John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
At SundownBurning Drift-wood
B
And see, with every waif I burn,
Old dreams and fancies coloring it,
And folly’s unlaid ghosts return.
The enchanted sea on which they sailed,
Are these poor fragments only left
Of vain desires and hopes that failed?
Of sunset on my towers in Spain,
And see, far off, uploom in sight
The Fortunate Isles I might not gain?
Arcadia’s vales of song and spring,
And did I pass, with grazing keel,
The rocks whereon the sirens sing?
The unmapped regions lost to man,
The cloud-pitched tents of Prester John,
The palace domes of Kubla Khan?
Where Youth the ageless Fountain fills?
Did Love make sign from rose blown bowers,
And gold from Eldorado’s hills?
On blind Adventure’s errand sent,
Howe’er they laid their courses, failed
To reach the haven of Content.
Which Love had freighted, safely sped,
Seeking a good beyond my own,
By clear-eyed Duty piloted.
The luck Arabian voyagers met,
And find in Bagdad’s moonlit street,
Haroun al Raschid walking yet,
The fair, fond fancies dear to youth.
I turn from all that only seems,
And seek the sober grounds of truth.
That birds have flown, and trees are bare,
That darker grows the shortening day,
And colder blows the wintry air!
The castles I no more rebuild,
May fitly feed my drift-wood fire,
And warm the hands that age has chilled.
I only know the best remains;
A song of praise is on my lips
For losses which are now my gains.
No wisdom with the folly dies.
Burn on, poor shreds, your holocaust
Shall be my evening sacrifice!
Unsought before my door I see;
On wings of fire and steeds of steam
The world’s great wonders come to me,
Of Love to seek and Power to save,—
The righting of the wronged and poor,
The man evolving from the slave;
Safe in the gracious Fatherhood.
I fold o’er-wearied hands and wait,
In full assurance of the good.
Though brief or long its granted days,
If Faith and Hope and Charity
Sit by my evening hearth-fire’s blaze.
Whose love my heart has comforted,
And, sharing all my joys, has shared
My tender memories of the dead,—
Bound on their last, long voyage, to whom
We, day by day, are drawing near,
Where every bark has sailing room
Of waters calling unto me;
I know from whence the airs have blown
That whisper of the Eternal Sea.
I hear that sea’s deep sounds increase,
And, fair in sunset light, discern
Its mirage-lifted Isles of Peace.