmer in the heavens above.<br /> Below dim shapes of fog o&#039;er stream and grove<br /> Hang wreathing, shifting in the sluggish breeze.<br /> Are yonder shadows mist or mist-clad trees?<br /> For what is cloud and what is land no eye<br /> (Sleepy at least like yours) can yet descry.<br /> And now the rushing streams, by day unheard,<br /> You hear, and now the twitter of a bird,<br /> And now another, till at last the hills<br /> And woods are all alive with fugues and trills.<br /> The sheep begin to bleat, the cows to low;<br /> Three hoarse, young roosters try their best to crow,<br /> Responding to some thirsty, quacking duck,<br /> Or hen who folds her chicks with motherly cluck.</p> <p>Now morning spreads apace. The stars are drowned.<br /> Trees loom above the fog; and all around<br /> The landscape is transfigured in the light<br /> Of pearly skies. Westward the wings of Night<br /> Are folded as she steals unseen away.<br /> Now in the far northeast an amber gray<br /> Gleams under bars of long dark-pencilled cloud.<br /> The crows above the woods are cawing loud.<br /> Brighter and brighter up the dewy slope<br /> The coming sunrise floods the lands with hope.<br /> The clouds from north to south begin to blush.<br /> Old Graylock answers with a rosy flush.<br /> One mountain peak looms up with crimsoned sides;<br /> A moment more, and in the mist it hides.<br /> And now the valleys catch the sun below,<br /> And elms and barn-rods redden in the glow.</p> <p>O for a pencil rapid as the light<br /> To paint the glories bursting on the sight!<br /> Making the plain New England landscape seem<br /> The unfamiliar scenery of a dream.<br /> For this might be in Arcady — my rhyme<br /> Some Eastern shepherd&#039;s of the olden time.<br /> Here might I pipe with Tityrus in the grove;<br /> Here to fair Amaryllis whisper love;<br /> Here the wild woodland haunts of Dryads seek —<br /> But what is that! The locomotive&#039;s shriek<br /> Calls me from Dreamland and the Arcadian dawn.<br /> The sun is up. The mystery is gone.<br /> Another book of poesy the West<br /> Has opened. Let the bards of old go rest.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/christopher-pearse-cranch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Christopher Pearse Cranch</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1887</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/christopher-pearse-cranch/summer-dawn" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Summer Dawn" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Mon, 20 Nov 2017 21:10:06 +0000 mrbot 8832 at https://www.textarchiv.com My Studio https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch/my-studio <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>I love it, yet I hardly can tell why —<br /> My studio with its window to the sky,<br /> Far up above the noises of the street,<br /> The rumbling carts, the ceaseless tramp of feet;<br /> A privacy secure from idle crowds,<br /> And public only to the flying clouds.<br /> No shadowed corners round about me hide.<br /> Clear-lighted stand its walls on every side,<br /> Each sketch and picture showing at its best.<br /> A room for cheery work that needs no rest.<br /> Only too short these days of autumn seem,<br /> Where labor is but joy and peace supreme;<br /> Where fields and woods, towns, skies, and winding rills<br /> Still haunt the memory as the canvas fills.<br /> And while the painter plies his earnest task,<br /> He seems as in some vision-land to bask;<br /> And all that fed his eye and fired his soul<br /> When in the golden summer days lie stole<br /> Their forms and colors, now lived o&#039;er again,<br /> Runs like a strain of music through his brain.<br /> O joyous tasks of art! without your spell<br /> Life were a dull and dreary cloister-cell,<br /> All nature darkened and all beauty dim.<br /> But ye fill up its chalice to the brim<br /> With draughts as sweet as ever yet, I ween,<br /> Flowed in the poets&#039; sparkling Hippocrene.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/christopher-pearse-cranch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Christopher Pearse Cranch</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1887</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/christopher-pearse-cranch/my-studio" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="My Studio" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Sat, 18 Nov 2017 21:10:02 +0000 mrbot 8826 at https://www.textarchiv.com Sea Pictures https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch/sea-pictures <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>I.<br /> Morning.<br /> The morning sun has pierced the mist,<br /> And beach and cliff and ocean kissed.<br /> Blue as the lapis-lazuli<br /> The sea reflects the azure sky.<br /> In the salt healthy breeze I stand<br /> Upon the solid floor of sand.