Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/146

132 The thunders of the terrors of the world. No mortal chance or change, no earthly shock, Can move or reach my soul, securely throned On heights of contemplation and calm prayer, Happy, serene, no less with actual joy Of present peace than faith in joys to come. This soft, sweet, yellow evening, how the trees Stand crisp against the clear, bright-colored sky! How the white mountain-tops distinctly shine, Taking and giving radiance, and the slopes Are purpled with rich floods of peach-hued light! Thank God, my filmy, old dislustred eyes Find the same sense of exquisite delight, My heart vibrates to the same touch of joy In scenes like this, as when my pulse danced high, And youth coursed through my veins ! This the one link That binds the wan old man that now I am To the wild lad who followed up the hounds Among Ravenna s pine-woods by the sea. For there how oft would I lose all delight In the pursuit, the triumph, or the game, To stray alone among the shadowy glades, And gaze, as one who is not satisfied With gazing, at the large, bright, breathing sea, The forest glooms, and shifting gleams between The fine dark fringes of the fadeless trees, On gold-green turf, sweet-brier, and wild pink rose !