Part 8

Magician, sage, philosopher, With all their vast brain-wealth combined, Are only babes, compared with her: This soul, that left the "things behind," And, "reaching to the things before," Gained God, through Christ, forevermore.

October, 1870

_MY LOVE_

My love is fair as the morn; Yes, fair as the summer morning, When with fold on fold of red, and gold, The sun in the east gives warning, And a soft, rare light, not dim nor bright, O'er hill and mountain lingers; And flower, and vine with jewels shine-- Bedecked by the fairie's fingers.

My love has eyes like the clouds, That are dyed with the autumn's splendor, So darkly blue, where her soul looks through-- So truthful and so tender. When their light is hid by the snowy lid, My heart seems lost in shadow. And her glance will chase the gloom from my face, Like sunlight on a meadow.

My love has cheeks like a rose-- Yes, like a rose in blossom, And a flake of snow is her polished brow, And a drift of snow is her bosom; And her hair sweeps down, half gold, half brown, Like a silken veil, to cover The matchless grace of her form and face, From the burning eyes of her lover.

My love has a voice like a thrush-- Yes, like a thrush when singing. And the wondering lark cries, "Listen! hark!" When he hears her glad tone ringing. Oh, she is fair, beyond compare; And how her sweet face flushes, When I whisper low a tale we know-- And the rose is shamed by her blushes.

1871

_THE FROST FAIRY_

All day the trees were moaning, For the leaves that they had lost. All day they creaked and trembled, And the naked branches tossed, And shivered in the north wind, As he hurried up and down, Over hill-tops, bleak and cheerless, Over meadows, bare, and brown.

"Oh, my green and tender leaflets. Oh, my fair buds, lost, and gone!" So they moaned through all the daytime, So, they groaned, till night came on. And the hoar-frost lurked, and listened, To the wailing, sad refrain. And he whispered, "Wait--be patient-- I will cover you again.

"I will clothe you in new garments: I will deck you, ere the light, In a sheen of spotless glory, In a robe of purest white. You shall wear the matchless mantle, That the good frost-fairy weaves." And the bare trees listened, wondered-- And forgot their fallen leaves.

And the quaint and silent fairy, Backward, forward, through the gloom, Wove the matchless, glittering mantle; Spun the frost-thread, on her loom. And the bare trees talked together-- Talked in whispers, soft, and low, As the good and patient fairy Moved her shuttle to and fro.

And lo! when the sudden glory Of the morning crept abroad, All the trees were clothed in grandeur; All the twiglets robed and shod In the glittering, spotless garments, That the sunshine decked with gems; And the trees forgot their sorrow, 'Neath their robes and diadems.

1870.

_THE SUMMONS_

I think the leaf would sooner Be the first to break away, Than to hang alone in the orchard In the bleak November day. And I think the fate of the flower That falls in the midst of bloom Is sweeter than if it lingered To die in the autumn's gloom.

Some glowing, golden morning In the heart of the summer time, As I stand in the perfect vigor And strength of my youth's glad prime; When my heart is light and happy, And the world seems bright to me, I would like to drop from this earth-life, As a green leaf drops from the tree.

Someday, when the golden glory Of June is over the earth, And the birds are singing together In a wild, mad strain of mirth, When the skies are as clear and cloudless As the skies of June can be, I would like to have the summons Sent down from God to me.

I would not wait for the furrows-- For the faded eyes and hair; But pass out swift and sudden, Ere I grow heart-sick with care; I would break some morn in my singing-- Or fall in my springing walk, As a full-blown flower will sometimes Drop, all a-bloom, from the stalk.

And so, in my youth's glad morning, I would like to hear the summons, That must come, sometime, from God. I would pass from the earth's perfection To the endless June above; From the fullness of living and loving, To the noon of Immortal Love.

1873

_THREE YEARS OLD_

Written upon Eva Orton's third birthday.

A robin up in the linden-tree Merrily sings this lay: "Somebody sweet is three years old-- Three years old to-day." Somebody's bright blue eyes look up Through tangled curls of gold, And two red lips unclose to say-- "To-day I am free years old."

Clouds were over the sky this morn, But now they are sailing away; Clouds could never obscure the sun On somebody sweet's birthday. Bluest of skies and greenest of trees, Sunlight and birds and flowers, These are Nature's birthday gifts To this sweet pet of ours.

The pantry is brimming with cakes and creams For somebody's birthday ball. Papa and mamma bring their gifts, But their _love_ is better than all. Ribbons and sashes, and dainty robes, Gifts of silver and gold, Will fade and rust as the days go by, But their _hearts_ will not grow cold.

Then laugh in the sunlight, somebody sweet-- Little flower of June! You have nothing to do with care, For life is in perfect tune. Loving hearts and sheltering arms Shall keep old care away For many a year, from somebody sweet, Who is three years old to-day.

Milwaukee, June 26, 1873

_THE DIFFERENCE_

Up in the cozy chamber, Where, on the snowy bed The dress, and the pearls, and the new false curls, For the morrow's use were spread, The bride-elect and her mother Were sitting before the grate, Talking over the days gone by, And planning the future state.

"I really am quite well suited," Said Minnie, "with my outfit-- Jane says Kit Somers trousseau, Is nothing compared with it. That her laces are imitation, And her bonnet a perfect fright, And she says I'll wholly eclipse her In everybody's sight.

