When, Looking Deeply In Thy Face.

When, looking deeply in thy face,
I catch the undergleam of grace
That grows beneath the outward glance,
Long looking, lost as in a trance
Of long desires that fleet and meet
Around me like the fresh and sweet
White showers of rain which, vanishing,
'Neath heaven's blue arches whirl, in spring;
Suddenly then I seem to know
Of some new fountain's overflow
In grassy basins, with a sound
That leads my fancy, past all bound,
Into a region of retreat
From this my life's bewildered heat.
Oh if my soul might always draw
From those deep fountains full of awe,
The current of my days should rise
Unto the level of thine eyes!

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

Sunset And Shore

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

I Loved You, Once

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

The Ghosts Of Growth.

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

The Lily-Pond.

George Parsons Lathrop, Simple Poetry

English

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Love That Lives

Dear face - bright, glinting hair;
Dear life, whose heart is mine -
The thought of you is prayer,
The love of you divine.

In starlight, or in rain;
In the sunset's shrouded glow;
Ever, with joy or pain,
To you my quick thoughts go

Like winds or clouds, that fleet
Across the hungry space
Between, and find you, sweet,
Where life again wins grace.

Now, as in that once young
Year that so softly drew
My heart to where it clung,
I long for, gladden in you.

And when in the silent hours
I whisper your sacred name,
Like an altar-fire it showers
My blood with fragrant flame!

Perished is all that grieves;
And lo, our old-new joys
Are gathered as in sheaves,
Held in love's equipoise.

Ours is the l...

George Parsons Lathrop

The Bather.

Standing here alone,
Let me pause awhile,
Drinking in the light
Ere, with plunge of white limbs prone,
I raise the sparkling flight
Of foam-flakes volatile.

Now, in natural guise,
I woo the deathless breeze,
Through me rushing fleet
The joy of life, in swift surprise:
I grow with growing wheat,
And burgeon with the trees.

Lo! I fetter Time,
So he cannot run;
And in Eden again -
Flash of memory sublime! -
Dwell naked, without stain,
Beneath the dazed sun.

All yields brotherhood;
Each least thing that lives,
Wrought of primal spores,
Deepens this wild sense of good
That, on these shaggy shores,
Return to nature gives.

Oh, that some solitude
Were ours, in woodlands deep,
Where, with lucent ...

George Parsons Lathrop

The Sunshine Of Thine Eyes.

The sunshine of thine eyes,
    (Oh still, celestial beam!)
Whatever it touches it fills
    With the life of its lambent gleam.

The sunshine of thine eyes,
    Oh let it fall on me!
Though I be but a mote of the air,
    I could turn to gold for thee!

George Parsons Lathrop

First Glance.

A budding mouth and warm blue eyes;
A laughing face; - and laughing hair,
    So ruddy does it rise
    From off that forehead fair;

Frank fervor in whate'er she said,
And a shy grace when she was still;
    A bright, elastic tread;
    Enthusiastic will;

These wrought the magic of a maid
As sweet and sad as the sun in spring,
    Joyous, yet half-afraid
    Her joyousness to sing.

What weighs the unworthiness of earth
When beauty such as this finds birth?
    Rare maid, to look on thee
    Gives all things harmony!

George Parsons Lathrop

The Sunshine Of Thine Eyes

The sunshine of thine eyes,
(O still, celestial beam!)
Whatever it touches it fills
With the life of its lambent gleam.

The sunshine of thine eyes,
O let it fall on me!
Though I be but a mote of the air,
I could turn to gold for thee!

George Parsons Lathrop

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