As　Hermes　with　his　lyre　in　sleep　profound
  The　hundred　wakeful　eyes　of　Argus　bound；
  For　I　am　weary；　and　am　overwrought
  With　too　much　toil；　with　too　much　care　distraught；
  And　with　the　iron　crown　of　anguish　crowned。
  Lay　thy　soft　hand　upon　my　brow　and　cheek；
  O　peaceful　Sleep！　until　from　pain　released
  I　breathe　again　uninterrupted　breath！
  Ah；　with　what　subtile　meaning　did　the　Greek
  Call　thee　the　lesser　mystery　at　the　feast
  Whereof　the　greater　mystery　is　death！
  THE　OLD　BRIDGE　AT　FLORENCE
  Taddeo　Gaddi　built　me。　　I　am　old；
  Five　centuries　old。　　I　plant　my　foot　of　stone
  Upon　the　Arno；　as　St。　Michael's　own
  Was　planted　on　the　dragon。　　Fold　by　fold
  Beneath　me　as　it　struggles。　　I　behold
  Its　glistening　scales。　　Twice　hath　it　overthrown
  My　kindred　and　companions。　　Me　alone
  It　moveth　not；　but　is　by　me　controlled；
  I　can　remember　when　the　Medici
  Were　driven　from　Florence；　longer　still　ago
  The　final　wars　of　Ghibelline　and　Guelf。
  Florence　adorns　me　with　her　jewelry；
  And　when　I　think　that　Michael　Angelo
  Hath　leaned　on　me；　I　glory　in　myself。
  IL　PONTE　VECCHIO　DI　FIRENZE
  Gaddi　mi　fece；　il　Ponte　Vecchio　sono；
  Cinquecent'　anni　gia　sull'　Arno　pianto
  Il　piede；　come　il　suo　Michele　Santo
  Pianto　sul　draco。　　Mentre　ch'　io　ragiono
  Lo　vedo　torcere　con　flebil　suono
  Le　rilucenti　scaglie。　　Ha　questi　affranto
  Due　volte　i　miei　maggior。　　Me　solo　intanto
  Neppure　muove；　ed　io　non　l'　abbandono。
  Io　mi　rammento　quando　fur　cacciati
  I　Medici；　pur　quando　Ghibellino
  E　Guelfo　fecer　pace　mi　rammento。
  Fiorenza　i　suoi　giojelli　m'　ha　prestati；
  E　quando　penso　ch'　Agnolo　il　divino
  Su　me　posava；　insuperbir　mi　sento。
  NATURE
  As　a　fond　mother；　when　the　day　is　o'er；
  Leads　by　the　hand　her　little　child　to　bed；
  Half　willing；　half　reluctant　to　be　led；
  And　leave　his　broken　playthings　on　the　floor；
  Still　gazing　at　them　through　the　open　door；
  Nor　wholly　reassured　and　comforted
  By　promises　of　others　in　their　stead；
  Which；　though　more　splendid；　may　not　please　him　more；
  So　Nature　deals　with　us；　and　takes　away
  Our　playthings　one　by　one；　and　by　the　hand
  Leads　us　to　rest　so　gently；　that　we　go
  Scarce　knowing　if　we　wish　to　go　or　stay；
  Being　too　full　of　sleep　to　understand
  How　far　the　unknown　transcends　the　what　we　know。
  IN　THE　CHURCHYARD　AT　TARRYTOWN
  Here　lies　the　gentle　humorist；　who　died
  In　the　bright　Indian　Summer　of　his　fame！
  A　simple　stone；　with　but　a　date　and　name；
  Marks　his　secluded　resting…place　beside
  The　river　that　he　loved　and　glorified。
  Here　in　the　autumn　of　his　days　he　came；
  But　the　dry　leaves　of　life　were　all　aflame
  With　tints　that　brightened　and　were　multiplied。
  How　sweet　a　life　was　his；　how　sweet　a　　death！
  Living；　to　wing　with　mirth　the　weary　hours；
  Or　with　romantic　tales　the　heart　to　cheer；
  Dying；　to　leave　a　memory　like　the　breath
