Poems (Hoffman)/My Sanctum
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MY SANCTUM
Have you seen my princely sanctum where I sit?
Oh! an artist or a queen might covet it!
When I raise my eyes such perfect pictures meet my gaze,
Not an artist or a poet but would stop to praise.
Hung about it, hung above it, on its ceiling, on its floor,
Never was a palace frescoed by a greater hand before;
For the echoing vaults above me are all trembling, floating leaves,
Swaying, quivering, where the sunshine and the shadow interweaves;
And the cool, cool depths of water, ripple, dimple at my feet,
And fantastic roots are braided for my lowly little seat.
Clear is the untarnished mirror where the stream is deep,
Where the grand old trees' reflections calmly lie asleep;
I can see my face within it, when I stoop,
Framed by branches that above me sway and droop.
And the pictures, there are mountains, there are forests on my walls,
And such color, and such distance, and such light upon them falls.
White clematis and pale, wild roses drape the fence,
Wild blackberry vines are trailing in luxuriance.
Drooping low to kiss the water, berries ripening in the sun,
Green leaves dropping on the streamlet's surface slowly, one by one,
Have I music up above me in an unseen gallery?
Golden voices chant a chorus gaily, gladly merrily;
While somewhere from softening distance coos the mourn- dove, plaintive, sad;
Is my own heart like their music, never altogether glad?
Are their voices, saddest voices, stealing softly unaware,
Softening down the wild, sweet rapture of the happy songbirds there?
'Tis so like it, 'tis so like it,—all this beauty's dream
And those minor notes that sadden all the joyous theme!
Oh! an artist or a queen might covet it!
When I raise my eyes such perfect pictures meet my gaze,
Not an artist or a poet but would stop to praise.
Hung about it, hung above it, on its ceiling, on its floor,
Never was a palace frescoed by a greater hand before;
For the echoing vaults above me are all trembling, floating leaves,
Swaying, quivering, where the sunshine and the shadow interweaves;
And the cool, cool depths of water, ripple, dimple at my feet,
And fantastic roots are braided for my lowly little seat.
Clear is the untarnished mirror where the stream is deep,
Where the grand old trees' reflections calmly lie asleep;
I can see my face within it, when I stoop,
Framed by branches that above me sway and droop.
And the pictures, there are mountains, there are forests on my walls,
And such color, and such distance, and such light upon them falls.
White clematis and pale, wild roses drape the fence,
Wild blackberry vines are trailing in luxuriance.
Drooping low to kiss the water, berries ripening in the sun,
Green leaves dropping on the streamlet's surface slowly, one by one,
Have I music up above me in an unseen gallery?
Golden voices chant a chorus gaily, gladly merrily;
While somewhere from softening distance coos the mourn- dove, plaintive, sad;
Is my own heart like their music, never altogether glad?
Are their voices, saddest voices, stealing softly unaware,
Softening down the wild, sweet rapture of the happy songbirds there?
'Tis so like it, 'tis so like it,—all this beauty's dream
And those minor notes that sadden all the joyous theme!