Christopher Pearse Cranch Poems

THE mind's deep history here in tones is wrought,
The faith, the struggles of the aspiring soul,
The confidence of youth, the chill control
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WHAT lapse or accident of time
Can dull that soul's sonorous chime
Which owns the priceless heritage —
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OUT of the cloud that dimmed his sunset light,
Into the unknown firmament withdrawn
Beyond the mists and shadows of the night,
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To G. W. C.
LONG, long ago, in the sweet Roman spring
Through the bright morning air we slowly strolled,
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One day in the bluest of summer weather,
Sketching under a whispering oak,
I heard five bobolinks laughing together
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BLACK in the midnight lies the City vast.
Its dim horizon from my window high
I see shut in beneath a misty sky
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I MET one in the Land of Sleep
Who seemed a friend long known and true.
I woke. That friend I could not keep —
For him I never knew.
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1.
COME, we 'll light the parlor fire;
Winter sets in sharp and rough.
Wood is dear, but coal's provided,
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WHEN Nature had made all her birds,
With no more cares to think on,
She gave a rippling laugh, and out
There flew a Bobolinkon.
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IF death be final, what is life, with all
Its lavish promises, its thwarted aims,
Its lost ideals, its dishonored claims,
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