My early fire is low, and hurrying feet In the short pauses of the wind go by, And the unquiet leaves, that sighingly Obey its gusty summons and sweep on, Seem mourning for the green and pleasant trees; And the clouds wear sad colors, and I feel As there were nothing in this fading world, That is not cold and sorrowful like this. Thus is it with a spirit not at ease. It turns no eye within; but, as it were The mirror of the world’s poor circumstance, It takes its hue from nature, as if earth With its discordant elements could tune The delicate harmonies of human mind. We have within us fountains, and they flow With fancy to create the beautiful, And thought to search out knowledge, and deep love To link us to society; light mirth To gladden, and kind sympathies to shade The spirit; and yet many will go out With a sealed bosom wandering the world, To satisfy a thirst for happiness. How strange it is, that when the principle Of light is living in us, we should shut Its emanations in, and darkly stray To catch a beam from nature, like a star That should forget its glory and go out, Because the moon was shining not in heaven! DAWN. ‘_That_ line I learned not in the old sad song.’ Charles Lamb. Throw up the window! ’Tis a morn for life In its most subtle luxury. The air Is like a breathing from a rarer world; And the south wind seems liquid--it o’ersteals My bosom and my brow so bathingly. It has come over gardens, and the flowers That kissed it are betrayed; for as it parts With its invisible fingers my loose hair, I know it has been trifling with the rose, And stooping to the violet. There is joy For all God’s creatures in it. The wet leaves Are stirring at its touch, and birds are singing As if to breathe were music, and the grass Sends up its modest odor with the dew, Like the small tribute of humility. Lovely indeed is morning! I have drank Its fragrance and its freshness, and have felt Its delicate touch, and ’tis a kindlier thing Than music, or a feast, or medicine.