Chapter 2

Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will, Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep Or, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creep Over the meadows and adown the hill. So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow, Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.

So beautiful is it to live, so sweet To hear the ripple of the bobolink, To smell the clover blossoms white and pink, To feel oneself far from the dusty street, From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret Of living, and the fever of regret.

I have grown younger; I can scarce believe It is the same sad woman full of dreams Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems I am a child again, and can deceive My soul with daisies, plucking one by one The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.

Almost with old-time eagerness I try My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup," Then, lower, "passionément, pas du tout;" Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."

I can remember how, in childish days, I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall Must love me "passionately" or "not at all." Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays It knows not what, and heedlessly demands The best that life can give with out-stretched hands!

Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize Peace above passion, and the summer life Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.

Sea-Song.

A dash of spray, A weed-browned way,-- My ship's in the bay, In the glad blue bay,-- The wind's from the west And the waves have a crest, But my bird's in the nest And my ship's in the bay!

At dawn to stand Soft hand to hand, Bare feet on the sand,-- On the hard brown sand,-- To wait, dew-crowned, For the tarrying sound Of a keel that will ground On the scraping sand.

A glad surprise In the wind-swept skies Of my wee one's eyes,-- Those wondering eyes. He will come, my sweet, And will haste to meet Those hurrying feet And those sea-blue eyes.

I know the day Must weary away, And my ship's in the bay,-- In the clear, blue bay,-- Ah! there's wind in the west, For the waves have a crest, But my bird's in the nest And my ship's in the bay!

Gratitude.

There are some things, dear Friend, are easier far To say in written words than when we sit Eye answering eye, or hand to hand close knit. Not that there is between us any bar Of shyness or reserve; the day is past For that, and utter trust has come at last.

Only, when shut alone and safe inside These four white walls,--hearing no sound except Our own heart-beatings, silences have crept Stealthily round us,--as the incoming tide Quiet and unperceived creeps ever on Till mound and pebble, rock and reef are gone.

Or out on the green hillside, even there There is a hush, and words and thoughts are still. For the trees speak, and myriad voices fill With wondrous echoes all the waiting air. We listen, and in listening must forget Our own hearts' murmur, and our spirits' fret;

Even our joys,--thou knowest;--when the air Is full to overflowing with the sense Of hope fulfilled and passion's vehemence. There is no place for words; we do not dare To break Love's stillness, even though the power Were ours by speech to lengthen out the hour.

But here in quietness I can recall All I would tell thee, how thou art to me Impulse and inspiration, and with thee I can but smile though all my idols fall. I wait my meed as others who have known Patience till to their utmost stature grown.

As when the heavens are draped in gloomy gray And earth is tremulous with a vague unrest A glory fills the tender, troubled West That glads the closing of November's day, So breaks in sun-smiles my beclouded sky When day is over and I know thee nigh.

Thou art so much, all this and more, to me, And what am I to thee? Can I repay These many gifts? Is there no royal way Of recompense, so I may proudly see The man my heart delights to praise renowned For wealth and honor, and with rapture crowned?

Ah! though there is no recompense in love Yet have I paid thee, given these gifts to thee, Joy, riches, worship. Thou hast joy in me, Is it not so, Beloved? Who shall prove No worship of thee by my soul confessed? And riches? Ah! a wealth of love is best.

Song.

I have known a thousand pleasures,-- Love is best-- Ocean's songs and forest treasures, Work and rest, Jewelled joys of dear existence, Triumph over Fate's resistance, But to prove, through Time's wide distance, Love is best.

Prayer.

I stood upon a hill, and watched the death Of the day's turmoil. Still the glory spread Cloud-top to cloud-top, and each rearing head Trembled to crimson. So a mighty breath From some wild Titan in a rising ire Might kindle flame in voicing his desire.

Soft stirred the evening air; the pine-crowned hills Glowed in an answering rapture where the flush Grew to a blood-drop, and the vesper hush Moved in my soul, while from my life all ills Faded and passed away. God's voice was there And in my heart the silence was a prayer.

There was a day when to my fearfulness Was born a joy, when doubt was swept afar A shadow and a memory, and a star Gleamed in my sky more bright for the distress. The stillness breathed thanksgiving, and the air Wafted, methought, the incense of a prayer.

Heaven sets no bounds of bead-roll or appeal; And when the fiery heart with mute embrace Bends, tremblingly, but for a moment's space It needs no words that cry, no limbs that kneel. As meteors flash, so, in a moment's light, Life, darting forth, touches the Infinite.

