} The Calming Thought of All

That coursing on, whate’er men’s speculations,
Amid the changing schools, theologies, philosophies,
Amid the bawling presentations new and old,
The round earth’s silent vital laws, facts, modes continue.

} Thanks in Old Age

Thanks in old age—­thanks ere I go,
For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air—­for life, mere life,
For precious ever-lingering memories, (of you my mother dear—­you,
    father—­you, brothers, sisters, friends,)
For all my days—­not those of peace alone—­the days of war the same,
For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,
For shelter, wine and meat—­for sweet appreciation,
(You distant, dim unknown—­or young or old—­countless, unspecified,
    readers belov’d,
We never met, and neer shall meet—­and yet our souls embrace, long,
    close and long;)
For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books—­for colors, forms,
For all the brave strong men—­devoted, hardy men—­who’ve forward
    sprung in freedom’s help, all years, all lands
For braver, stronger, more devoted men—­(a special laurel ere I go,
    to life’s war’s chosen ones,
The cannoneers of song and thought—­the great artillerists—­the
    foremost leaders, captains of the soul:)
As soldier from an ended war return’d—­As traveler out of myriads,
    to the long procession retrospective,
Thanks—­joyful thanks!—­a soldier’s, traveler’s thanks.

} Life and Death

The two old, simple problems ever intertwined,
Close home, elusive, present, baffled, grappled. 
By each successive age insoluble, pass’d on,
To ours to-day—­and we pass on the same.

} The Voice of the Rain

And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated: 
I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,
Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form’d, altogether changed, and
    yet the same,
I descend to lave the drouths, atomies, dust-layers of the globe,
And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn;
And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin,
    and make pure and beautify it;
(For song, issuing from its birth-place, after fulfilment, wandering,
Reck’d or unreck’d, duly with love returns.)

} Soon Shall the Winter’s Foil Be Here

Soon shall the winter’s foil be here;
Soon shall these icy ligatures unbind and melt—­A little while,
And air, soil, wave, suffused shall be in softness, bloom and
    growth—­a thousand forms shall rise
From these dead clods and chills as from low burial graves.