Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
Arkansas
By Albert Pike (1809–1891)(Excerpt)
S
Of the continuous oaks the sun hath fallen,
And his last rays have struggled through, between
The leaf-robed branches, as hopes intervene
Amid grave cares. The western sky is wallen
With shadowy mountains, built upon the marge
Of the horizon, from eve’s purple sheen,
And thin, gray clouds, that insolently lean
Their silver cones upon the crimson verge
Of the high zenith, while their unseen base
Is rocked by lightning. It will show its eye
When dusky Night comes. Eastward, you can trace
No stain, no spot of cloud upon a sky,
Pure as an angel’s brow.
The winds have folded up their swift wings now,
And, all asleep, high up in their cloud-cradles lie.
Are growing deeper, more material,
In windless solitude. The young flower-blooms
Richly exhale their thin, invisible plumes
Of odor, which they yield not at the call
Of the hot sun. The birds all sleep within
Unshaken nests; save the gray owl, that booms
His plaintive cry, like one that mourns strange dooms;
And the sad whippoorwill, with lonely din.
There is a deep, calm beauty all around,
A heavy, massive, melancholy look,
A unison of lonely sight and sound,
Which touch us, till the soul can hardly brook
Its own sad feelings here.
They do not wring from the full heart a tear,
But give us heavy thoughts, like reading a sad book.