Half-Views.
It is the half-views are disastrous still;
But size a thing up fully, seize the whole,
And reason then has ground to go upon
For its acceptance or rejection; but
What is half-known, like undigested food,
Ferments, and sourly taints the mental gorge
Until it rises; ignorance so heaves
His good things with his bad into the ditch.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Counsel In Sorrow.
How poor is comfort when the loss is great,
And vain all counsel to assuage a tear!
A light affliction it may medicine;
But when deep Nature groans all words are air,
And, like the aboriginal instrument,
Return on the comforter. 'Tis but a wind
That in the desert sows the germless sand,
Which by the whirlwind reaped is but sand still.
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Gleaners.
They sang, that were the young world's gleaners,
Like birds on a bough,
Reaping the first-fruits of love's sowing;
The reapers now
Are sad, as they to harvest going
Voice love's vow.
So much of thought has made us weary,
We cannot sing
Now only of the heart's sweet meaning
In everything,
As they who in the young world gleaning
Went caroling.
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Sundowner.
So He will at the last, too, gather all,
As in the bush a traveller for his fire
Sticks and dry leaves, as eerie the light fades;
Till from those sticks and leaves there comes a flame,
Beside which in a weird infinity
The man will sit and gather lonely thoughts.
So He will at the last, too, gather all,
The great Sundowner in a painless sphere.
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Re-Awakening.
Pan's not dead: the earth but waiteth
The burst of new life through the old;
In this way the God still createth
The sparks that animate the mould,
Though the dead be so cold.
From Winter's womb the young year springeth
When winds and rain away are rolled,
As the sprite to the body wingeth
It may be from the starry fold,
Though the dead be so cold.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Love's Messengers.
He came from her, and though rough and uncouth,
It seemed her tenderness breathed out of him
As he re-worded her sweet sentences.
Even as a stony place, clothed with sweet flowers,
Seems itself to breathe perfume, and to be
Instinct with tenderness, so, fresh from her,
The roughness of his quality was charmed:
Love makes those lovable that deal with him.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Quiet Joy.
No Lethean ease, but such a mood as craves
For naught in earth and heaven, just to breathe
The simple air of our reality
Like creatures of the season, — earthy, and
Made for the earth, at one with all things here;
So in the generation of ourselves
To have the certainty of peace, and find
The natural favour of our functioning
Sufficient till the end ensue.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Poetic Emotion.
The heart's throb makes the music: words are air,
A mortal breath, if no emotion thrills
The subtle syllables; and all men own
The poesy, the passion, and the power
When that the Poet's fiery fingers touch
The lyre immortal. 'Tis from him alone
The accents of life's mystery are heard,
As the harmonious numbers take the soul
And the unearthy in us answers him.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Her Glass.
Her glass yet holds, or seems to hold her!
But now she visioned herself here;
Her glass spoke truth, and fondly told her
What a man might, a man's lips near
The shell of her soft ear.
But too cold thing that could not capture
The blush of beauty, as it were!
When a man's heart with dreamy rapture
Would at the least, least touch of her
Feel all his pulses stir.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Song #9.
In the hour when Day reposes
Like a vision on the sea,
When thought his tired pinion closes,
One with hope and memory, —
On the sand by the sea-roses
My heart breathes of thee.
I can gather then from sorrow
And from joy what dreams may be
Sweet as those which Love would borrow
For the tender melody,
Which like the light of to-morrow
My heart breathes of thee.
poem by Robert Crawford
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