The Xenia Sentinel 09 Aug 1864
The following touching lines were written by Mr. Howells, our Consul at Venice, on the death of his brother, John B. Howells, a pupil of the Cleveland Institute: JOHN BUTLER HOWELLS, Who died "with the first song of the birds, "Wednesday morning, April 27th, 1864.
I In the early morning when I wake,At the hour that is sacred for his sake,And hear the happy birds of Spring In the garden under my window sing,And through my window the day-break blows The sweetness of the lily and the rose,A dormant anguish wakes with day,And my heart is smitten with strange dismay;
II A scrap of print, a few brief lines The fatal word that swims and shines' On my tears, with a meaning new and dread, Make faltering reason know him dead, And I would that my heart might feel it too,And unto its own regret be true; For this is the hardest of all to bear, That his life was so generous and fair, So full of love, so full of hope,Broadening out with its ample scope, And so far from death, that his dying seems The idle agony of dreams To my heart that feels him living yet - And I forget, and I forget.
III He was almost grown a man when he passed Away, but when I kissed him last,He was still a child, and I had crept Up to the little room where he slept. And thought to kiss him good-bye in his sleep: But he was awake to make me weep With terrible homesickness, before My wayward feet had passed the door, Round about me clung his embrace,And he pressed against my face his face, As if some prescience whispered him then That it never, never should be again. Ah! hard, and selfish, and wilful, I Have scarce the right to mix my cry With those who sit together and morn In the home so suddenly forlorn.
IV Out of far-off days of boyhood dim, When he was a babe and I carried him, I remember his looks and all his ways; And how he grew through childhoods grace, To the hopes, and strifes, and plays, and joys,And innocent vanity of boys; I hear his whistle at the door, His careless step upon the floor, His song, his jest, his laughter yet-And I forget, and I forget.
V Somewhere in the graveyard that I know,Where the strawberries under the chestnuts grow,You have laid him; and his sisters have set On his grave, the flowers their tears have wet;And above his grave, while I write, the song of the matin robin leaps sweet and strong Foom the leafy bark of the chestnut tree, And many a murmuring honey-bee On the strawberry blossoms in the grass Stoops by his grace and will not pass. And in the little hollow beneath The slope of the silent field of death.
VI The cow-bells tinkle soft and sweet, And the cattle go by with homeward feet, And the squirrel barks from the sheltering limb, At the harmless noise not meant for him; And nature unto her loving heart, Has taken our darling's mortal part, Tenderly, that he may be Like the song of the robin tree, The blossoms, the grass, the reeds by the shore, 'A part of Summer evermore.
VIII write, and the words with my tears are wet-But I forget, O, I forget! Teach me, Thou that sendeth this pain, To know and feel my loss and gain! Let me not falter in belief On his death, for that is sorest grief. O lift me above this wearing strife, Till I discern his deathless life, Shining beyond the misty shore, A part of Heaven evermore.
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS Venice, Wednesday morning, at dawn, May 16th 1864**Typed as written**
The following touching lines were written by Mr. Howells, our Consul at Venice, on the death of his brother, John B. Howells, a pupil of the Cleveland Institute: JOHN BUTLER HOWELLS, Who died "with the first song of the birds, "Wednesday morning, April 27th, 1864.
I In the early morning when I wake,At the hour that is sacred for his sake,And hear the happy birds of Spring In the garden under my window sing,And through my window the day-break blows The sweetness of the lily and the rose,A dormant anguish wakes with day,And my heart is smitten with strange dismay;
II A scrap of print, a few brief lines The fatal word that swims and shines' On my tears, with a meaning new and dread, Make faltering reason know him dead, And I would that my heart might feel it too,And unto its own regret be true; For this is the hardest of all to bear, That his life was so generous and fair, So full of love, so full of hope,Broadening out with its ample scope, And so far from death, that his dying seems The idle agony of dreams To my heart that feels him living yet - And I forget, and I forget.
