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,

1 Compare, in Complete Prose Works, p. 190, the letter of May 31, 1882: From to-day I enter upon my 64th year. The paralysis that first affected me nearly ten years ago, has since remain'd, with varying course -seems to have settled quietly down, and will probably continue. I easily tire, am very clumsy, cannot walk far; but my spirits are first-rate. I go around in public almost every day - now and then take long trips, by railroad or boat, hundreds of miles- live largely in the open air-am sunburnt and stout (weigh 190), keep up my activity and interest in life, people, progress, and the questions of the day. About two thirds of the time I am quite comfortable. What mentality I ever had remains entirely unaffected; though physically I am a half-paralytic, and likely to be so, long as I live. But the principal object of my life seems to have been accomplish'd-I have the most devoted and ardent of friends, and affectionate relatives—and of enemies I really make no account.'

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,) not those of

For all my days

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 ne'er 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,

MY 71ST YEAR

AFTER surmounting three-score and ten, With all their chances, changes, losses, sor

rows,

My parents' deaths, the vagaries of my life, the many tearing passions of me, the war of '63 and '4,

As some old broken soldier, after a long, hot, wearying march, or haply after battle,

To-day at twilight, hobbling, answering company roll-call, Here, with vital voice, Reporting yet, saluting yet the Officer over all.

1891.

OLD AGE'S SHIP & CRAFTY DEATH'S

Nor to exclude or demarcate, or pick out evils from their formidable masses (even to expose them),

But add, fuse, complete, extend — and celebrate the immortal and the good.

Haughty this song, its words and scope,
To span vast realms of space and time,
Evolution - the cumulative - growths and
generations.

Begun in ripen'd youth and steadily pursued,

Wandering, peering, dallying with allwar, peace, day and night absorbing, Never even for one brief hour abandoning my task,

I end it here in sickness, poverty, and old age.

I'm going away, I know not where, Or to what fortune, or whether I may ever see you again,

So Good-bye my Fancy.

Now for my last - let me look back a moment;

The slower fainter ticking of the clock is in me,

Exit, nightfall, and soon the heart-thud stopping.

Long have we lived, joy'd, caress'd together;

Delightful! - now separation-Good-bye my Fancy.

Yet let me not be too hasty,

Long indeed have we lived, slept, filter'd, become really blended into one; Then if we die we die together (yes, we'll remain one),

If we go anywhere we'll go together to meet what happens,

May-be we'll be better off and blither, and learn something,

May-be it is yourself now really ushering me to the true songs, (who knows?) May-be it is you the mortal knob really undoing, turning so now finally, Good-bye- and hail! my Fancy.

-

And out of these and thee,

I make a scene, a song (not fear of thee, Nor gloom's ravines, nor bleak, nor dark - for I do not fear thee,

Nor celebrate the struggle, or contortion, or hard-tied knot),

Of the broad blessed light and perfect air, with meadows, rippling tides, and trees and flowers and grass,

And the low hum of living breeze- and in the midst God's beautiful eternal right hand,

Thee, holiest minister of Heaven — thee, envoy, usherer, guide at last of all,

Rich, florid, loosener of the stricture-knot call'd life,

Sweet, peaceful, welcome Death.

O'the ears was cropped, o' the tail was nicked,

(All.) Oo-hoo-o, howled the hound.
The hound into his kennel crept;
He rarely wept, he never slept.

1 One of Lanier's early plans was for a long poem in heroic couplets, with lyric interludes, on the insurrection of the French peasantry in the fourteenth century. Although,' says Mrs. Lanier, "The Jacquerie" remained a fragment for thirteen years, Mr. Lanier's interest in the subject never abated. Far on in this interval he is found planning for leisure to work out in romance the story of that savage insurrection of the French peasantry, which the Chronicles of Froissart had impressed upon his boyish imagination.' 'It was the first time,' says Lanier himself, in a letter of November 15, 1874, that the big hungers of the People appear in our modern civilization; and it is full of significance.' Five chapters of the story, and three lyrics, were completed. See the Poems, pp. 191-214.