John James Piatt Poems

THE BEES in the clover are making honey, and I am making my hay:
The air is fresh, I seem to draw a young man’s breath to-day.
...

STERN be the pilot in the dreadful hour
When a great nation, like a ship at sea
With the wroth breakers whitening at her lee,
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Why came I here to live? Because he came
Hither, my great-grandsire, who came-to die.
Leading his little neighbor dwelling band,
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HOW bright this weird autumnal eve--
While the wild twilight clings around,
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Yes, this is the place where my boyhood
Saw its butterfly season depart:
The butterfly fluttered in sunshine,
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WHENE'RE, in morning airs, I walk abroad,
Breasting upon the hills the buoyant wind,
Up from the vale my shadow climbs behind,
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THE ROSE aloft in sunny air,
Beloved alike by bird and bee,
Takes for the dark Root little care
That toils below it ceaselessly.
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A TREMULOUS word, a lingering hand, the burning
Of restless passion smoldering--so we part;
Ah, slowly from the dark the world is turning
...