GENTLE SPRING

GENTLE SPRING ! ~ in sunshine clad.
     Well dost thou thy power display !
For Winter maketh the light heart sad,
     And thou, ~ thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain,
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
     When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
     Their beards of icicles and snow ;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
     We must cower over the embers low ;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
     When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
     Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud ;
But, Heaven he praised, they step is nigh ;
     Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly.
Who has toiled for nouht both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
     When thy merry step draws near.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Feb. 27, 1807 - Mar. 24, 1882) American poet.

The Spirit of Poetry

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows ;
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought.
When the fast-ushering star of Morning comes
O'er-riding the grey hills with golden scarf ;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace !  That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade ;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind.  And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift.  Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle ~
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, ~
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Feb. 27, 1807 - Mar 24, 1882)  American poet.
The Poetical Works of Longfellow. Frederick Warne & Co.

WIND AND WINDOW FLOWER

Lovers, forget your love,
  And list to the love of these.
She a window flower,
  And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil
  Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
  Hung over her in tune,

He marked her through the pane
  He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
  To come again at dark.

He was a winter wind,
  Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
  And little of love could know.

But he sighed upon the sill,
  He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
  Who lay that night awake.

Perchance he half prevailed
  To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
  And warm stove-window light.

But the flower leaned aside
  And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
  A hundred miles away.

~ Robert Frost

Hoping that you had a wonderful Valentine's Day!  We have been busy in the bookshop acknowledging some of the folks who have helped make the bookshop better.  If you are ever on facebook, check out the numerous photographs of fascinating personalities and of course authors who have visited us.

There are too many to mention and we don't have photographs of everyone.  It was in November of 2004 that our first bookshelves appeared on Cayuga Street.  We existed in a remote corner at 11 Cayuga Street opposite the red-brick building where Herb Martindale began the original Neat Little Bookshop.  There were five empty commercial windows at the time and since that, businesses have come and gone.  Thank you to all of our supporters:  family and friends, customers and fellow Cayuga Street businesses.

~ John & Lorna

Woods in Winter

When Winter winds are piercing chill,
   And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill
   That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away
   Through the long reach of dessert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
   And gladden these deep solitudes.

When, twisted round the barren oak,
   The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
   The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
   Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
   And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas !  how changed from the fair scene,
   When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
   And the song ceased not with the day.

 But still wild music is abroad,
   Pale, desert woods ! within your crowd ;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
   Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds !  my ear
   Has grown familiar with your song ;
I hear it in the opening year, ~
   I listen, and it cheers me long.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Feb. 27, 1807 - Mar. 24, 1882) American poet

Visit https://www.davidjforsyth.com/ to view David J. Forsyth's biography and books.

 

 

The Secret of The Sea

AH!  what pleasant visions haunt me
     As I gaze upon the sea !
All the old romantic legends,
     All my dreams, come back to me.

Sails of silk and ropes of sandal,
     Such as gleam in ancient lore;
And the singing of the sailers,
     And the answer from the shore !

Most of all, the Spanish ballad
     Haunts me oft, and tarries long,
Of the noble Count Arnaldos
     And the sailor's mystic song.

Like the long waves on a sea-beach,
     Where the sand as silver shines,
With a soft monotonous cadence,
     Flow its unrhymed lyric lines ;-

Telling how the Count Arnaldos,
     With his hawk upon his hand,
Saw a fair and stately galley,
     Steering onward to the land ;-

How he heard the ancient helmsman
     Cant a song so wild and clear,
That the sailing sea-bird slowly
     Poised upon the mast to hear,

Till his soul was full of longing,
     And he cried with impulse strong, --
     "Helmsman ! for the love of heaven,
     Teach me, too, that wondrous song !"

"Wouldst thou," so the helmsman answered,
     "Learn the secrets of the sea?
Only those who brave its dangers
     Comprehend its mystery !"

In each sail that skims the horizon,
     In each landward-blowing breeze,
I behold that stately galley,
     Hear those mournful melodies ;

Till my soul is full of longing
     For the secret of the sea,
And the heart of the great ocean
     Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Feb. 27, 1807 - Mar. 24, 1882) American Poet,
THE POETICAL WORKS OF LONGFELLOW, Frederick Warne & Co.


[Secret of this sea is a photo of Lake Erie.]