<br /> Along the untrodden shore are seen<br /> Fresh tufts of weed maroon and green,<br /> And ruffled kelp and stranded sticks<br /> And shells and stones and sea-moss mix.<br /> The low black rocks, forever wet,<br /> Lie tangled in their pulpy net.<br /> The shy sand-pipers fly and light —<br /> And swallows circle out of sight.<br /> Out where the sky the horizon meets<br /> Glide glimmering sails in scattered fleets.<br /> Old Ocean smiles as though amid<br /> His leagues of brine no treachery hid.<br /> And safe upon the sandy marge,<br /> By stranded boat and floating barge,<br /> Gay children leap and laugh and run,<br /> Browned by the salt air and the sun.</p> <p>II.<br /> Evening.<br /> Now thickening twilight presses down<br /> Upon the harbor and the town,<br /> And all around a misty pall<br /> Of dull gray cloud hangs over all.<br /> The huddling fishing-sloops lie safe,<br /> While far away the breakers chafe.<br /> And now the landsman&#039;s straining eye<br /> Mingles the gray sea with the sky.<br /> Far out upon the darkening deep<br /> The white ghosts of the ocean leap.<br /> Boone Island&#039;s light, a lonely star,<br /> Is flashing o&#039;er the waves afar.<br /> Up the broad beach the sea rolls in<br /> In never-ending foam and din;<br /> And all along the craggy shore<br /> Resounds one long continuous roar.<br /> We turn away, and hail each gleam<br /> Where lamps from cottage windows stream.<br /> For sad and solemn is the moan<br /> Of ocean when the day has flown,<br /> And, borne on dusky wings, the night<br /> Wraps in a shroud the dying light.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/christopher-pearse-cranch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Christopher Pearse Cranch</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1887</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/christopher-pearse-cranch/sea-pictures" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Sea Pictures" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Fri, 17 Nov 2017 21:10:02 +0000 mrbot 8825 at https://www.textarchiv.com After-life https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch/after-life <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>O boon and curse in one — this ceaseless need<br /> Of looking still behind us and before!<br /> Gift to the soul of eyes that cannot read<br /> Life&#039;s open book of cabalistic lore; —</p> <p>Eyes that discern a light and joy divine<br /> Twinkling beyond the twilight clouds afar,<br /> Yet know not if it be the countersign<br /> Of moods and thoughts, or some eternal star.</p> <p>What taunt of destiny still stimulates<br /> Yet baffles all desire, or wise or fond,<br /> To pierce the veil ne&#039;er lifted by the fates<br /> Between the life that ends and life beyond?</p> <p>We sit before the doors of death, and dream<br /> That when they ope to let our brothers in,<br /> We catch, before they close, some flitting gleam<br /> Of glory where their after-lives begin.</p> <p>And with the light a transient burst of song<br /> Comes from within the gates that shut again<br /> Upon our dead. Then we, the proud, the strong,<br /> Sit crushed and lonely in our wordless pain.</p> <p>Weeping, we knock against the bars, and call,<br /> &quot;Speak — speak, O love, for we are left alone!&quot;<br /> We hear our voices echo against the wall,<br /> And dream it is a spirit&#039;s answering tone.</p> <p>&quot;Come back, or answer us!&quot;<br /> In vain we cry.<br /> Naught is so near as death, so far away<br /> As life beyond. They only know who die:<br /> And we who live can only guess and pray.</p> <p>If &#039;t were indeed a voice not born within —<br /> Some sure authentic sign from unknown realms —<br /> Some note that heart and reason both could win —<br /> Some carol like yon oriole in the elms;</p> <p>Though but a vague and broken music caught,<br /> Heard in the darkness, and then heard no more —<br /> Sinking in sudden silence — while in thought<br /> We piece the strains outside the muffled door</p> <p>That leads into the light and perfect joy<br /> Of the full concert — then &#039;t were bliss indeed<br /> No present griefs could darken or destroy;<br /> Somewhere life&#039;s mystery we should learn to read.</p> <p>Somewhere we then might drop the ripened seed<br /> Of life, to grow again beyond the sky —<br /> Nor deem the human soul a withering weed<br /> Born but to bloom a summer time and die.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/christopher-pearse-cranch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Christopher Pearse Cranch</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1887</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/christopher-pearse-cranch/after-life" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="After-life" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Wed, 15 Nov 2017 21:10:03 +0000 mrbot 8828 at https://www.textarchiv.com Longfellow https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch/longfellow <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>Across the sea the swift sad message darts<br /> And beats with sudden pang against our hearts.