  Of　summers　full　of　sunshine　and　of　showers；
  A　grief　and　gladness　in　the　atmosphere。
  ELIOT'S　OAK
  Thou　ancient　oak！　whose　myriad　leaves　are　loud
  With　sounds　of　unintelligible　speech；
  Sounds　as　of　surges　on　a　shingly　beach；
  Or　multitudinous　murmurs　of　a　crowd；
  With　some　mysterious　gift　of　tongues　endowed；
  Thou　speakest　a　different　dialect　to　each；
  To　me　a　language　that　no　man　can　teach；
  Of　a　lost　race；　long　vanished　like　a　cloud。
  For　underneath　thy　shade；　in　days　remote；
  Seated　like　Abraham　at　eventide
  Beneath　the　oaks　of　Mamre；　the　unknown
  Apostle　of　the　Indians；　Eliot；　wrote
  His　Bible　in　a　language　that　hath　died
  And　is　forgotten；　save　by　thee　alone。
  THE　DESCENT　OF　THE　MUSES
  Nine　sisters；　beautiful　in　form　and　face；
  Came　from　their　convent　on　the　shining　heights
  Of　Pierus；　the　mountain　of　delights；
  To　dwell　among　the　people　at　its　base。
  Then　seemed　the　world　to　change。　　All　time　and　space；
  Splendor　of　cloudless　days　and　starry　nights；
  And　men　and　manners；　and　all　sounds　and　sights；
  Had　a　new　meaning；　a　diviner　grace。
  Proud　were　these　sisters；　but　were　not　too　proud
  To　teach　in　schools　of　little　country　towns
  Science　and　song；　and　all　the　arts　that　please；
  So　that　while　housewives　span；　and　farmers　ploughed；
  Their　comely　daughters；　clad　in　homespun　gowns；
  Learned　the　sweet　songs　of　the　Pierides。
  VENICE
  White　swan　of　cities；　slumbering　in　thy　nest
  So　wonderfully　built　among　the　reeds
  Of　the　lagoon；　that　fences　thee　and　feeds；
  As　sayeth　thy　old　historian　and　thy　guest！
  White　water…lily；　cradled　and　caressed
  By　ocean　streams；　and　from　the　silt　and　weeds
  Lifting　thy　golden　filaments　and　seeds；
  Thy　sun…illumined　spires；　thy　crown　and　crest！
  White　phantom　city；　whose　untrodden　streets
  Are　rivers；　and　whose　pavements　are　the　shifting
  Shadows　of　palaces　and　strips　of　sky；
  I　wait　to　see　thee　vanish　like　the　fleets
  Seen　in　mirage；　or　towers　of　cloud　uplifting
  In　air　their　unsubstantial　masonry。
  THE　POETS
  O　ye　dead　Poets；　who　are　living　still
  Immortal　in　your　verse；　though　life　be　fled；
  And　ye；　O　living　Poets；　who　are　dead
  Though　ye　are　living；　if　neglect　can　kill；
  Tell　me　if　in　the　darkest　hours　of　ill；
  With　drops　of　anguish　falling　fast　and　red
  From　the　sharp　crown　of　thorns　upon　your　head；
  Ye　were　not　glad　your　errand　to　fulfil？
  Yes；　for　the　gift　and　ministry　of　Song
  Have　something　in　them　so　divinely　sweet；
  It　can　assuage　the　bitterness　of　wrong；
  Not　in　the　clamor　of　the　crowded　street；
  Not　in　the　shouts　and　plaudits　of　the　throng；
  But　in　ourselves；　are　triumph　and　defeat。
  PARKER　CLEAVELAND
  WRITTEN　ON　REVISITING　BRUNSWICK　IN　THE　SUMMER　OF　1875
  Among　the　many　lives　that　I　have　known；
  None　I　remember　more　serene　and　sweet；
  More　rounded　in　itself　and　more　complete；
  Than　his；　who　lies　beneath　this　funeral　stone。