All my prayers wordless? Nay, I can recall A night not so long past but that each thought Lives at this hour, and throbs again unsought When Silence broods, and Night's chill shadows fall; Then Darkness' thousand pulses thrilled and stirred With the dear grace of a remembered word;

And I was still, thy voice enshrouding me. Like the strong sweep of ocean-breath the power Of one resistless thought transformed my hour Of love-dreams to a fear. All hopelessly I knew love's impotence, and my despair Stretched soul-hands forth, and quivered to a prayer.

My passionate heart cried out: "If his dear life Through stress of keen temptation merits aught Of penance or requital, be it wrought Upon _my_ life. If only through the strife Is won the peace, through drudgery the gain, Give him the issue, and to me the pain!"

Some day, in our soul's course o'er trackless lands, Swayed oft by adverse winds, or swept along In Fate's wild current with the fluttering throng Towards Sin's engulfing maelstrom, spirit hands Will brace our trembling wings, and through the night Point and upbear in our last trembling flight.

Song.

Red gleams the mountain ridge, Slow the stream creeps Under the old bent bridge, And labor sleeps.

There are no restless birds, No leaves that stir, Dusk her gray mantle girds, Night's harbinger.

The storm-soul's change and start Pause, lull, and cease; In my unquiet heart Is born a peace.

Loneliness.

Dear, I am lonely, for the bay is still As any hill-girt lake; the long brown beach Lies bare and wet. As far as eye can reach There is no motion. Even on the hill Where the breeze loves to wander I can see No stir of leaves, nor any waving tree.

There is a great red cliff that fronts my view A bare, unsightly thing; it angers me With its unswerving-grim monotony. The mackerel weir, with branching boughs askew Stands like a fire-swept forest, while the sea Laps it, with soothing sighs, continually.

There are no tempests in this sheltered bay, The stillness frets me, and I long to be Where winds sweep strong and blow tempestuously, To stand upon some hill-top far away And face a gathering gale, and let the stress Of Nature's mood subdue my restlessness.

An impulse seizes me, a mad desire To tear away that red-browed cliff, to sweep Its crest of trees and huts into the deep; To force a gap by axe, or storm, or fire, And let rush in with motion glad and free The rolling waves of the wild wondrous sea.

Sometimes I wonder if I am the child Of calm, law-loving parents, or a stray From some wild gypsy camp. I cannot stay Quiet among my fellows; when this wild Longing for freedom takes me I must fly To my dear woods and know my liberty.

It is this cringing to a social law That I despise, these changing, senseless forms Of fashion! And until a thousand storms Of God's impatience shall reveal the flaw In man's pet system, he will weave the spell About his heart and dream that all is well.

Ah! Life is hard, Dear Heart, for I am left To battle with my old-time fears alone I must live calmly on, and make no moan Though of my hoped-for happiness bereft. Thou wilt not come, and still the red cliff lies Hiding my ocean from these longing eyes.

Sea-Song.

It sings to me, it sings to me, The shore-blown voice of the blithesome sea! Of its world of gladness all untold, Of its heart of green, and its mines of gold, And desires that leap and flee.

It moans to me, it moans to me! The storm-stirred voice of the restive sea! Of the vain dismay and the yearning pain For hopes that will never be born again From the womb of the wavering sea.

It calls to me, it calls to me, The luring voice of the rebel sea! And I long with a love that is born of tears For the wild fresh life, and the glorying fears, For the quest and the mystery.

It wails to me, it wails to me, Of the deep dark graves in the yawning sea; And I hear the voice of a boy that is gone. But the lad sleeps sound till the judgment-dawn In the heart of the wind-swept sea.

Incompleteness.

Since first I met thee, Dear, and long before I knew myself beloved, save by the sense All women have, a shadowy confidence Half-fear, that _feels_ its bliss nor asks for more, I have learned new desires, known Love's distress Sounded the deepest depths of loneliness.

I was a child at heart, and lived alone, Dreaming my dreams, as children may, at whiles, Between their hours of play, and Earth's broad smiles Allured my heart, and ocean's marvellous tone Woke no strange echoes, and the woods' complain Made chants sonorous, stirred no thoughts of pain.

And if, sometimes, dear Nature spoke to me In tones mysterious, I had learned so much Dwelling beside her daily, that her touch Made me discerning. Though I might not see Her purpose nor her meaning, I had part In the proud throbbing of that mighty heart.

But now the earth has put a tiring-cloth About her face; even in the mountains' cheer There is a lack, and in the sea a fear, The glad, rash sea, whose every mood, if wroth Or soothing mild, is dear to me as are Joy's new-born kisses on the lips of Care.

Since I have known thee, Dear, all life has grown An expectation. As the swelling grain Trembles to harvesting, and earth in pain Travails till Spring is born, so felt alone Is the dumb reaching out of things unborn, The night's gray promise of the amber morn.