"And she isn't to make the tour, But only to visit awhile. I declare I'd never be married If I couldn't do it in style. Jane says her jewels, though splendid, With mine can never compare: I tell you I do love Harry, When I look at this solitaire.

"And I think he's a darling, mother, For he's going to let me board, At least he will, he says, until He finds that he can afford To purchase that house of Mosleys, That splendid brown stone front. I wouldn't have anything humbler. And Harry says _he_ won't.

"My presents are perfectly splendid, Much finer than Kit's, I know, I think that's half of a wedding To have such things to show. If we get that house of Mosleys, What a brilliant life we'll live. Such people as I'll have throng it-- Such parties as I will give.

"I mean to just _queen it_, mother, In society everywhere, And my title of Belle of the City I shall continue to wear. I don't believe that a woman By marriage should be tied down To wearing a smile for her husband And for all other men a frown.

"I mean to dress better than ever, And be just as merry and free. Children! the troublesome wretches! No ma'am, not any for me. I know I'd be cross and unhappy, With children to tease, and annoy. A joy, you say, to be mother, Well, I will be spared that joy."

Across the hall in their bedroom A hale old couple sat, Minnie's grandfather and mother, Having a good night chat. "So, the last of the children is going," Grandmother said, and sighed, "Minnie, (we named her Mary,) To-morrow will be a bride.

"It will be a great occasion, All glitter and glow and shine, A nineteenth century wedding, Not much like yours, and mine. A few good friends were with us, When we were married, John, They came to see us united-- Not to see what the bride had on.

"I wore a snowy muslin, And a white rose in my hair, No silks nor gems, nor diadems-- And yet you thought me fair. We stood in the broad cool kitchen, On the white and sanded floor, And a breeze from the odorous orchard, Looked in at the open door.

"The minister read the service That made us one for life, And I was no longer a maiden But a loved and cherished wife. You took me home on the morrow! Six miles, in a one-horse chaise; Folks didn't race over the country 'Touring' in those old days.

"Our house was a tiny cabin That would just hold two, you said, But ere a year, you found, my dear There was room for three, instead. Ah me! that wonderful baby! 'Twas a moment of perfect bliss When I held up the pink faced darling For his father's tender kiss.

"Then came a dear little daughter! And then more boys and girls Till you built on a wing to the cabin To cover their sunny curls. There was never a happier woman In all of the land I know, Singing away at my labor-- Watching the children grow.

"I had my beaux and lovers, When I was a girl; but when I became your bride I put aside All thoughts of other men. Lover, and king, and husband, And friend, I found in you, And you repaid my devotion, By being kind, and true.

"Ah well! the world keeps changing And weddings have changed with the rest, People go only to comment And see how the bride is drest. Girls wed houses and titles Instead of men as of old, And babies are out of the fashion And all that glitters is gold.

"Perhaps these times are better, Though I cannot think them so, But I am a poor old woman. And not supposed to know." And grandmother finished her musings With a meaning shake of the head Over nineteenth century folly. And sighed, and went to bed.

1872

_LOVES EXTRAVAGANCE_

Could I but measure my strength, by my love, Were I as strong, as my heart's love is true, I would pull down the stars, from the heavens above, And weave them all into a garland for you. And brighter, and better, your jewels should be Than any proud queen's, that e'r dwelt o'er the sea. Ay! richer and rarer, your gems, love, should be Than any rare jewels that come from the sea.

I would gather the beautiful, delicate green From the dress of the spring--with the heaven's soft blue, And never from east land, to west land were seen Such wonderful robes, as I'd fashion for you. And I'd snatch the bright rays of the sun in my hand And braid you a girdle, love, strand over strand. Ay! one by one, catch the bright rays in my hand And braid them, and twine them, all strand over strand.

I would gather the amber, the red and gold dyes, That glimmer and glow, in the autumn sunset, And weave you a mantle; and pull from the skies The rainbow to trim it. Ah Love! never yet Was any proud princess, from east to the west So peerlessly jeweled--so royally drest. Never daughter of princes, in east land or west, So decked in rare jewels, so gorgeously drest.

And I'd make you a vail, from the rare golden haze, That Indian Summer spreads over the lea. And trim it with dew! Queens should envy and praise Your matchless apparel, ah darling, but see-- My strength is unequal to what I would do! I have only this little low cottage, for you. Nay! I can not accomplish the thing I would do, And I've only this cot and a warm heart for you.

1870

_YOU WILL FORGET ME_

You will forget me: the years are so tender-- They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep; This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor Fades from the sky, when the sun sinks to sleep: The clouds of forgetfulness, over and over, Will banish the last rosy colors away; And th' fingers of Time will weave garlands to cover The scar which you think is a life-mark to-day.

You will forget me:--will thank me for saying The words which you think are so pointed with pain, Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playing Will change for you soon to a livelier strain. I shall pass from your life, I shall pass out forever, And the hours we have spent, will be sunk in the past. Youth buries its dead: grief kills seldom, or never, And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.

You will forget me; the one thing you covet Now, above all things will soon seem no prize: And the heart which is not in your keeping, to prove it True or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes. The one drop to-day, which you deem only wanting To make life a joy, will be lost in Time's stream; You will forget; and the ghost that is haunting The aisles of your heart will pass out with the dream.