Poems of Nature, Poems Subjective and Reminiscent and Religious Poems, Complete






SUNSET ON THE BEARCAMP.

     A gold fringe on the purpling hem
     Of hills the river runs,
     As down its long, green valley falls
     The last of summer's suns.

     Along its tawny gravel-bed
     Broad-flowing, swift, and still,
     As if its meadow levels felt
     The hurry of the hill,
     Noiseless between its banks of green
     From curve to curve it slips;
     The drowsy maple-shadows rest
     Like fingers on its lips.

     A waif from Carroll's wildest hills,
     Unstoried and unknown;
     The ursine legend of its name
     Prowls on its banks alone.
     Yet flowers as fair its slopes adorn
     As ever Yarrow knew,
     Or, under rainy Irish skies,
     By Spenser's Mulla grew;
     And through the gaps of leaning trees
     Its mountain cradle shows
     The gold against the amethyst,
     The green against the rose.

     Touched by a light that hath no name,
     A glory never sung,
     Aloft on sky and mountain wall
     Are God's great pictures hung.
     How changed the summits vast and old!
     No longer granite-browed,
     They melt in rosy mist; the rock
     Is softer than the cloud;
     The valley holds its breath; no leaf
     Of all its elms is twirled
     The silence of eternity
     Seems falling on the world.

     The pause before the breaking seals
     Of mystery is this;
     Yon miracle-play of night and day
     Makes dumb its witnesses.
     What unseen altar crowns the hills
     That reach up stair on stair?
     What eyes look through, what white wings fan
     These purple veils of air?
     What Presence from the heavenly heights
     To those of earth stoops down?
     Not vainly Hellas dreamed of gods
     On Ida's snowy crown!

     Slow fades the vision of the sky,
     The golden water pales,
     And over all the valley-land
     A gray-winged vapor sails.
     I go the common way of all;
     The sunset fires will burn,
     The flowers will blow, the river flow,
     When I no more return.
     No whisper from the mountain pine
     Nor lapsing stream shall tell
     The stranger, treading where I tread,
     Of him who loved them well.

     But beauty seen is never lost,
     God's colors all are fast;
     The glory of this sunset heaven
     Into my soul has passed,
     A sense of gladness unconfined
     To mortal date or clime;
     As the soul liveth, it shall live
     Beyond the years of time.
     Beside the mystic asphodels
     Shall bloom the home-born flowers,
     And new horizons flush and glow
     With sunset hues of ours.

     Farewell! these smiling hills must wear
     Too soon their wintry frown,
     And snow-cold winds from off them shake
     The maple's red leaves down.
     But I shall see a summer sun
     Still setting broad and low;
     The mountain slopes shall blush and bloom,
     The golden water flow.
     A lover's claim is mine on all
     I see to have and hold,—
     The rose-light of perpetual hills,
     And sunsets never cold!

     1876

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