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Poem by Trumbull Stickney
In a City Garden
HOW strange that here is nothing as it was! The sward is young and new, The sod there shapes a different mass, The random trees stand other than I knew. No, here the Past has left no residue, No aftermath! By a new path The workmen homeward in the city twilight pass. Yet was this willow here. It hung as now its olive skeins aloft Into the sky, then blue and clear,-- And yonder pair of poplar trees Rose also, soft And sibilant in the glory of the breeze. It's early dark. One scarce distinguishes Their sullen feathering in the autumn sky. 'Tis warm and still. Dull o'er the town the vapours lie. Innumerable And dodging the uncertain stare, The small, shrewd lampions dot the air. Many like me Loiter perhaps as I in after years, As looking here to see Some vestige of the living that was theirs, Some trace of yesterday, Somae hint or remnant, echo, clue--some thing, Some very little thing of what was they. Sure such are near! Else were it not so still This evening, So human-still and warm and kind. 'Tis as of many moved In unison of will and mind to sing Low litanies to that which they had wholly loved. How sweet it is Under the perishable trees To hear the wings of the one human soul Fluttering up In Time's dark branches to the lucid stars. More than Despair is Hope, And more than Hope is the Hope that despairs, And more than all Is Love that disbelieves the real years. Here in this place One August morning--when the earlier crowd, Showmen or populace, From many a region and of curious face, Abroad the holiday Quaint in the sun with garb and gesture glowed, And, speaking grave or gay The various accent of their lonely race, Between the shadowy gold bazars idled away-- She, as a cloud All sunrise-coloured and alone, Thro' the blue summer tremblin came to me. I dried her tears and here we sat us down. Little by little, as tripping oversea On flame-tipped waves the daylight's long surprise Sweeps world and heaven in one, So love across our eyes Broke with the sun. Happy we walked away. The fairy sight Untangling shook a thousand chequered fires. Low under scarlet awnings rung on rung, Copper and bronze and azurite, Ranged on the sagging wires The trifles clinked in the red light. From beam and niche vendors in strange attires, Slipping dark hands along, Unhooked the quiet wool, the gaudy chintz, Or, precious where it hung, Long fluid jewels of auroral silk: And dryly to the sense Their attars old and dusty powders clung. Still passed the weavers and the dyers Many a jar, a bowl Turned as of water or of milk-- Glazen and jade and porcelain-- Far down the shadows colouring stole. As one had shook a jungle after rain And basketing the drops at random spilled Their red and green, their topaz and sapphires, All were here piled.-- And wandering out we smiled To see across the glowing noon so high, So high and far, The incandescent minarets and domes and spires Lifting the fusion of the coloured choirs To the sky Softly--save only where A flag or pennant fallen slack Shotted the dazzling air. I came to-day to find her, I came back Humble with sweet desires Across this dun September atmosphere To her. I came, I knew she was not here: Now let me go. I came, I come because I love her so. Not in the acres of the Soul Does Nature drive the ploughshare of her change. It is not strange That here in part and whole The faithful eye sees all things as before. For past the newer flowers, Above the recent trees and clouds come o'er, Love finds the other hours Once more.
Trumbull Stickney
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