Poems of NebulaNerd RSSFri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMT'Tis a dull sightTo see the year dying,When winter windsSet the yellow wood sighing:Sighing, oh! sighing.When such a time cometh,I do retireInto and old roomBeside a bright fire:Oh, pile a bright fire!And there I sitReading old things,Of knights and lorn damsels,While the wind sings—Oh, drearily sings!I never look outNor attend to the blast;For all to be seenIs the leaves falling fast:Falling, falling!But close at the hearth,Like a cricket, sit I,Reading of summerAnd chivalry—Gallant chivalry!Then with an old friendI talk of our youth!How 'twas gladsome, but oftenFoolish, forsooth:But gladsome, gladsome!Or to get merryWe sing some old rhyme,That made the wood ring againIn summertime—Sweet summertime!Then go we to smoking,Silent and snug:Nought passes between us,Save a brown jug—Sometimes!And sometimes a tearWill rise in each eye,Seeing the two old friendsSo merrily—So merrily!And ere to bedGo we, go we,Down on the ashesWe kneel on the knee,Praying together!Thus, then, live I,Till, 'mid all the gloom,By heaven! the bold sunIs with me in the roomShining, shining!Then the clouds part,Swallow soaring between;The spring is alive,And the meadows are green!I jump up, like mad,Break the old pipe in twain,And away to the meadows,The meadows again!

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTTHE long small room that showed willows in the westNarrowed up to the end the fireplace filled,Although not wide. I liked it. No one guessedWhat need or accident made them so build.Only the moon, the mouse and the sparrow peepedIn from the ivy round the casement thick.Of all they saw and heard there they shall keepThe tale for the old ivy and older brick.When I look back I am like moon, sparrow and mouseThat witnessed what they could never understandOr alter or prevent in the dark house.One thing remains the same--this my right handCrawling crab-like over the clean white page,Resting awhile each morning on the pillow,Then once more starting to crawl on towards age.The hundred last leaves stream upon the willow.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTA something in a summer's day,As slow her flambeaux burn away,Which solemnizes me.A something in a summer's noon, --An azure depth, a wordless tune,Transcending ecstasy.And still within a summer's nightA something so transporting bright,I clap my hands to see;Then veil my too inspecting face,Lest such a subtle, shimmering graceFlutter too far for me.The wizard-fingers never rest,The purple brook within the breastStill chafes its narrow bed;Still rears the East her amber flag,Guides still the sun along the cragHis caravan of red,Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,But never deemed the dripping prizeAwaited their low brows;Or bees, that thought the summer's nameSome rumor of deliriumNo summer could for them;Or Arctic creature, dimly stirredBy tropic hint, -- some travelled birdImported to the wood;Or wind's bright signal to the ear,Making that homely and severe,Contented, known, beforeThe heaven unexpected came,To lives that thought their worshippingA too presumptuous psalm.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTFinite to fail, but infinite to venture.For the one ship that struts the shoreMany's the gallant, overwhelmed creatureNodding in navies nevermore.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTMargaret, are you grievingOver Goldengrove unleaving?Leaves, like the things of man, youWith your fresh thoughts care for, can you?Ah! as the heart grows olderIt will come to such sights colderBy and by, nor spare a sighThough worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;And yet you will weep and know why.Now no matter, child, the name:Sorrow's springs are the same.Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressedWhat heart heard of, ghost guessed:It is the blight man was born for,It is Margaret you mourn for.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTHow beautiful the summer night When birds roost on the mossy tree,When moon and stars are shining bright And home has gone the weary bee!Then Mary Bayfield seeks the glen, The white hawthorn and grey oak tree,And nought but heaven can tell me then How dear thy beauty is to me.Dear is the dewdrop to the flower, The old wall to the weary bee,And silence to the evening hour, And ivy to the stooping tree.Dearer than these, than all beside, Than blossoms to the moss-rose tree,The maid who wanders by my side-- Sweet Mary Bayfield is to me.Sweet is the moonlight on the tree, The stars above the glassy lake,That from the bottom look at me Through shadows of the crimping brake.Such are sweet things--but sweeter still Than these and all beside I seeThe maid whose look my heart can thrill, My Mary Bayfield's look to me.O Mary with the dark brown hair, The rosy cheek, the beaming eye,I would thy shade were ever near; Then would I never grieve or sigh.I love thee, Mary dearly love-- There's nought so fair on earth I see,There's nought so dear in heaven above, As Mary Bayfield is to me.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMT‘Te somnia nostra reducunt.’OVID.And ask ye why these sad tears stream?Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?I had a dream–a lovely dream,Of her that in the grave is sleeping.I saw her as ’twas yesterday,The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;And round her play’d a golden ray,And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.With angel-hand she swept a lyre,A garland red with roses bound it;Its strings were wreath’d with lambent fireAnd amaranth was woven round it.I saw her mid the realms of light,In everlasting radiance gleaming;Co-equal with the seraphs bright,Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.I strove to reach her, when, behold,Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,Faded in air–a lovely vision!And I awoke, but oh! to meThat waking hour was doubly weary;And yet I could not envy thee,Although so blest, and I so dreary.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTWhen first the fiery-mantled sunHis heavenly race begun to run;Round the earth and ocean blue,His children four the Seasons flew.First, in green apparel dancing,The young Spring smiled with angel grace;Rosy summer next advancing,Rushed into her sire's embrace:-Her blue-haired sire, who bade her keepFor ever nearest to his smile,On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,On India's citron-covered isles:More remote and buxom-brown,The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne,A rich pomegranate gemmed her gown,A ripe sheaf bound her zone.But howling Winter fled afar,To hills that prop the polar star,And lives on deer-borne car to rideWith barren darkness at his side,Round the shore where loud LofodenWhirls to death the roaring whale,Round the hall where runic OdinHowls his war-song to the gale;Save when adown the ravaged globeHe travels on his native storm,Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,And trampling on her faded form:-Till light's returning lord assumeThe shaft the drives him to his polar field,Of power to pierce his raven plumeAnd crystal-covered shield.Oh, sire of storms! whose savage earThe Lapland drum delights to hear,When frenzy with her blood-shot eyeImplores thy dreadful deity,Archangel! power of desolation!Fast descending as thou art,Say, hath mortal invocationSpells to touch thy stony heart?Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,And gently rule the ruined year;Nor chill the wanders bosom bare,Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;-To shuddering Want's unmantled bedThy horror-breathing agues cease to lead,And gently on the orphan headOf innocence descend.-But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!The sailor on his airy shrouds;When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,And specters walk along the deep.Milder yet thy snowy breezesPour on yonder tented shores,Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,Or the Dark-brown Danube roars.Oh, winds of winter! List ye thereTo many a deep and dying groan;Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.Alas! Eve... Read more

