Poems of Frederick Goddard Tuckerman

A Representative Selection of Sonnets
from Sonnets: First Series, 1854-1860

VII

Dank fens of cedar, hemlock branches gray With trees and trail of mosses, wringing-wet, Beds of the black pitchpine in dead leaves set Whose wasted red has wasted to white away, Remnants of rain and droppings of decay, Why hold ye so my heart, nor dimly let Through your deep leaves the light of yesterday, The faded glimmer of a sunshine set? Is it that in your darkness, shut from strife, The bread of tears becomes the bread of life? Far from the roar of day, beneath your boughs Fresh griefs beat tranquilly, and loves and vows Grow green in your gray shadows, dearer far Even than all lovely lights and roses are?

VIII

As when down some broad river dropping, we Day after day behold the assuming shores Sink and grow dim, as the great watercourse Pushes his banks apart and seeks the sea: Benches of pines, high shelf and balcony, To flats of willow and low sycamores Subsiding, till where'er the wave we see, Himself is his horizon utterly. So fades the portion of our early world, Still on the ambit hangs the purple air; Yet while we lean to read the secret there, The stream that by green shoresides plashed and purled Expands: the mountains melt to vapors rare, And life alone circles out flat and bare. IX

Yet wear we on, the deep light disallowed That lit our youth; in years no longer young We wander silently, and brood among Dead graves, and tease the sunbreak and the cloud For import: were it not better yet to fly, To follow those that go before the throng, Reasoning from stone to star, and easily Exampling this existence? Or shall I -- Who yield slow reverence where I cannot see And gather gleams where'er by chance or choice My footsteps draw, though brokenly dispensed -- Come into light at last? or suddenly Struck to the knees like Saul, one arm against The overbearing brighness, hear a voice?

from Sonnets: Second Series, 1854-1860

I

That boy, the farmer said, with hazel wand Pointing him out, half by the haycock hid, Though bare sixteen, can work at what he's bid From sun till set, to cradle, reap, or band. I heard the words, but scarce could understand Whether they claimed a smile or gave me pain: Or was it aught to me, in that green lane, That all day yesterday, the briars amid, He held the plough against the jarring land Steady, or kept his place among the mowers Whilst other fingers, sweeping for the flowers, Brought from the forest back a crimson stain? Was it a thorn that touched the flesh, or did The pokeberry spit purple on my hand?

XV

Gertrude and Gulielma, sister-twins, Dwelt in the valley at the farmhouse old; Nor grief had touched their locks of dark and gold Nor dimmed the fragrant whiteness of their skins: Both beautiful, and one in height and mould; Yet one had loveliness which the spirit wins To other worlds: eyes, forehead, smile and all, More softly serious than the twilight's fall. The other -- can I e'er forget the day When, stealing from a laughing group away, To muse with absent eye and motion slow, Her beauty fell upon me like a blow? -- Gertrude! with red flowerlip, and silk black hair! Yet Gulielma was by far more fair. XVI

Under the mountain, as when first I knew Its low dark roof and chimney creeper-twined, The red house stands; and yet my footsteps find, Vague in the walks, waste balm and feverfew. But they are gone: no soft-eyed sisters trip Across the porch or lintels; where, behind, The mother sat, sat knitting with pursed lip. The house stands vacant in its green recess, Absent of beauty as a broken heart. The wild rain enters, and the sunset wind Sighs in the chambers of their loveliness Or shakes the pane -- and in the silent noons The glass falls from the window, part by part, And ringeth faintly in the grassy stones.

from Sonnets: Third Series, 1860-1872

I

Once on a day, alone but not elate, I sat perusing a forgotten sage And turning hopelessly a dim old page Of history, long disused and out of date, Reading "his Method" till I lost my own. When suddenly there fell a gold presage Of sunset sunshine on the letters thrown. The day had been one cloud, but now a bird Shot into song. I left my hermitage With happy heart; but ere I reached the gate The sun was gone, the bird, and bleak and drear, All but an icy breath the balsams stirred: I turned again and, entering with a groan, Sat darkly down to Dagoraus Whear.