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The Lily-pond Post by :skronda Category :Poems Author :George Parsons Lathrop Date :July 2011 Read :977

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The Lily-pond

Some fairy spirit with his wand,
I think, has hovered o'er the dell,
And spread this film upon the pond,
And touched it with this drowsy spell.

For here the musing soul is merged
In moods no other scene can bring,
And sweeter seems the air when scourged
With wandering wild-bees' murmuring.

One ripple streaks the little lake,
Sharp purple-blue; the birches, thin
And silvery, crowd the edge, yet break
To let a straying sunbeam in.

How came we through the yielding wood,
That day, to this sweet-rustling shore?
Oh, there together while we stood,
A butterfly was wafted o'er,

In sleepy light; and even now
His glimmering beauty doth return
Upon me, when the soft winds blow,
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn.

The yielding wood? And yet 't was both
To yield unto our happy march;
Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both
Could pass its green, elastic arch.

Yet there, at last, upon the marge
We found ourselves, and there, behold,
In hosts the lilies, white and large,
Lay close, with hearts of downy gold!

Deep in the weedy waters spread
The rootlets of the placid bloom:
So sprung my love's flower, that was bred
In deep, still waters of heart's-gloom.

So sprung; and so that morn was nursed
To live in light, and on the pool
Wherein its roots were deep immersed
Burst into beauty broad and cool.

Few words were said; a moment passed;
I know not how it came--that awe
And ardor of a glance that cast
Our love in universal law!

But all at once a bird sang loud,
From dead twigs of the gleamy beech;
His notes dropped dewy, as out of a cloud,
A blessing on our married speech.

Ah, Love! how fresh and rare, even now,
That moment and that mood return
Upon me, when the soft winds blow,
And lilies toward the sunlight yearn!

(The end)
George Parsons Lathrop's poem: Lily-Pond

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'when, Looking Deeply In Thy Face' "when, Looking Deeply In Thy Face"

'when, Looking Deeply In Thy Face'
When, looking deeply in thy face,I catch the undergleam of graceThat grows beneath the outward glance,Long looking, lost as in a tranceOf long desires that fleet and meetAround me like the fresh and sweetWhite showers of rain which, vanishing,'Neath heaven's blue arches whirl, in spring;Suddenly then I seem to knowOf some new fountain's overflowIn grassy basins, with a soundThat leads my fancy, past all bound,Into a region of retreatFrom this my life's bewildered heat.Oh if my soul might always drawFrom those deep fountains full of awe,The current of my days should riseUnto the level of thine eyes!(The end)George Parsons Lathrop's poem:

The Ghosts Of Growth The Ghosts Of Growth

The Ghosts Of Growth
Last night it snowed; and Nature fell asleep. Forest and field lie tranced in gracious dreams Of growth, for ghosts of leaves long dead, me-seems,Hover about the boughs; and wild winds sweepO'er whitened fields full many a hoary heap From the storm-harvest mown by ice-bound streams! With beauty of crushed clouds the cold earth teems,And winter a tranquil-seeming truce would keep.But such ethereal slumber may not bide The ascending sun's bright scorn--not long, I fear;And all its visions on the golden tide Of mid-noon gliding off, must disappear.Fair dreams, farewell! So in life's stir and