Alexander Smith Poems

THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays,
   The churlish thistles, scented briers,
The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes,
   Down to the central fires,
...

THE BROKEN moon lay in the autumn sky,
And I lay at thy feet;
You bent above me; in the silence I
Could hear my wild heart beat.
...

Walter. I HAVE a strain of a departed bard;
One who was born too late into this world.
A mighty day was past, and he saw nought
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ON the Sabbath-day,
   Through the churchyard old and gray,
Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way;
And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms,
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SING, poet, 'tis a merry world;
That cottage smoke is rolled and curled
In sport, that every moss
Is happy, every inch of soil: -
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BEAUTY still walketh on the earth and air,
Our present sunsets are as rich in gold
As ere the Iliad’s music was out-roll’d;
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