  These　pines；　that　murmur　in　low　monotone；
  These　walks　frequented　by　scholastic　feet；
  Were　all　his　world；　but　in　this　calm　retreat
  For　him　the　Teacher's　chair　became　a　throne。
  With　fond　affection　memory　loves　to　dwell
  On　the　old　days；　when　his　example　made
  A　pastime　of　the　toil　of　tongue　and　pen；
  And　now；　amid　the　groves　he　loved　so　well
  That　naught　could　lure　him　from　their　grateful　shade；
  He　sleeps；　but　wakes　elsewhere；　for　God　hath　said；　Amen！
  THE　HARVEST　MOON
  It　is　the　Harvest　Moon！　　On　gilded　vanes
  And　roofs　of　villages；　on　woodland　crests
  And　their　aerial　neighborhoods　of　nests
  Deserted；　on　the　curtained　window…panes
  Of　rooms　where　children　sleep；　on　country　lanes
  And　harvest…fields；　its　mystic　splendor　rests！
  Gone　are　the　birds　that　were　our　summer　guests；
  With　the　last　sheaves　return　the　laboring　wains！
  All　things　are　symbols：　the　external　shows
  Of　Nature　have　their　image　in　the　mind；
  As　flowers　and　fruits　and　falling　of　the　leaves；
  The　song…birds　leave　us　at　the　summer's　close；
  Only　the　empty　nests　are　left　behind；
  And　pipings　of　the　quail　among　the　sheaves。
  TO　THE　RIVER　RHONE
  Thou　Royal　River；　born　of　sun　and　shower
  In　chambers　purple　with　the　Alpine　glow；
  Wrapped　in　the　spotless　ermine　of　the　snow
  And　rocked　by　tempests！at　the　appointed　hour
  Forth；　like　a　steel…clad　horseman　from　a　tower；
  With　clang　and　clink　of　harness　dost　thou　go
  To　meet　thy　vassal　torrents；　that　below
  Rush　to　receive　thee　and　obey　thy　power。
  And　now　thou　movest　in　triumphal　march；
  A　king　among　the　rivers！　　On　thy　way
  A　hundred　towns　await　and　welcome　thee；
  Bridges　uplift　for　thee　the　stately　arch；
  Vineyards　encircle　thee　with　garlands　gay；
  And　fleets　attend　thy　progress　to　the　sea！
  THE　THREE　SILENCES　OF　MOLINOS
  TO　JOHN　GREENLEAF　WHITTIER
  Three　Silences　there　are：　the　first　of　speech；
  The　second　of　desire；　the　third　of　thought；
  This　is　the　lore　a　Spanish　monk；　distraught
  With　dreams　and　visions；　was　the　first　to　teach。
  These　Silences；　commingling　each　with　each；
  Made　up　the　perfect　Silence；　that　he　sought
  And　prayed　for；　and　wherein　at　times　he　caught
  Mysterious　sounds　from　realms　beyond　our　reach。
  O　thou；　whose　daily　life　anticipates
  The　life　to　come；　and　in　whose　thought　and　word
  The　spiritual　world　preponderates。
  Hermit　of　Amesbury！　thou　too　hast　heard
  Voices　and　melodies　from　beyond　the　gates；
  And　speakest　only　when　thy　soul　is　stirred！
  THE　TWO　RIVERS
  I
  Slowly　the　hour…hand　of　the　clock　moves　round；
  So　slowly　that　no　human　eye　hath　power
  To　see　it　move！　　Slowly　in　shine　or　shower
  The　painted　ship　above　it；　homeward　bound；
  Sails；　but　seems　motionless；　as　if　aground；
  Yet　both　arrive　at　last；　and　in　his　tower
  The　slumberous　watchman　wakes　and　strikes　the　hour；
  A　mellow；　measured；　melancholy　sound。
  Midnight！　the　outpos