{"id":3831,"date":"2004-01-19T15:00:30","date_gmt":"2004-01-19T20:00:30","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/?p=3831"},"modified":"2023-03-02T14:06:17","modified_gmt":"2023-03-02T19:06:17","slug":"the-tides","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/archives\/3831","title":{"rendered":"&#8220;The Tides&#8221; \/ The moon is at its full"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><img decoding=\"async\" alt=\"william cullen bryant\" src=\"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/moon_wcbryant.gif\" align=\"left\"\/><span style=\"float: left; color: #6384bd; font-size: 44px; line-height: 35px; padding-top: 3px; padding-right: 3px; font-family: Times, serif, Georgia;\">L<\/span>aura Ingalls Wilder ends <em>These Happy Golden Years<\/em> with newlyweds Laura and Almanzo sitting in the doorstep of their home on the tree claim, talking about what a beautiful world it is. She includes lines from the song, &#8220;Golden Years are Passing By,&#8221; from which the title of the book is also taken.<\/p>\n<p>At the end of <em>Pioneer Girl<\/em> (and before she ruins it by mentioning the $500 debt on the house), Wilder uses a slightly mis-quoted first stanza of William Cullen Bryant&#8217;s poem, &#8220;The Tides.&#8221; She writes: &#8220;The moon is at <em>its <\/em>full;&#8221; Bryant&#8217;s poem uses &#8220;at <em>her <\/em>full&#8230;&#8221;<\/p>\n<p>&#8220;The Tides&#8221; was first published in the <em>New York Ledger<\/em> dated July 28, 1860. It was included in a 1876 collection of Bryant&#8217;s poetry titled <em>Thirty Poems<\/em>. William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878) was an American poet, attorney, and journalist.<\/p>\n<blockquote><p>The Tides<\/p>\n<p>The moon is at her full, and, riding high,<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Floods the calm fields with light.<br \/>\nThe airs that hover in the summer sky<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Are all asleep to-night.<\/p>\n<p>There comes no voice from the great woodlands round<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That murmured all the day;<br \/>\nBeneath the shadow of their bought, the ground<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is not more still than they.<\/p>\n<p>But ever heaves and moans the restless Deep;<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;His rising tides I hear,<br \/>\nAfar I see the glimmering billows leap;<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I see them breaking near.<\/p>\n<p>Each wave springs upward, climbing toward the fair<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Pure light that sits on high&#8211;<br \/>\nSprings eagerly, and faintly sinks, to where<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The mother waters lie.<\/p>\n<p>Upward again it swells; the moonbeams show,<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Again, its glimmering crest;<br \/>\nAgain it feels the fatal weight below,<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And sinks, but not to rest.<\/p>\n<p>Again and yet again; until the Deep<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Recalls his brood of waves;<br \/>\nAnd, with a sullen moan, abashed, they creep<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Back to his inner caves.<\/p>\n<p>Brief respite! they shall rush from that recess<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With noise and tumult soon,<br \/>\nAnd fling themselves, with unavailing stress,<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Upward toward the placid moon.<\/p>\n<p>Oh, restless Sea, that, in thy prison here,<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Does struggle and complain;<br \/>\nThrough the slow centuries yearning to be near<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To that fair orb in vain;<\/p>\n<p>The glorious source of light and heat must warm<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Thy billows from on high,<br \/>\nAnd change them to the cloudy trains that form<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The curtains of the sky.<\/p>\n<p>Then only may they leave the waste of brine<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In which they welter here,<br \/>\nAnd rise above the hills of earth, and shine<br \/>\n&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In a serener sphere.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p><img decoding=\"async\" alt=\"\" src=\"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/tbl_book.gif\"\/><br \/>\n<strong>The moon is at its full<\/strong> (PG)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>1860 William Cullen Bryant poem.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":8001,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[627],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3831"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3831"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3831\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15230,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3831\/revisions\/15230"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/8001"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3831"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3831"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.pioneergirl.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3831"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}