THE SPLENDID SILENT SUN 115

Give me such shows- give me the streets of Manhattan!

Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marchinggive me the sound of the trumpets and drums!

(The soldiers in companies or regiments

ing away flushed and reckless,

some start

Some, their time up, returning with thinned ranks, young, yet very old, worn, marching, noticing nothing;)

Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships!

O such for me! O an intense life, full to repletion and

varied!

The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel, for me! The saloon of the steamer! The crowded excursion for me! The torchlight procession!

The dense brigade bound for the war, with high-piled military wagons following;

People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants,

Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now,

The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets (even the sight of the wounded), Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical

chorus!

Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me.

Walt Whitman.

116 THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON

A NOISELESS, PATIENT SPIDER

A NOISELESS, patient spider,

I marked, where, on a little promontory, it stood isolated;

Marked how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding, It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of

itself;

Ever unreeling them ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, 0 my Soul, where you stand,

Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of

space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking

the spheres, to connect them;

Till the bridge you will need, be formed - till the ductile anchor hold;

Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere,

O my Soul.

Walt Whitman.

THE SNOWING OF THE PINES

SOFTER than silence, stiller than still air

Float down from high pine-boughs the slender leaves.
The forest floor its annual boon receives

That comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair.
Gently they glide, gently they clothe the bare
Old rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle weaves
Of paler yellow than autumnal sheaves
Or those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear.
Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way;
High up, the crows are gathering for the night;

THE BLACKBIRD

The delicate needles fill the air; the jay

Takes through their golden mist his radiant flight; They fall and fall, till at November's close

The snow-flakes drop as lightly - snows on snows.

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Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

THE TRUMPETER

I BLEW, I blew, the trumpet loudly sounding;
I blew, I blew, the heart within me bounding;
The world was fresh and fair, yet dark with wrong,
And men stood forth to conquer at the song -
I blew! I blew! I blew!

The field is won, the minstrels loud are crying,
And all the world is peace, and I am dying.
Yet this forgotten life was not in vain;
Enough if I alone recall the strain,

I blew! I blew! I blew!

Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

THE BLACKBIRD

ONE on another against the wall

Pile

up the books, I am done with them all!

I shall be wise, if I ever am wise,

Out of my own ears, and of my own eyes.

One day of the woods and their balmy light,

One hour on the top of a breezy hill,
There in the sassafras all out of sight

The blackbird is splitting his slender bill
For the ease of his heart!

Do you think if he said

I will sing like this bird with the mud-colored back
And the two little spots of gold over his eyes,
Or like to this shy little creature that flies
So low to the ground, with the amethyst rings
About her small throat, - all alive when she sings

With a glitter of shivering green, - for the rest, Gray shading to gray, with the sheen of her breast Half rose and half fawn,

Or like this one so proud, That flutters so restless, and cries out so loud, With stiff horny beak and a topknotted head, And a lining of scarlet laid under his wings, Do you think, if he said, "I'm ashamed to be black!" That he could have shaken the sassafras tree

As he does with the song he was born to? Not he!

A STRIP OF BLUE

I Do not own an inch of land,

But all I see is mine,

Alice Cary.

The orchard and the mowing-fields,

The lawns and gardens fine.
The winds my tax-collectors are,
They bring me tithes divine,
Wild scents and subtle essences,
A tribute rare and free;
And, more magnificent than all,
My window keeps for me
A glimpse of blue immensity,
A little strip of sea.

A STRIP OF BLUE

Richer am I than he who owns

Great fleets and argosies;
I have a share in every ship
Won by the inland breeze,
To loiter on yon airy road
Above the apple-trees.

I freight them with my untold dreams;
Each bears my own picked crew;
And nobler cargoes wait for them
Than ever India knew,

My ships that sail into the East
Across that outlet blue.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes,
The people of the sky,
Guests in white raiment coming down

From heaven, which is close by;

I call them by familiar names,
As one by one draws nigh.
So white, so light, so spirit-like,

From violet mists they bloom!
The aching wastes of the unknown
Are half reclaimed from gloom,
Since on life's hospitable sea
All souls find sailing-room.

The ocean grows a weariness

With nothing else in sight;

Its east and west, its north and south,
Spread out from morn till night;
We miss the warm, caressing shore,
Its brooding shade and light.
A part is greater than the whole;

By hints are mysteries told.

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