'Twas early on an April morn
As músing sad and all forlorn
I walked through the scarce brairded corn, Ah, well aday!
Methought I heard close by my side
A voice that "Woé 's me!" three times cried, And saw a figure past me glide,
Bý her white scarf and ribbons blue
My own dear Mary's form I knew, My Mary of the heart so true, Ah, well aday!
"And whát, my Mary, hast to do Hére in chill April's morning dew?" She answered not but from my view,
Ah, well aday!
Away far into thin air fléd
Quickfoot to Máry's home I sped,
And there lay Mary strétched out dead,
Walking from ROTTACH on TEGERNSEE to SEEHAUS on ACHENSEE in the German TYROL, July 9, 1854.
Ir happened once that in a coffeehouse — How many years ago it is not certain Lábor and Idleness together met,
And thús said Idleness to Labor, sighing: "Well, it's a weary world! I can't conceive How any one can like it; for my part
I wish I had died an infant or had never Been born at all
what think'st thou, brother Labor?"
"It may be as thou say'st or it may not, For aúght I know," said Labor with a smile; "To say the truth my life has been so busy I've had small time to enquire into the subject." "And dóst thou really mean thou dost not know Whether thy life's a pleasant one or not?" "I dó indeed, and, what will more surprise thee, I rarely think either of pain or pleasure Ór of myself at all; I'm always aiming At sómething I 've in hand that must be done; Of that and thát alóne I 'm always thinking." "And so thou slipp'st through life almost without Knowing thou 'rt in it - happy, happy Labor! While I am always wondering why the day 's So véry long, so full of care and trouble." "To me the day is well nigh over ere I feel it's well begun. I'd wish it longer
Thát I might do more work, get further forward. Éven for this hour here spent with thee in gossip
I fear my sleep tonight will have to pay. So said and to his work away went Labor Cheerful and humming a song; but Idleness Looked after him some moments, wishing half That he too had some work to do; then listless Flúng himself into a chair and dozed, or smoked And read the news until the clock struck dinner. Walking from BAIREUTH to Haag (Bavaria), June 23-24, 1854.
Ar six years old I had before mine eyes A picture painted, like the rainbow, bright, But får, far off in th' unapproachable distance. With all my childish heart I longed to reach it, And strove and strove the livelong day in vain, Adváncing with slow step some few short yards But not perceptibly the distance lessening. At threéscore years old, when almost within Grásp of my oútstretched arms the selfsame picture With all its beauteous colors painted bright, I'm backward from it further borne each day By an invisible, compulsive force,
Grádual but yet so steady, sure, and rapid,
That at threescore and ten I'll from the picture Be éven more distant than I was at six.
Walking from MALS to GRAUN (German TYROL), Sept. 3, 1854.
I well remember how some threescore years And tén ago, a helpless babe, I toddled
From chair to chair about my mother's chamber, Feéling, as 'twere, my way in the new world And foolishly afraid of, or, as 't might be, Foolishly pleased with, th' únknown objects round me. And now with stiffened joints I sit all day In one of those same chairs, as foolishly Hóping or fearing something from me hid Behind the thick, dark veil which I see hourly And mínutely on every side round closing And from my view all objects shutting out. Walking from MALS to GRAUN (German TYROL), Sept. 3, 1854.
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT POSSAGNO
AFTER VISITING CANOVA'S MODELS COLLECTED AND PRESERVED AT POSSAGNO, THE ARTIST'S BIRTH- AND BURIAL-PLACE, BY MONSIGNORE SARTORI CANOVA, BISHOP OF MINDO, HIS HALF BROTHER,
POETS have lived who never in their lives
Composed one line of blank or rhyming verse, Yet left behind them no less lovely thoughts And nó less durable than Petrarch's own, Tásso's, or Ariosto's; witness thou, Posságno, tomb and birthplace of Canova.
IT was a sultry Júly day,
Strétched on the Alpine sward I lay; There was no shelter, not a cloud
The sun's downdárting rays to shroud.
'Twas noón; no breath, no stir, no sound Distúrbed the spacious landscape round; No bird, no grasshopper, no fly Véntured beneath the flaring sky.
And there upon the grass I lay Ín the full sún that sultry day, The heat, the air, the clear, blue sky Ánd my own thoughts my company.
And so the livelong summer day High on the mountain's breast I lay, Happier than César when Rome's crowd Shouted their vivats long and loud;
For his thoughts were of self and Rome, Greatness and power and fame to come, Mine of the warm sun, mountain air, And nature lovely every where.
While walking from PEUDELSTEIN in the valley of AMPEZZO, to Ampezzo, July 23, 1854.
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