Music Of Growth.

Music is in all growing things;
And underneath the silky wings
    Of smallest insects there is stirred
    A pulse of air that must be heard.
Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings.

If poet from the vibrant strings
Of his poor heart a measure flings,
    Laugh not, that he no trumpet blows:
    It may be that Heaven hears and knows
His language of low listenings.

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

The Child Year

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

The Lover's Year

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

The Song-Sparrow.

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

The Lover Who Thinks.

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Music.

The wind-harp has music it moans to the tree,
And so has the shell that complains to the sea,
The lark that sings merrily over the lea,
        The reed of the rude shepherd boy!
We revel in music when day has begun,
When rock-fountains gush into glee as they run,
And stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun,
        Who brightens the hill-tops with joy!

The spirit of melody floats in the air,
Her instruments tuning to harmony there,
Our senses beguiling from sorrow and care,
        In blessings sent down from above!
But Nature has music far more to my choice--
And all in her exquisite changes rejoice!
No tones thrill my heart like the dear human voice
        When breathed by the being I love!

George Pope Morris

Unheard.

All things are wrought of melody,
Unheard, yet full of speaking spells;
Within the rock, within the tree,
A soul of music dwells.

A mute symphonic sense that thrills
The silent frame of mortal things;
Its heart beats in the ancient hills,
In every flower sings.

To harmony all growth is set
Each seed is but a music mote,
From which each plant, each violet,
Evolves its purple note.

Compact of melody, the rose
Woos the soft wind with strain on strain
Of crimson; and the lily blows
Its white bars to the rain.

The trees are pæans; and the grass
One long green fugue beneath the sun
Song is their life; and all shall pass,
Shall cease, when song is done.

Madison Julius Cawein

The Ghosts Of Growth.

Last night it snowed; and Nature fell asleep.
    Forest and field lie tranced in gracious dreams
    Of growth, for ghosts of leaves long dead, me-seems,
Hover about the boughs; and wild winds sweep
O'er whitened fields full many a hoary heap
    From the storm-harvest mown by ice-bound streams!
    With beauty of crushed clouds the cold earth teems,
And winter a tranquil-seeming truce would keep.

But such ethereal slumber may not bide
    The ascending sun's bright scorn - not long, I fear;
And all its visions on the golden tide
    Of mid-noon gliding off, must disappear.
Fair dreams, farewell! So in life's stir and pride
    You fade, and leave the treasure of a tear!

George Parsons Lathrop

Nature's Music.

Of many gifts bestowed on earth
    To cheer a lonely hour,
Oh is there one of equal worth
    With music's magic power?
'Twill charm each angry thought to rest,
    'Twill gloomy care dispel,
And ever we its power can test, -
    All nature breathes its spell.

There's music in the sighing tone
    Of the soft, southern breeze
That whispers thro' the flowers lone,
    And bends the stately trees,
And - in the mighty ocean's chime,
    The crested breakers roar,
The wild waves, ceaseless surge sublime,
    Breaking upon the shore.

There's music in the bulbul's note,
    Warbling its vesper lay
In some fair spot, from man remote,
    Where wind and flowers play;
But, oh! beyond the sweetest strain
    Of bird, or wave, or gro...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Music

Let me go where'er I will,
I hear a sky-born music still:
It sounds from all things old,
It sounds from all things young,
From all that's fair, from all that's foul,
Peals out a cheerful song.

It is not only in the rose,
It is not only in the bird,
Not only where the rainbow glows,
Nor in the song of woman heard,
But in the darkest, meanest things
There alway, alway something sings.

'T is not in the high stars alone,
Nor in the cup of budding flowers,
Nor in the redbreast's mellow tone,
Nor in the bow that smiles in showers,
But in the mud and scum of things
There alway, alway something sings.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Growth Of Song.

    A tender song in shadows grew,
    And humble hearts were homes it knew.

    But through its wondrous music stole
    The longings of the human soul;

    The hopes of hosts unsatisfied
    Within its numbers wandered wide;

    And strangely wet with toilsome tears
    It held the yearnings of the years;

    Till millions with their woes oppressed,
    Proclaimed the song of peace and rest;

    Till nations in their troubled ways
    Found comfort in the joyous lays,

    And all the halting race of wrong
    Exalts the loving might of song!

    Ah, song that soothes our many cries
    With fondness of thy lullabies,

    We love, we bless, we scepter thee
    Proud empress of the hearts that be!

Freeman Edwin Miller