قراءة كتاب Mother's Dream and Other Poems

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‏اللغة: English
Mother's Dream and Other Poems

Mother's Dream and Other Poems

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 6

I sink, and I mount, with its cadence and swell,
While thrilled to my heart, with its deep-going strain,
Till pleasure excessive seems turning to pain.
Now, what the bright colors of music may be,
Will any one tell me? for I cannot see.

The odors of flowers, that are hovering nigh—
What are they?—on what kind of wings do they fly?
Are not they sweet angels, who come to delight
A poor little boy, that knows nothing of sight?
The sun, moon and stars never enter my mind.
O tell me what light is, because I am blind!

THE SALE OF THE WATER-LILY.

There stood upon the broad high-road,
That o’er a moorland lay,
A widow’s low and lone abode,
And close beside the way.
Upon its face the dwelling bore
The signs of times within,
That seemed to say but little more
Than, “Better days have been!
Behind it was the sedgy fen,
With alder, brake, and brush;
And less to serve the wants of men,
Than of the jay and thrush.
And these would sometimes come, and cheer
The widow with a song,
To let her feel a neighbor near,
And wing an hour along.
A pond, supplied by hidden springs,
With lilies bordered round,
Was found among the richest things,
That blessed the widow’s ground.
She had, besides, a gentle brook,
That wound the meadow through,
Which from the pond its being took,
And had its treasures too.
Her eldest orphan was a son;
For, children she had three;
She called him, though a little one,
Her hope for days to be.
And well he might be reckoned so,
If, from the tender shoot,
We know the way the branch will grow;
Or, by the flower, the fruit.
His tongue was true, his mind was bright;
His temper smooth and mild:
He was—the parent’s chief delight—
A good and pleasant child.
He ’d gather chips and sticks of wood,
The winter fire to make;
And help his mother dress their food,
Or tend the baking cake.
In summer time he ’d kindly lead
His little sisters out,
To pick wild berries on the mead,
And fish the brook for trout.
He stirred his thoughts for ways to earn
Some little gain; and hence,
Contrived the silver pond to turn,
In part, to silver pence.
He found the lilies blooming there
So spicy sweet to smell,
And to the eye so pure and fair,
He plucked them up to sell.
He could not to the market go:
He had too young a head,
The distant city’s ways to know;
The route he could not tread.
But, when the coming coach-wheels rolled,
To pass his humble cot,
His bunch of lilies to be sold
Was ready on the spot.
He ’d stand beside the way, and hold
His treasures up to show,
That looked like yellow stars of gold
Just set in leaves of snow.
“O buy my lilies!” he would say;
“You ’ll find them new and sweet:
So fresh from out the pond are they,
I have n’t dried my feet!”
And then he showed the dust that clung
Upon his garment’s hem,
Where late the water-drops had hung,
When he had gathered them.
And while the carriage checked its pace,
To take the lilies in,
His artless orphan tongue and face
Some bright return would win.
For many a noble stranger’s hand,
With open purse, was seen,
To cast a coin upon the sand,
Or on the sloping green.
And many a smiling lady threw
The child a silver piece;
And thus, as fast as lilies grew,
He saw his wealth increase.
While little more—and little more,
Was gathered by their sale,
His widowed mother’s frugal store
Would never wholly fail.
For He, who made, and feeds the bird,
Her little children fed.
He knew her trust: her cry he heard;
And answered it with bread.
And thus, protected by the Power,
Who made the lily fair,
Her orphans, like the meadow flower,
Grew up in beauty there.
Her son, the good and prudent boy,
Who wisely thus began,
Was long the aged widow’s joy;
And lived an honored man.
He had a ship, for which he chose
“The Lily” as a name,

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