III He was almost grown a man when he passed Away, but when I kissed him last,He was still a child, and I had crept Up to the little room where he slept. And thought to kiss him good-bye in his sleep: But he was awake to make me weep With terrible homesickness, before My wayward feet had passed the door, Round about me clung his embrace,And he pressed against my face his face, As if some prescience whispered him then That it never, never should be again. Ah! hard, and selfish, and wilful, I Have scarce the right to mix my cry With those who sit together and morn In the home so suddenly forlorn.
IV Out of far-off days of boyhood dim, When he was a babe and I carried him, I remember his looks and all his ways; And how he grew through childhoods grace, To the hopes, and strifes, and plays, and joys,And innocent vanity of boys; I hear his whistle at the door, His careless step upon the floor, His song, his jest, his laughter yet-And I forget, and I forget.
V Somewhere in the graveyard that I know,Where the strawberries under the chestnuts grow,You have laid him; and his sisters have set On his grave, the flowers their tears have wet;And above his grave, while I write, the song of the matin robin leaps sweet and strong Foom the leafy bark of the chestnut tree, And many a murmuring honey-bee On the strawberry blossoms in the grass Stoops by his grace and will not pass. And in the little hollow beneath The slope of the silent field of death.
VI The cow-bells tinkle soft and sweet, And the cattle go by with homeward feet, And the squirrel barks from the sheltering limb, At the harmless noise not meant for him; And nature unto her loving heart, Has taken our darling's mortal part, Tenderly, that he may be Like the song of the robin tree, The blossoms, the grass, the reeds by the shore, 'A part of Summer evermore.
VIII write, and the words with my tears are wet-But I forget, O, I forget! Teach me, Thou that sendeth this pain, To know and feel my loss and gain! Let me not falter in belief On his death, for that is sorest grief. O lift me above this wearing strife, Till I discern his deathless life, Shining beyond the misty shore, A part of Heaven evermore.
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS Venice, Wednesday morning, at dawn, May 16th 1864**Typed as written**
The Xenia Sentinel 09 Aug 1864
The following touching lines were written by Mr. Howells, our Consul at Venice, on the death of his brother, John B. Howells, a pupil of the Cleveland Institute: JOHN BUTLER HOWELLS, Who died "with the first song of the birds, "Wednesday morning, April 27th, 1864.
I In the early morning when I wake,At the hour that is sacred for his sake,And hear the happy birds of Spring In the garden under my window sing,And through my window the day-break blows The sweetness of the lily and the rose,A dormant anguish wakes with day,And my heart is smitten with strange dismay;
II A scrap of print, a few brief lines The fatal word that swims and shines' On my tears, with a meaning new and dread, Make faltering reason know him dead, And I would that my heart might feel it too,And unto its own regret be true; For this is the hardest of all to bear, That his life was so generous and fair, So full of love, so full of hope,Broadening out with its ample scope, And so far from death, that his dying seems The idle agony of dreams To my heart that feels him living yet - And I forget, and I forget.
III He was almost grown a man when he passed Away, but when I kissed him last,He was still a child, and I had crept Up to the little room where he slept. And thought to kiss him good-bye in his sleep: But he was awake to make me weep With terrible homesickness, before My wayward feet had passed the door, Round about me clung his embrace,And he pressed against my face his face, As if some prescience whispered him then That it never, never should be again. Ah! hard, and selfish, and wilful, I Have scarce the right to mix my cry With those who sit together and morn In the home so suddenly forlorn.
IV Out of far-off days of boyhood dim, When he was a babe and I carried him, I remember his looks and all his ways; And how he grew through childhoods grace, To the hopes, and strifes, and plays, and joys,And innocent vanity of boys; I hear his whistle at the door, His careless step upon the floor, His song, his jest, his laughter yet-And I forget, and I forget.
