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The Two Twilights   By: (1847-1926)

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First Page:

THE TWO TWILIGHTS

BY

HENRY A. BEERS

BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER

TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED

Copyright 1917 by Henry A. Beers

All Rights Reserved

Made in the United States of America

The Gorham Press, Boston, U.S.A.

PREFACE

The contents of this volume include selections from two early books of verse, long out of print; a few pieces from The Ways of Yale (Henry Holt & Co); and a handful of poems contributed of late years to the magazines and not heretofore collected.

For permission to use copyrighted material my thanks are due to Messrs. Henry Holt & Co., and to the publishers of Harper's Monthly Magazine and of the Yale Review.

HENRY A. BEERS.

CONTENTS

The Thankless Muse Blue Roses of Academus The Winds of Dawn Anacreontic Bumble Bee Water Lilies at Sunset Between the Flowers As You Like It The Old City Amethysts Katy Did Narcissus Nunc Dimittis Beaver Pond Meadow High Island Lotus Eating The Mermaid's Glass A Holiday Eclogue A Memory Amours Passagères On a Miniature Im Schwarzwald Waiting for Winter [Greek: Tò Pan] The Singer of One Song Posthumous Hugh Latimer Carçamon Ecce in Deserto To Imogen at the Harp The Ideas of the Pure Reason On Guard Sursum Corda Love, Death and Life The Dying Pantheist to the Priest The Upland The Remainder The Pasture Bars The Rising of the Curtain

THE TWO TWILIGHTS

THE THANKLESS MUSE

The muses ring my bell and run away. I spy you, rogues, behind the evergreen: You, wild Thalia, romper in the hay; And you, Terpsichore, you long legged quean. When I was young you used to come and stay, But, now that I grow older, 'tis well seen What tricks ye put upon me. Well a day! How many a summer evening have ye been Sitting about my door step, fain to sing And tell old tales, while through the fragrant dark Burned the large planets, throbbed the brooding sound Of crickets and the tree toads' ceaseless ring; And in the meads the fire fly lit her spark Where from my threshold sank the vale profound.

BLUE ROSES OF ACADEMUS

So late and long the shadows lie Under the quadrangle wall: From such a narrow strip of sky So scant an hour the sunbeams fall, They hardly come to touch at all This cool, sequestered corner where, Beside the chapel belfry tall, I cultivate my small parterre.

Poor, sickly blooms of Academe, Recluses of the college close, Whose nun like pallor would beseem The violet better than the rose: There's not a bud among you blows With scent or hue to lure the bee: Only the thorn that on you grows Only the thorn grows hardily.

Pale cloisterers, have you lost so soon The way to blush? Do you forget How once, beneath the enamored moon, You climbed against the parapet, To touch the breast of Juliet Warm with a kiss, wet with a tear, In gardens of the Capulet, Far south, my flowers, not here not here?

THE WINDS OF DAWN

Whither do ye blow? For now the moon is low. Whence is it that ye come, And where is it ye go? All night the air was still, The crickets' song was shrill; But now there runs a hum And rustling through the trees. A breath of coolness wakes, As on Canadian lakes, And on Atlantic seas, And each high Alpine lawn Begin the winds of dawn.

ANACREONTIC

I would not be A voyager on the windy seas: More sweet to me This bank where crickets chirp, and bees Buzz drowsy sunshine minstrelsies.

I would not bide On lonely heights where shepherds dwell. At twilight tide The sounds that from the valley swell, Soft breathing lute and herdsman's bell, Are sweeter far Than music of cold mountain rills... Continue reading book >>




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