Sunday In Liguria

THIS is the Sabbath day, the day of rest, That breathes so gently in this quiet place, With such insistent peace that for a space The silver olives on the mountain’s crest Forget to whisper, folded in the grace Of lengthening shadows gathered from the noon. The clouds are golden, yet a placid moon Slips out among them, calm and pale of face.

O soul of mine, breathe in this holy thing That steeps the hills down to the dreaming sea; This endless prayer, this silent ecstacy, That like a great white bird on sunlit wing Hovers above the world; ’tis given thee To merge thyself in this harmonious whole, And be content, seeking no higher goal; The earth is God’s, to-day eternity!

GEORGETOWN, U.S.A.

IF you would hear the thrushes sing, Then go to Georgetown in the spring, And wander slowly at your ease Along the avenues of trees.

The sunshine and the shadows meet To weave a web across the street, And in and out its magic strands Play little children, joining hands.

The sky is washed with showers and dew, Until it looks the palest blue, And in the gardens down below You almost see the grasses grow.

There’s something very very old About the place, so we are told, And yet it’s marvellously gay And young, when seen on such a day!

The silent corners all around Break up in waves of pleasant sound, The mansions of Colonial days Allow the sun to gild their greys.

The paving-stones, with earth between, Are fringed with shoots of emerald green, And oh! the song the thrushes sing In Georgetown, when the year’s at spring!

ON THE POTOMAC RIVER, U.S.A.

AT close of June’s most burning day, We took a ship and sailed away: In mid-Potomac stream sailed we, To Old Point Comfort by the sea.

The heavy hanging air of dusk Was thick with scent of fainting musk, And through the tired willow trees Stirred never sound or breath of breeze.

So still it was, that from afar We seemed to hear a falling star, And every drop we heard, that dript From off the paddle as it dipped.

The fireflies lit their yellow lamps, And danced along the marshy damps; They skimmed and shot, and skimmed again, While beetles droned a dance-refrain.

The old ship pushed the mists apart, And crawled along with throbbing heart, Pausing from time to time for breath Beside some jetty, still as death.

The moon rose up all reddish gold, And lit the swirling misty fold Of fog along the river bank, Where grew the creepers dark and rank.

Sometimes the lonely “look-out” cried “All’s well”: the water swished and sighed An endless and protesting song, As stealthily we crept along.

Until at last the wind blew free, Where the Potomac met the sea; And not so very far away The shores of Old Point Comfort lay.