V Somewhere in the graveyard that I know,Where the strawberries under the chestnuts grow,You have laid him; and his sisters have set On his grave, the flowers their tears have wet;And above his grave, while I write, the song of the matin robin leaps sweet and strong Foom the leafy bark of the chestnut tree, And many a murmuring honey-bee On the strawberry blossoms in the grass Stoops by his grace and will not pass. And in the little hollow beneath The slope of the silent field of death.
VI The cow-bells tinkle soft and sweet, And the cattle go by with homeward feet, And the squirrel barks from the sheltering limb, At the harmless noise not meant for him; And nature unto her loving heart, Has taken our darling's mortal part, Tenderly, that he may be Like the song of the robin tree, The blossoms, the grass, the reeds by the shore, 'A part of Summer evermore.
VIII write, and the words with my tears are wet-But I forget, O, I forget! Teach me, Thou that sendeth this pain, To know and feel my loss and gain! Let me not falter in belief On his death, for that is sorest grief. O lift me above this wearing strife, Till I discern his deathless life, Shining beyond the misty shore, A part of Heaven evermore.
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS Venice, Wednesday morning, at dawn, May 16th 1864**Typed as written**
The following touching lines were written by Mr. Howells, our Consul at Venice, on the death of his brother, John B. Howells, a pupil of the Cleveland Institute: JOHN BUTLER HOWELLS, Who died "with the first song of the birds, "Wednesday morning, April 27th, 1864.
I In the early morning when I wake,At the hour that is sacred for his sake,And hear the happy birds of Spring In the garden under my window sing,And through my window the day-break blows The sweetness of the lily and the rose,A dormant anguish wakes with day,And my heart is smitten with strange dismay;
II A scrap of print, a few brief lines The fatal word that swims and shines' On my tears, with a meaning new and dread, Make faltering reason know him dead, And I would that my heart might feel it too,And unto its own regret be true; For this is the hardest of all to bear, That his life was so generous and fair, So full of love, so full of hope,Broadening out with its ample scope, And so far from death, that his dying seems The idle agony of dreams To my heart that feels him living yet - And I forget, and I forget.
III He was almost grown a man when he passed Away, but when I kissed him last,He was still a child, and I had crept Up to the little room where he slept. And thought to kiss him good-bye in his sleep: But he was awake to make me weep With terrible homesickness, before My wayward feet had passed the door, Round about me clung his embrace,And he pressed against my face his face, As if some prescience whispered him then That it never, never should be again. Ah! hard, and selfish, and wilful, I Have scarce the right to mix my cry With those who sit together and morn In the home so suddenly forlorn.
IV Out of far-off days of boyhood dim, When he was a babe and I carried him, I remember his looks and all his ways; And how he grew through childhoods grace, To the hopes, and strifes, and plays, and joys,And innocent vanity of boys; I hear his whistle at the door, His careless step upon the floor, His song, his jest, his laughter yet-And I forget, and I forget.
V Somewhere in the graveyard that I know,Where the strawberries under the chestnuts grow,You have laid him; and his sisters have set On his grave, the flowers their tears have wet;And above his grave, while I write, the song of the matin robin leaps sweet and strong Foom the leafy bark of the chestnut tree, And many a murmuring honey-bee On the strawberry blossoms in the grass Stoops by his grace and will not pass. And in the little hollow beneath The slope of the silent field of death.
VI The cow-bells tinkle soft and sweet, And the cattle go by with homeward feet, And the squirrel barks from the sheltering limb, At the harmless noise not meant for him; And nature unto her loving heart, Has taken our darling's mortal part, Tenderly, that he may be Like the song of the robin tree, The blossoms, the grass, the reeds by the shore, 'A part of Summer evermore.
VIII write, and the words with my tears are wet-But I forget, O, I forget! Teach me, Thou that sendeth this pain, To know and feel my loss and gain! Let me not falter in belief On his death, for that is sorest grief. O lift me above this wearing strife, Till I discern his deathless life, Shining beyond the misty shore, A part of Heaven evermore.
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS Venice, Wednesday morning, at dawn, May 16th 1864**Typed as written**
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