<br /> Under the elm-trees in his homestead old<br /> The Laureate of our land lies dead and cold;<br /> Wept by the love of friends, and crowned with fame;<br /> Revered by youth and age, his well-known name<br /> Caught in fast-circling whispers, sad and low,<br /> In streets where noisy crowds move too and fro —<br /> &quot;Can it be true that he is dead — is dead?&quot;<br /> Life seemed to love that noble, silvery head,<br /> And youth still lingered in the kindly eyes<br /> Now closed, alas, to all beneath the skies!</p> <p>No more across the fields by Charles&#039;s stream<br /> Those eyes shall see their well-loved landscape gleam.<br /> No more the treasured books upon his shelves<br /> Suggest the visions rarer than themselves.<br /> No friends around his hospitable fire<br /> Hear the last touches of his graceful lyre.</p> <p>The coming spring will flush with purple bloom<br /> His lilacs, and waft in their sweet perfume;<br /> His roses unregarded drop away;<br /> Unheard the oriole&#039;s warble through the day;<br /> Unmarked the bees&#039; low hum from flower to flower,<br /> The dial&#039;s shade, the sunshine and the shower.<br /> Yet from the garden of his thoughts and deeds<br /> Still will his poems fly like winged seeds.<br /> And far and wide, through city, plain and hill,<br /> Borne to a thousand firesides, bloom and fill<br /> The people&#039;s hearts, and touch to issues fine<br /> Of aspiration human and divine.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/christopher-pearse-cranch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Christopher Pearse Cranch</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1887</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/christopher-pearse-cranch/longfellow" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Longfellow" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Sat, 28 Oct 2017 21:10:06 +0000 mrbot 8827 at https://www.textarchiv.com To Ione https://www.textarchiv.com/christopher-pearse-cranch/to-ione <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>All day within me, sweet and clear<br /> The song you sang is ringing.<br /> At night in my half-dreaming ear<br /> I hear you singing, singing.</p> <p>Ere thought takes up its homespun thread<br /> When early morn is breaking,<br /> Sweet snatches hover round my bed<br /> And cheer me when awaking.</p> <p>The sunrise brings the melody<br /> I only half remember,<br /> And summer seems to smile for me,<br /> Although it is December.</p> <p>Through drifting snow, through dropping rain,<br /> Through gusts of wind, it haunts me.<br /> The tantalizing old refrain<br /> Perplexes, yet enchants me.</p> <p>The mystic chords that bore along<br /> Your voice so calmly splendid,<br /> In glimmering fragments with the song<br /> Are joined and vaguely blended.</p> <p>I touch my instrument and grope<br /> Along the keys&#039; confusion,<br /> And dally with the chords in hopes<br /> To catch the sweet illusion.</p> <p>In vain of that consummate hour<br /> I court the full completeness,<br /> The perfume of the hidden flower,<br /> The perfect bloom and sweetness.</p> <p>Of strains that were too rich to last<br /> A baffled memory lingers.<br /> The theme, the air, the chords have passed;<br /> They mock my voice and fingers.</p> <p>They steal away as sunset fires<br /> Lose one by one their flashes,<br /> And cheat the eye with smouldering pyres<br /> And banks of gray cloud-ashes.</p> <p>And yet I know the old alloy<br /> That dims and disentrances<br /> The golden visions and the joy<br /> Of hope&#039;s resplendent fancies</p> <p>Can never touch that festal hour<br /> In soul and sense recorded,<br /> Though scattered rose leaves from your bower<br /> Alone my search rewarded.</p> <p>The unconnected strains alone<br /> Survive to bring you nearer,<br /> As when our queen of song and tone<br /> Made vassals of each hearer.</p> <p>Yet through the night and through the day<br /> The notes and chords are ringing.<br /> Their echo will not pass away —<br /> I hear you singing — singing.</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/christopher-pearse-cranch" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Christopher Pearse Cranch</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1887</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/christopher-pearse-cranch/to-ione" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="To Ione" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Sun, 23 Apr 2017 16:43:17 +0000 mrbot 7626 at https://www.textarchiv.com