A Song Long Ago.

Through the pauses of thy fervid singing
        Fell crystal sound
That thy fingers from the keys were flinging
        Lightly around:
I felt the vine-like harmonies close clinging
        About my soul;
And to my eyes, as fruit of their sweet bringing,
        The full tear stole!

George Parsons Lathrop

George Parsons Lathrop (August 25, 1851 – April 19, 1898) was an American poet, novelist, and editor. He was closely associated with the literary world of New England and was a prominent figure in the late 19th century. Lathrop was also known for his marriage to Rose Hawthorne, the daughter of famed novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne, and for his efforts in editing and preserving Hawthorne's works. His contributions spanned various literary forms including poetry and prose.

George Parsons Lathrop

Youth To The Poet

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

June Longings.

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

Grief's Hero.

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

English

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A Song Of Long Ago.

    A song of Long Ago:
    Sing it lightly - sing it low -
    Sing it softly - like the lisping of the lips we used to know
    When our baby-laughter spilled
    From the glad hearts ever filled
    With music blithe as robin ever trilled!

    Let the fragrant summer-breeze,
    And the leaves of locust-trees,
    And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees,
    All palpitate with glee,
    Till the happy harmony
    Brings back each childish joy to you and me.

    Let the eyes of fancy turn
    Where the tumbled pippins burn
    Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern, -
    There let the old path wind
    In and out and on behind
    The cider-press that chuckles as we grind.

    Blend in the...

James Whitcomb Riley

June Longings.

Lo, all about the lofty blue are blown
Light vapors white, like thistle-down,
That from their softened silver heaps opaque
Scatter delicate flake by flake,
Upon the wide loom of the heavens weaving
Forms of fancies past believing,
And, with fantastic show of mute despair,
As for some sweet hope hurt beyond repair,
Melt in the silent voids of sunny air.

All day the cooing brooklet runs in tune:
Half sunk i' th' blue, the powdery moon
Shows whitely. Hark, the bobolink's note! I hear it,
Far and faint as a fairy spirit!
Yet all these pass, and as some blithe bird, winging,
Leaves a heart-ache for his singing,
A frustrate passion haunts me evermore
For that which closest dwells to beauty's core.
O Love, canst thou this heart of hope restore?

George Parsons Lathrop

The Singing Wire.

Hark to that faint, ethereal twang
    That from the bosom of the breeze
Has caught its rise and fall: there rang
    Æolian harmonies!

I looked; again the mournful, chords,
    In random rhythm lightly flung
From off the wire, came shaped in words;
    And thus, meseemed, they sung.

"I, messenger of many fates,
    Strung to the tones of woe or weal,
Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates
    With all men know or feel, -

"Oh, is it strange that I should wail?
    Leave me my tearless, sad refrain,
When in the pine-top wakes the gale
That breathes of coming rain.

"There is a spirit in the post;
    It, too, was once a murmuring tree;
Its sapless, sad, and withered ghost
    Echoes my melody.

"Come close, and la...

George Parsons Lathrop

The Singing Wire

Ethereal, faint that music rang,
As, with the bosom of the breeze,
It rose and fell and murmuring sang
    Aeolian harmonies!

I turned; again the mournful chords,
In random rhythm lightly flung
From off the wire, came shaped in words;
    And thus meseemed, they sung:

"I, messenger of many fates,
Strung to the tones of woe or weal,
Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates
    With all men know or feel, -

"Is it so strange that I should wail?
Leave me my tearless, sad refrain,
When in the pine-top wakes the gale
    That breathes of coming rain.

"There is a spirit in the post;
It, too, was once a murmuring tree;
Its withered, sad, imprisoned ghost
    Echoes my melody.

"Come close, and lay your listening ear
...

George Parsons Lathrop

An April Aria.

When the mornings dankly fall
    With a dim forethought of rain,
And the robins richly call
To their mates mercurial,
    And the tree-boughs creak and strain
    In the wind;
When the river's rough with foam,
    And the new-made clearings smoke,
And the clouds that go and come
Shine and darken frolicsome,
    And the frogs at evening croak
    Undefined
Mysteries of monotone,
    And by melting beds of snow
Wind-flowers blossom all alone;
    Then I know
That the bitter winter's dead.
    Over his head
The damp sod breaks so mellow, -
Its mosses tipped with points of yellow, -
    I cannot but be glad;
Yet this sweet mood will borrow
Something of a sweeter sorrow,
    To touch and turn me sad.

George Parsons Lathrop

The Heart Of A Song

Dear love, let this my song fly to you:
Perchance forget it came from me.
It shall not vex you, shall not woo you;
But in your breast lie quietly.

Only beware, when once it tarries
I cannot coax it from you, then.
This little song my whole heart carries,
And ne'er will bear it back again.

For if its silent passion grieve you,
My heart would then too heavy grow; -
And it can never, never leave you,
If joy of yours must with it go!

George Parsons Lathrop