Approach strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sin the dead, Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments a feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful nig The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose vo I know, And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veiled dea And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields the prairies wide, Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wha and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death. Walt Whitma 162 THE TROSACHS HERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass, Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass William Wordsworth 163 UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE RAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay PRAISE bet it in that glorious shape; Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noontide, Even, William Wordsworth 164 TH ODE ON A GRECIAN URN HOU still unravished bride of quietness, A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed For ever piping songs for ever new; 165 Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens over wrought, When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 1 The translation is by George Santayana, and is reprinted with the permission of Charles Scribner's Sons. Fie on a facile measure, Slips his foot in and out! Sculptor, lay by the clay Thy thoughts flown far away. Keep to Carrara rare, That hold The subtle line and fair. Lest haply nature lose That proud, that perfect line, Make thine The bronze of Syracuse. And with a tender dread Upon an agate's face Retrace Apollo's golden head. Despise a watery hue And tints that soon expire. With fire Burn thine enamel true. Twine, twine in artful wise Of thousand heraldries. |