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTBlow, blow, thou winter windThou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh-ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,That does not bite so nighAs benefits forgot:Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs a friend remembered not.Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:Then heigh-ho, the holly!This life is most jolly.

]]>Fri, 30 Oct 2026 09:39:01 GMTNOVEMBER'S days are thirty:November's earth is dirty,Those thirty days, from first to last;And the prettiest things on ground are the pathsWith morning and evening hobnails dinted,With foot and wing-tip overprintedOr separately charactered,Of little beast and little bird.The fields are mashed by sheep, the roadsMake the worst going, the best the woodsWhere dead leaves upward and downward scatter.Few care for the mixture of earth and water,Twig, leaf, flint, thorn,Straw, feather, all that men scorn,Pounded up and sodden by flood,Condemned as mud.But of all the months when earth is greenerNot one has clean skies that are cleaner.Clean and clear and sweet and cold,They shine above the earth so old,While the after-tempest cloudSails over in silence though winds are loud,Till the full moon in the eastLooks at the planet in the westAnd earth is silent as it is black,Yet not unhappy for its lack.Up from the dirty earth men stare:One imagines a refuge thereAbove the mud, in the pure brightOf the cloudless heavenly light:Another loves earth and November more dearlyBecause without them, he sees clearly,The sky would be nothing more to his eyeThan he, in any case, is to the sky;He loves even the mud whose dyesRenounce all brightness to the skies.

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