Part 1

A FEW MORE VERSES.

BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME. ——— VERSES.

BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.

PRICE, $1.00.

ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.

A FEW MORE VERSES.

BY SUSAN COOLIDGE, AUTHOR OF “VERSES.”

BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1907

_Copyright, 1889_, BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.

Printers S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.

_GIVING to all, thou gavest as well to me. A myriad thirsty shores await the tide: They drink and drink, and will not be denied; But not a drop less full the brimming Sea._

_One tiny shell among the kelp and weed, One sand-grain where the beaches stretch away,— How shall the tide regard them? Yet each day It comes, and fills and satisfies their need._

_What can the singing sands give to the Sea? What the dumb shell, though inly it rejoice? Only the echo of its own strong voice;— And this is all that here I bring to thee._

_A BENEDICTION._

_GOD give thee, love, thy heart’s desire! What better can I pray? For though love falter not, nor tire, And stand on guard all day, How little can it know or do, How little can it say!_

_How hard it strives, and how in vain, By hope and fear misled, To make the pathway soft and plain For the dear feet to tread, To shield from sun-beat and from rain The one beloved head!_

_Its wisdom is made foolishness; Its best intent goes wrong; It curses where it fain would bless, Is weak instead of strong,— Marring with sad, discordant sighs The joyance of its song._

_I do not dare to bless or ban,— I am too blind to see,— But this one little prayer I can Put up to God for thee, Because I know what fair, pure things Thy inmost wishes be;_

_That what thy heart desires the most Is what he loves to grant,— The love that counteth not its cost If any crave or want; The presence of the Holy Ghost, The soul’s inhabitant;_

_The wider vision of the mind; The spirit bright with sun; The temper like a fragrant wind, Chilling and grieving none; The quickened heart to know God’s will And on his errands run;_

_The ministry of little things,— Not counted mean or small By that dear alchemy which brings Some grain of gold from all; The faith to wait as well as work, Whatever may befall._

_So, sure of thee, and unafraid, I make my daily prayer, Nor fear that my blind zeal be made Thy injury or snare: God give thee, love, thy heart’s desire, And bless thee everywhere!_

CONTENTS TO PART SECOND.

PAGE To Arcite at the Wars 13 New every Morning 15 Lohengrin 17 A Single Stitch 19 Reply 20 Talitha Cumi 23 The Better Way 25 Forever 27 Miracle 29 Charlotte Brontë 32 End and Means 34 Comforted 36 Words 39 Influence 41 An Easter Song 43 So Long Ago 45 A Birthday 47 Derelict 49 H. H 51 Freedom 54 The Vision and the Summons 56 Forecast 59 Early Taken 61 Some Lover’s Dear Thought 64 Ashes 66 One Lesser Joy 68 Close at Hand 71 Only a Dream 73 At the Altar 77 Eternity 79 Restfulness 81 In and On 83 A Day-time Moon 85 A Midnight Sun 87 Her Voice 90 A Florentine Juliet 92 Here and There 106 Forward 108 In her Garden 110 On Easter Day 113 “Der Abend ist der Beste” 115 Optimism 117 “He shall drink of the Brook by the Way” 120 Three Pictures 122 The Two Shores 125 “Arise, shine, for thy Light has come” 127 A Withered Violet 129 Darkened 131 The Keys of Granada 133 Bereaved 135 “How can they bear it up in Heaven?” 138 Wave after Wave 141 The Word with Power 143 To Felicia Singing 146 Eurydice 148 Three Worlds 150 Opportunity 153 Christ before Pilate 155 Non Omnis Moriar 158 At Dawn of Day 161 What might have been 163 Some Time 166 The Stars are in the Sky all Day 168 Now 171 Just Beyond 172 Contact 175 An Easter Song 178 Concord 181 Hereafter 184 Our Daily Bread 186 Sleeping and Waking 188 Thorns 190 A New-England Lady 192 Under the Snow 195 Sonnet for a Birthday 197 “Many Waters cannot quench Love” 198 Unexhausted 201 Welcome and Farewell 203 Life 205 Shut in 207 Good-by 209 What the Angel said 211 Commonplace 216 Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh 217 A Thought 219 At Flood 221 The Angels 223 Not Yet 225 To-day and To-morrow 227 “That was the True Light, that lighteth every Man that cometh into the World” 228 The Star 230 Helen 232 Lux in Tenebris 235 Lent 237 Palm Sunday 240 Soul and Body 242 Sound at Core 245 The Old Village 247 A Greeting 252 Changeless 254 Easter 255 The World is Vast 257

TO ARCITE AT THE WARS.

