  As the wind at play with a spark Of fire that glows through the night; As the speed of the soaring lark That wings to the sky his flight— So swiftly thy soul has sped In its upward wonderful way, Like the lark when the dawn is red, In search of the shining day. Thou art not with the frozen dead Whom earth in the earth we lay, While the bearers softly tread, And the mourners kneel and pray; From thy semblance, dumb and stark, The soul has taken its flight— Out of the finite dark, Into the infinite Light. Old letters and old poems from the pen of some well-known author of the past that are found in unexpected places, or come to light through unlooked-for channels, have a special charm and flavor of their own. They seem to give out something peculiarly personal, like an echo from a voice that has long been silent. This great devotion that Bronson Alcott inspired in those near to him is well known by those who have made a study of the remarkable group of men that formed a charmed literary circle in Concord in the middle of the last century, of whom Ralph Waldo Emerson was the distinguished leader; yet each additional proof gives an added warmth of color and a truer portrayal of the character of this quaint and original follower of the Greek philosophers and of his gifted family. The writer of this article recalls one day when the late Frank B. Sanborn, well-known Sage of Concord, as he was called, was reading these poems at Fruitlands. When he came to the last line of the first poem herein given he dwelt upon it as if in deep thought. Then lifting his head, his face lighting with one of his sudden smiles, he murmured, "That sounds just like Louisa!"
FOOTNOTE:Transcriber's noteMinor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. |
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