I long to taste my pleasures through thy lips, To sail with thee o'er foaming waves and feel Our spirits rise together with the reel Of waters and the wavering land's eclipse; To see thy fair hair damp with salt sea-spray And in thine eyes the wildness of the way.

I long to share my woods with thee, to fly To some black-hearted forest where the trail Of mortals lingers not,--to hear the gale. Sweep round us with a shuddering ecstasy, To feel, night's tumult passed, the cool soft hand Of the untroubled dawn move o'er the land.

To swim with thee far out into the bay, A trembling glitter on the waves, the shore Glowing with noontide fervor, nevermore To fear the treacherous depths, though long the way. Sweet beyond words the sighs that breathe and blow, The moist salt kisses, and the glad warm glow.

And when the unrest, the vague desires that rush Over our lives and may not be denied,-- Gone in the tasting,--lure us where the tide Of men sweeps on, let us forget the hush Together, and in city madness drain Our cup of pleasure to its dregs of pain.

Ever I need thee. Incomplete and poor This life of mine. Yet never dream my soul Craves the old peace. Till I may have the whole My joy is my abiding, and what more Of dreams and waking bliss the Fates allow Comes as a gift of Love's great overflow.

Song.

Deep in the green bracken lying, Close by the welcoming sea, Dream I, and let all my dreaming Drift as it will, Love, to thee.

Sated with splendid caresses Showered by the sun in his pride, Scorched by his passionate kisses Languidly ebbs the tide.

Life's Joys.

I have been pondering what our teachers call The mystery of Pain; and lo! my thought After it's half-blind reaching out has caught This truth and held it fast. We may not fall Beyond our mounting; stung by life's annoy, Deeper we feel the mystery of Joy.

Sometimes they steal across us like a breath Of Eastern perfume in a darkened room, These joys of ours; we grope on through the gloom Seeking some common thing, and from its sheath Unloose, unknowing, some bewildering scent Of spice-thronged memories of the Orient.

Sometimes they dart across our turbid sky Like a quick flash after a heated day. A moment, where the sombrous shadows lay We see a glory. Though it passed us by No earthly power can filch that dazzling glow From memory's eye, that instant's shine and show.

Life is so full of joys. The alluring sea, This morning clear and placid, may, ere night, Toss like a petulant child, and when the light Of a new morning dawns sweep grand and free A mighty power. If fierce, or mild, or bright, With every tide flows in a fresh delight.

I can remember well when first I knew The fragrance of white clover. There I lay On the warm July grass and heard the play Of sun-browned insects, and the breezes blew To my drowsed sense the scent the blossoms had; The subtle sweetness stayed, and I was glad.

Nor passed the gladness. Though the years have gone (A many years, Beloved, since that day,) Whenever by the roadside or away In radiant summer fields, wandering alone Or with glad children, to my restless sight Shows that pale head, comes back the old delight.

Oh! the dark water, and the filling sail! The scudding like a sea-mew, with the hand Firm on the tiller! See, the red-shored land Receding, as we brave the hastening gale! White gleam the wave-tops, and the breakers' roar Sounds thunderingly on the far distant shore.

This mad hair flying in the breeze blows wild Across my face. See, there, the gathering squall, That dark line to the eastward, watch it crawl Stealthily towards us o'er the snow-wreaths piled Close on each other! Ah! what joy to be Drunk with salt air, in battle with the sea!

So many joys, and yet I have but told Of simple things, the joys of air and sea! Not all these things are worth one hour with thee, One moment, when thy daring arms enfold My body, and all other, meaner joys, Fade from me like a child's forgotten toys.

One thought is ever with me, glorying all Life's common aims. Surely will dawn a day Bright with an unknown rapture, when thy way Will be _my_ journey-road, and I can call These joys _our_ joys, for thou wilt walk with me Down budding pathways to the abounding sea.

Song.

Low laughed the Columbine, Trembled her petals fine As the breeze blew; In her dove-heart there stirred Murmurs the dull bee heard, And Love, Life's wild white bird, Straightway she knew.

Resting her lilac cheek Gently, in aspect meek, On the gray stone, The morning-glory, free, Welcomed the yellow bee, Heard the near-rolling sea Murmur and moan.

Calm lay the tawny sand Stretching a long wet hand To the far wave. Swift to her warm waiting breast Longing to be possessed Leaps 'neath his billowy crest Her Lover brave.

Barter

There is a long thin line of fading gold In the far West, and the transfigured leaves On some slight, topmost bough that sways and heaves Hang limp and tremulous. Nor warm, nor cold The pungent air, and, 'neath the yellow haze, Show flushed and glad the wild, October ways.