1759.

A THOUSAND leagues of wind-blown space, A thousand leagues of sea, Half of the great earth’s hiding face Divides mine eyes from thee; The world is strong, the waves are wide, But my good-will is stronger still, My love, than wind or tide.

These sentinels which Fate has set To bar and hold me here I make my errand-men, to get A message to thine ear. The winds shall waft, the waters bear, And spite of seas I, when I please, Can reach thee everywhere.

Prayers are like birds to find the way; Thoughts have a swifter flight; And mine stream forth to thee all day, Nor stop to rest by night. Like silent angels at thy side They stand unseen, they bend and lean, They bless and warn and guide.

There is no near, there is no far, There is no loss or change, To love which, like a fixèd star, Abideth in one range, And shines, and shines, with quenchless eyes, And sends long rays in many ways To lighten distant skies.

Where sight is not, faith brighter burns; So faithfully I wait, Secure that loyal loving earns Its guerdon soon or late,— Secure, though lacking word or sign, That thy true thought keeps as it ought Tryst with each thought of mine.

NEW EVERY MORNING.

EVERY day is a fresh beginning, Every morn is the world made new. You who are weary of sorrow and sinning, Here is a beautiful hope for you,— A hope for me and a hope for you.

All the past things are past and over; The tasks are done and the tears are shed. Yesterday’s errors let yesterday cover; Yesterday’s wounds, which smarted and bled, Are healed with the healing which night has shed.

Yesterday now is a part of forever, Bound up in a sheaf, which God holds tight, With glad days, and sad days, and bad days, which never Shall visit us more with their bloom and their blight, Their fulness of sunshine or sorrowful night.

Let them go, since we cannot re-live them, Cannot undo and cannot atone; God in his mercy receive, forgive them! Only the new days are our own; To-day is ours, and to-day alone.

Here are the skies all burnished brightly, Here is the spent earth all re-born, Here are the tired limbs springing lightly To face the sun and to share with the morn In the chrism of dew and the cool of dawn.

Every day is a fresh beginning; Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain, And, spite of old sorrow and older sinning, And puzzles forecasted and possible pain, Take heart with the day, and begin again.

LOHENGRIN.

TO have touched Heaven and failed to enter in! Ah, Elsa, prone upon the lonely shore, Watching the swan-wings beat along the blue, Watching the glimmer of the silver mail, Like flash of foam, till all are lost to view,— What may thy sorrow or thy watch avail? He cometh nevermore.

All gone the new hope of thy yesterday,— The tender gaze and strong, like dewy fire, The gracious form with airs of Heaven bedight, The love that warmed thy being like a sun:— Thou hadst thy choice of noonday or of night; Now the swart shadows gather, one by one, To give thee thy desire!

To every life one heavenly chance befalls; To every soul a moment, big with fate, When, grown importunate with need and fear, It cries for help, and lo! from close at hand, The voice Celestial answers, “I am here!” Oh, blessed souls, made wise to understand, Made bravely glad to wait!

But thou, pale watcher on the lonely shore, Where the surf thunders, and the foam-bells fly, Is there no place for penitence and pain, No saving grace in thy all-piteous rue? Will the bright vision never come again? Alas, the swan-wings vanish in the blue, There cometh no reply!

A SINGLE STITCH.

ONE stitch dropped as the weaver drove His nimble shuttle to and fro, In and out, beneath, above, Till the pattern seemed to bud and grow As if the fairies had helping been,— One small stitch which could scarce be seen. But the one stitch dropped pulled the next stitch out, And a weak place grew in the fabric stout; And the perfect pattern was marred for aye By the one small stitch that was dropped that day.

One small life in God’s great plan, How futile it seems as the ages roll, Do what it may, or strive how it can To alter the sweep of the infinite whole! A single stitch in an endless web, A drop in the ocean’s flow and ebb! But the pattern is rent where the stitch is lost, Or marred where the tangled threads have crossed; And each life that fails of its true intent Mars the perfect plan that its Master meant.

REPLY.

“WHAT, then, is Love?” she said. Love is a music, blent in curious key Of jarring discords and of harmony; ’Tis a delicious draught which, as you sip, Turns sometimes into poison on your lip. It is a sunny sky infolding storm, The fire to ruin or the fire to warm; A garland of fresh roses fair to sight, Which then becomes a chain and fetters tight. It is a half-heard secret told to two, A life-long puzzle or a guiding clew. The joy of joys, the deepest pain of pain;— All these Love has been and will be again.

“How may I know?” she said. Thou mayest _not_ know, for Love has conned the art To blind the reason and befool the heart. So subtle is he, not himself may guess Whether he shall be more or shall be less; Wrapped in a veil of many colored mists, He flits disguisèd wheresoe’er he lists, And for the moment is the thing he seems, The child of vagrant hope and fairy dreams; Sails like a rainbow bubble on the wind, Now high, now low, before us or behind; And only when our fingers grasp the prize, Changes his form and swiftly vanishes.

“Then best not love,” she said. Dear child, there is no better and no best; Love comes not, bides not at thy slight behest. As well might thy frail fingers seek to stay The march of waves in yonder land-locked bay, As stem the surging tide which ebbs and fills Mid human energies and human wills. The moon leads on the strong, resisting sea; And so the moon of love shall beckon thee, And at her bidding thou wilt leap and rise, And follow o’er strange seas, ’neath unknown skies, Unquestioning; to dash, or soon or late, On sand or cruel crag, as is thy fate.

“Then woe is me!” she said. Weep not; there is a harder, sadder thing,— Never to know this sweetest suffering! Never to see the sun, though suns may slay, Or share the richer feast as others may. Sooner the sealed and closely guarded wine Shall seek again its purple clustered vine, Sooner the attar be again the rose, Than Love unlearn the secret that it knows! Abide thy fate, whether for good or ill; Fearlessly wait, and be thou certain still, Whether as foe disguised or friendly guest He comes, Love’s coming is of all things best.

TALITHA CUMI.

OUR little one was sick, and the sickness pressed her sore. We sat beside her bed, and we felt her hands and head, And in our hearts we prayed this one prayer o’er and o’er: “Come to us, Christ the Lord; utter thine old-time word, ‘Talitha cumi!’”

And as the night wore on, and the fever flamed more high, And a new look burned and grew in the eyes of tender blue, Still louder in our hearts uprose the voiceless cry, “O Lord of love and might, say once again to-night, ‘Talitha cumi!’”

And then, and then—he came; we saw him not, but felt. And he bent above the child, and she ceased to moan, and smiled; And although we heard no sound, as around the bed we knelt, Our souls were made aware of a mandate in the air, “Talitha cumi!”

And as at dawn’s fair summons faded the morning star, Holding the Lord’s hand close, the child we loved arose, And with him took her way to a country far away; And we would not call her dead, for it was his voice that said, “Talitha cumi!”

THE BETTER WAY.

WHO serves his country best? Not he who, for a brief and stormy space, Leads forth her armies to the fierce affray. Short is the time of turmoil and unrest, Long years of peace succeed it and replace: There is a better way.

Who serves his country best? Not he who guides her senates in debate, And makes the laws which are her prop and stay; Not he who wears the poet’s purple vest, And sings her songs of love and grief and fate: There is a better way.

He serves his country best, Who joins the tide that lifts her nobly on; For speech has myriad tongues for every day, And song but one; and law within the breast Is stronger than the graven law on stone: There is a better way.

He serves his country best Who lives pure life, and doeth righteous deed, And walks straight paths, however others stray, And leaves his sons as uttermost bequest A stainless record which all men may read: This is the better way.

No drop but serves the slowly lifting tide, No dew but has an errand to some flower, No smallest star but sheds some helpful ray, And man by man, each giving to all the rest, Makes the firm bulwark of the country’s power: There is no better way.

FOREVER.

THEY sat together in the sun, And Youth and Hope stood hovering near; Like dropping bell-notes one by one Chimed the glad moments soft and clear; And still amid their happy speech The lovers whispered each to each, “Forever!”

Youth spread his wings of rainbow light, “Farewell!” he whispered as he went; They heeded not nor mourned his flight, Wrapped in their measureless content; And still they smiled, and still was heard The confidently uttered word, “Forever!”

Hope stayed, her steadfast smile was sweet,— Until the even-time she stayed; Then with reluctant, noiseless feet She stole into the solemn shade. A graver shape moved gently by, And bent, and murmured warningly, “Forever!”

And then—where sat the two, sat one! No voice spoke back, no glance replied. Behind her, where she rested lone, Hovered the spectre, solemn-eyed; She met his look without a thrill, And, smiling faintly, whispered still, “Forever!”

Oh, sweet, sweet Youth! Oh, fading Hope! Oh, eyes by tearful mists made blind! Oh, hands which vainly reach and grope For a familiar touch and kind! Time pauseth for no lover’s kiss; Love for its solace has but this,— “Forever!”

MIRACLE.

OH! not in strange portentous way Christ’s miracles were wrought of old, The common thing, the common clay, He touched and tinctured, and straightway It grew to glory manifold.

The barley loaves were daily bread, Kneaded and mixed with usual skill; No care was given, no spell was said, But when the Lord had blessed, they fed The multitude upon the hill.

The hemp was sown ’neath common sun, Watered by common dews and rain, Of which the fishers’ nets were spun; Nothing was prophesied or done To mark it from the other grain.

Coarse, brawny hands let down the net When the Lord spake and ordered so; They hauled the meshes, heavy-wet, Just as in other days, and set Their backs to labor, bending low;

But quivering, leaping from the lake The marvellous, shining burdens rise Until the laden meshes break, And, all amazèd, no man spake, But gazed with wonder in his eyes.

So still, dear Lord, in every place Thou standest by the toiling folk With love and pity in thy face, And givest of thy help and grace To those who meekly bear the yoke.

Not by strange sudden change and spell, Baffling and darkening Nature’s face; Thou takest the things we know so well And buildest on them thy miracle,— The heavenly on the commonplace.

The lives which seem so poor, so low, The hearts which are so cramped and dull, The baffled hopes, the impulse slow, Thou takest, touchest all, and lo! They blossom to the beautiful.

We need not wait for thunder-peal Resounding from a mount of fire, While round our daily paths we feel Thy sweet love and thy power to heal, Working in us thy full desire.

CHARLOTTE BRONTË.

ORCHID, chance-sown among the moorland heather, Scarce seen or tasted by the infrequent bee, Set mid rough mountain growths, lashed by wild weather, With none to foster thee.

We watch thee fronting all the blasts of heaven, Thy slender rootlets grappled fast to rock, Enduring from thy morning to thy even The buffet and the shock.

Never thy sun vouchsafed a cloudless shining, Never the wind was tempered to thy pain; No cloud turned out for thee its silver lining, No rainbow followed rain.

Nourished mid hardness, learning patience slowly As hearts must do which know no other food, Duty and Memory, companions holy, Shared thy bleak solitude.

Cold touch of Memory, strong chill hand of Duty, These held thee fast and ruled thee to the end, Until, with smile mysterious in its beauty, Came Death, rewarding friend.

Earth gave thee scanty cheer, but earth is ended, Finished the years of thwarted sacrifice. We see thee walking forward, well attended, Led into Paradise!

Heaven is twice Heaven to one who, hungry-hearted, Goes thither knowing no satisfaction here; And when we thank the Lord for those departed In this sure faith and fear,

We think of thee, lonely no more forever, And tasting, while the eternal years unroll, That joy of Heaven, which like a flowing river Satisfies every soul.

END AND MEANS.

WE spend our strength in labor day by day, We find new strength replacing old alway; And still we cheat ourselves, and still we say:

“No man would work except to win some prize; We work to turn our hopes to certainties,— For gold, or gear, or favor in men’s eyes.”

And all the while the goal toward which we strain— Up hill and down, in sunshine and in rain, Heedless of toil, if so we may attain—

Is but a lure, a heavenly-set decoy To exercised endeavor, full employ Of every power, which is man’s highest joy.

And work becomes the end, reward the means, To woo us from our idleness and dreams; And each is truly what the other seems.

So, Lord, with such poor service as we do, Thy full salvation is our prize in view, For which we long, and which we press unto.

Like a great star on which we fix our eyes, It dazzles from the high, blue distances, And seems to beckon and to say, “Arise!”

And we arise and follow the hard way, Winning a little nearer day by day, Our hearts going faster than our footsteps may;