AIR are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer; Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer; Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter; And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out-mastered the metre. Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing; Never a river that flows, but a majesty sceptres the flowing; Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold him; Nor never a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath foretold him. Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and hidden; Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is bidden; Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling; Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the revealing. Great are the symbols of being, but that which is sym boled is greater; Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator; Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the giving; Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving. Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing; The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing; And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights where those shine, Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life is divine. RICHARD REALF. N THE DUKE OF GLOSTER ON HIS OWN DEFORMITY. OW are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty, I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, I am determinéd to prove a villain, BABY sat on his mother's knee, SUNBEAMS. On the golden morn of a summer's day, Clapping his tiny hands in glee, As he watched the shifting sunbeams play. A sunbeam glanced through the open door, In a glittering, glimmering, golden line. He laid his head on his mother's breast The cloud swept by, and the beam returned, And I thought, ah, babe, thou art not alone And get but our toil for our weary pains; THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE. O farewell to the little good you bear me, Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. |