There is a soft enchantment in the air, A mystery the Summer knows not, nor The sturdy, frost-crowned Winter. Nature wore Her blandest smile to-day, as here and there I wandered, elf-beset, through wood and field And gleaned the glories of the autumn yield.

A bunch of purple aster, golden-rod Darkened by the first frost, a drooping spray Of scarlet barberry, and tall and gray The silk-cored cotton with its bursting pod, Some tarnished maple-boughs, and, like a flash Of sudden flame, a branch of mountain ash.

She smiled, but it was not the welcoming smile Of frank surrender. As a witching maid In gorgeous garments cunningly arrayed Might smile and draw them closer, hers the guile To let men hope, pray, labor in love's stress Ere they her hidden beauties may possess.

Deep in the heart of earth where the springs rise, Down with the sweet linnæa and the moss, In the brown thrush's throat, where the pines toss In Winter's harrying storms her secret lies. Ours the chill night-dews and the waiting pain Ere we her fairy wealth may hope to gain.

'Tis so with knowledge. Eagerly we turn Great Wisdom's page, and when our clear eyes grow Dim in the dusk of years, and heads bend low Weary at last, the truth we strove to learn Is ours forever. But its joy of sight Is dearly bought, methinks, with Youth's delight.

Fate, too, with chaffering voice and beckoning hand Doles out our happiness; we snatch at wealth And pay with anxious care and fading health. We call for Love, and dream that we shall stand On ground enchanted, but, though sweet the way, The rocks are sharp, and grief comes with the Day.

Even in love, Dear Heart, there is exchange Of gifts and griefs, and so I render thee Vows for thy vows, and pay unfalteringly What love demands, nor ever deem it strange. And when the snow drifts fast, and north-winds sting I make no murmur, but await the Spring.

Song.

Joy came in youth as a humming-bird, (Sing hey! for the honey and bloom of life!) And it made a home in my summer bower With the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower. (Sing hey! for the blossoms and sweets of life!)

Joy came as a lark when the years had gone, (Ah! hush, hush still, for the dream is short!) And I gazed far up to the melting blue Where the rare song dropped like a golden dew. (Ah! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short!)

Joy hovers now in a far-off mist, (The night draws on and the air breathes snow!) And I reach, sometimes, with a trembling hand To the red-tipped cloud of the joy-bird's land. (Alas! for the days of the storm and the snow!)

To-Morrow.

But one short night between my Love and me! I watch the soft-shod dusk creep wistfully Through the slow-moving curtains, pausing by And shrouding with its spirit-fingers free Each well-known chair. There is a growing grace Of tender magic in this little place.

Comes through half-opened windows, soft and cool As Spring's young breath, the vagrant evening air, My day-worn soul is hushed. I fain would bear No burdens on my brain to-night, no rule Of anxious thought; the world has had my tears, My thoughts, my hopes, my aims these many years;

This is Thy hour, and I shall sink to sleep With a glad weariness, to know that when The new day dawns I shall lay by my pen Needed no more. If I, perchance, should weep A few quick tears, so doing, who would guess 'Twas the last throb of my soul's loneliness?

Not even thou, Dear Heart, canst ever know How I have yearned these many months, these years For love, for thee. As the calm boatman steers His slender shallop where he fain would go, Tempests and rocks before, so through the dark To this dim, far-off day has set my bark.

To-morrow! I can hear the quick-closed door, The approaching steps, my pained heart's fluttering, Thy voice, then Thee! And all the storm and sting Of bygone griefs are passed forevermore, Swept from my life as the resistless wind Scatters the chaff, nor leaves a mote behind.

As long-imprisoned captives reach the light, And gaze with greedy eyes on field and tree, Drinking the beauties of the sky and sea Half fearful of their bliss; so from the night Of dreams and shades, half doubting, we awake And grasp the joy we almost fear to take.

Thou hidest in thy warm ones my cold hand, Reading my soul in these unwavering eyes. Nay, thou hast known my hopes, my agonies Through written words, and thou canst understand. I have kept nothing back of all the streams Of my heart-flowings--doubts, nor fears, nor dreams.

So long my life has followed no control But mine own impulse; now, I pray thee, bend My will to thine, and so, unhindered, tend My soul's wild garden. I have laid the whole Bare to thy sowing; and life's precious wine Is of thy pouring, and thy way is mine.

Song

Where is the waiting-time? Where are the fears? Gone with the winter's rime, The bygone years.

O'er life's plain, lone and vast, Slow treads the morn, Night shades have moved and passed, Joy's day is born.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's A Woman's Love Letters, by Sophie M. Almon-Hensley