THE deep and lordly Danube Goes winding far below; I see the white-walled hamlets Amid his vineyards glow, And southward, through the ether, shine The Styrian hills of snow. O'er many a league of landscape Sleeps the warm haze of noon; The wooing winds come freighted With messages of June, And down among the corn and flowers I hear the water's tune. The meadow-lark is singing, As if it still were morn; Within the dark pine-forest The hunter winds his horn, And the cuckoo's sky, complaining note Mocks the maidens in the corn. I watch the cloud-armada Go sailing up the sky, Lulled by the murmuring mountain grass Upon whose bed I lie, And the faint sound of noonday chimes That in the distance die. A warm and drowsy sweetness Is stealing o'er my brain; I see no more the Danube Sweep through his royal plain; I hear no more the peasant girls Singing amid the grain. Soft, silvery wings, a moment Have swept across my brow: Again I hear the water, But its voice is sweeter now, And the mocking-bird and oriole Are singing on the bough; The elm and linden branches Droop close and dark o'erhead, And the foaming forest brooklet Leaps down its rocky bed: Be still, my heart! the seas are passed, -- The paths of home I tread! The showers of creamy blossoms Are on the linden spray, And down the clover meadow They heap the scented hay, And glad winds toss the forest leaves, All the bright summer day. Old playmates! bid me welcome Amid your brother-band; Give me the old affection, -- The glowing grasp of hand! I seek no more the realms of old, -- Here is my Fatherland! Come hither, gentle maiden, Who weep'st in tender joy! The rapture of thy presence Repays the world's annoy, And calms the wild and ardent heart Which warms the wandering boy. In many a mountain fastness, By many a river's foam, And through the gorgeous cities, 'T was loneliness to roam; For the sweetest music in my heart Was the olden songs of home. Ah, glen and grove are vanished, And friends have faded now! The balmy Styrian breezes Are blowing on my brow, And sounds again the cuckoo's call From the forest's inmost bough. Fled is that happy vision, -- The gates of slumber fold; I rise and journey onward Through valleys green and old, Where the far, white Alps announce the morn, And keep the sunset's gold. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LEAVES FIRST by CARL PHILLIPS GIRL IN A CAGE by CARL SANDBURG A CHANNEL PASSAGE by RUPERT BROOKE THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW A VISION UPON [THIS CONCEIT] OF THE FAERIE QUEENE (2) by WALTER RALEIGH THE BAREFOOT BOY by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |