Part 3

But lest in care For all who share Her tender ministry, too late Her frail strength yield;-- Be thou her shield; They also serve who sometimes wait!

Of crystal, clear As in its sphere Her lofty spirit moves alway;-- Of massive strength As all at length Will find who make her soul their stay;--

With flowers and buds Whose sweetness floods The air even when we cannot see;-- This gift I send My earliest friend;-- Dear type of all she is to me!

ABSENT-MINDED.

You chide me that with self-absorbed, rapt eyes I seem to walk apart, nor care to clasp Familiar hands once dear; like one whose house Filled with the guests of her own choosing, rings With sounds of gladness, yet who steals away Up to some silent chamber of her own, Forgetful of the duties of a host. But is not she The truest and most hospitable friend Who, noting suddenly among her guests An unexpected comer, one to whom She fain would show high honor and respect, Hastens away with busy feet awhile To throw wide open to the sun and air Some long-untenanted fair chamber, rich With storied heirlooms of her ancestors, Bright with long windows looking towards the sun, Waiting but for an occupant? Even so Have I but stolen quietly away, Within the happy silence of my heart A lovely, sunny chamber to prepare For a new-comer.

ANSWERED PRAYER.

Father, whose tenderness has wrapped me round In a great need,--to what shall I compare Strength thou hast sent in answer to my prayer? Not to the help some falling vine has found, That trailing listless on the frozen ground Clings suddenly to some high trellis there, Lifting itself once more into the air With timid tendrils on the lattice wound. Rather to help the drooping plant has won, That weary with the beating of the rains Feels quickening in its own responsive veins The sudden shining of a distant sun. When from within the strength and gladness are, My soul knows that its help comes from afar.

EXPRESSION.

A wave Throbs restless in the darkness on the sea. Glorious in heaven shines a strong white star, Sending long slender lines of level light Serenely through the stillness; and the wave Takes to its heart the beautiful bright thing, Unconscious that it now stands self-revealed In its own palpitating restlessness. “How very strange,” it murmurs to itself, “That a great radiant star should tremble so, Even as I do; and more strange it seems, That it should be so willing to betray Itself by shining.” And meanwhile in heaven The star, with eyes fixed only upon God, Sweeps through the stately circles of the skies In motion grand as silence; undisturbed And self-contained; not dreaming that below, A little wave whose tremulous young heart Has caught a little of its brightness, thinks To read and to interpret for itself The heavenly mysteries. Even so I hear Men call it strange that poets should reveal The sacred secrets of their inmost souls To every idlest reader.

FULFILLMENT.

Burn bright, O sunset sky, with tints like wine! From all the west let the glad tidings shine, So beautiful a joy is to be mine.

O little lily, lean into the gloom! Pour from thy deep cup all its rare perfume, Sweeter will be my joy when it shall bloom.

Sing gayly, that the richer world with me May so rejoice in joy that is to be, O little birds upon the Maple tree!

O happy heart, send up to eyes and cheek The gladness that I have no words to speak; The fairest ones too powerless and weak.

Nay, burning sky, hide thy too brilliant glow! I would not that the curious world should know The sacred joy that now has blessed me so.

O little lily, leaning from the gloom, Hold thy too fragrant breath, that there be room In the deep stillness for my heart to bloom.

Hush, little birds upon the Maple tree! I cannot hear, ye sing so noisily, The sweeter song my soul would sing to me.

O happy lids, droop over happy eyes, Lest all the marvel of their dear surprise Escape once more to the far Paradise,

From which joy came so gently to my breast, Forevermore to be its cherished guest; Not seeking there, but bringing, heavenly rest.

“THERE WILL BE SILENCE HERE, LOVE.”

There will be silence here, love, in the slow Long summer months when there are none to break The stillness with the laugh of those who wake New-born each day to joy; and yet I know The stillness cannot be so still, or grow So deeply soundless, but that for my sake The memory-haunted, lonely rooms will take Some echo of my vanished voice;--even so, Amid the scenes to which I have no choice But go without thee, dearest, there will be No gayety so gay, no glad light glee Wherein with others I, too, must rejoice, But through it all my heart will make for me Silence, wherein I shall but hear thy voice.

FAITH IN WORKS.

My faith begins where your religion ends: In service to mankind. This single thread Is given to guide us through the maze of life. You start at one end, I the other;--you, With eyes fixed only upon God, begin With lofty faith, and seeking but to know And do His will who guides the universe, You find the slender and mysterious thread Leads down to earth, with God’s divine command To help your fellow-men; but this to me Is something strangely vague; I see alone The fellow-men, the suffering fellow-men. Yet with a cup of water in my hand For all who thirst, who knows but I one day, Following faithfully the slender thread, May reach its other end, and kneel at last With you in heaven at the feet of God?

“No. 33--A PORTRAIT.”

FOR R. H. L.

With careless step I wander through the hall Scarce heeding many a work of lovely art; Till with a sudden thrill my listless heart Leaps up to greet upon a stranger’s wall Those dear remembered eyes;--her face, with all The dreamy charm that made so sweet a part Of my life once;--and tender memories start To meet her at her unexpected call. True portrait of the unforgotten face, How do I thank thee, that dost give me here Tidings from her, so distant yet still dear To me;--for as I bid the painting tell If all be well with her, its pictured grace Answers beyond all doubting, “_It is well!_”

LONGING.

Not high above us with the pitiless stars, Nor deep below us in the soundless sea, Nor far away to east or westward, lie The little things we long for. Here they are; Close to our hands, the eager, restless hands That fain would grasp them; and no fetters bind The wistful fingers; no relentless fate Tells us we must not; we are wholly free To take them if we choose. And yet--and yet-- We dare not! lest the soul should wake some day, Years hence, perhaps, to sense of other needs. God save us ever from those sudden moods When all life narrows to a single point, And when the poor heart seizes its desire. Only to wake to deeper restlessness. But after all, what matter? would it be Harder to wake years hence to sense of thirst Than to stand thirsty now? for sunny wine Sparkles before us, and a precious pearl, Eager to lose its life upon our lips, Waits but our instant grasping to dissolve Its costly beauty in the nectar. Nay! We have no right to the white lovely pearl. God give us strength not to stretch out our hands! See! they are slipping slowly from our reach-- Fading into the darkness-- They are gone-- The little things we longed for!

THE NEW DAY.

Supreme through all the hours of the day I hold one sweetest: not the day or hour, Dear, when you came to me; nor yet the flower Of perfect days, though that is sweet alway, When your love came to me; I cannot say Why these are not divinest in their power; Yet as each new day comes, it brings for dower One moment whose rich gladness will outweigh All others: that first moment when the night Yields to the daylight’s clear and vivid blue; And waking to things real from things that seem, My eager eyes unclose to the fair light, Still undeceived; to find their visions true, And that your love for me was not my dream.

CONFESSION.

The eager year Is passing, with its triumphs and defeats. Alike earth rests from labor and from joy; Hushing each tiniest insect, wearing now No careless ornament of flower or leaf; Reaching her pleading arms up to the sky In longing for its silent chrism of snow In benediction; like a weary heart, That worn with spent emotion, sinks at last Into exhaustion that almost seems rest. Not brooding over her lost violets, High in her hands upon the leafless trees She holds the woodbine, swaying in the wind, A crimson rosary of remembered sins.

How shall we keep this solemn festival, Thou, O my heart, and I? have we no sins It would be well, confessing here to-night, To know forgiven? Not to some gentle friend Whose tenderness ere half the tale were told Would silence it with kisses; but before A more severe tribunal in my own Exacting soul, that could endure no blot Upon the scutcheon of its spotless truth. Not without hope of pardon; for the soul Is sponsor to the heart; if she can tell Of purest purpose loftily upheld, We need not be so sad, my heart and I, To wear a little while upon our breast The crimson rosary. And when the soul Shall speak at last the full “_Absolvo te_,” Then will we lay forevermore aside These memories of fault. Earth does not wear Her scarlet woodbine all the year, to pain Her beating heart with constant self-reproach. Content with frank and full confession once, The trembling vine, with sighing of the wind, Drops slowly, one by one, its deep red leaves. So having won forgiveness from myself, Listening I hear the far-off harmonies Of solemn chant in heaven: “_Though thy sins Had been as scarlet, they shall be like wool._” God’s benediction calms my troubled heart, Pained with its consciousness of frailty, Even as upon the fading crimson leaves Fall tenderly the first white flakes of snow.

“AMONG THOSE JOYS FOR WHICH WE UTTER PRAISE.”

Among those joys for which we utter praise That were not in our lives, one year ago;-- (No need to name them, dearest; for you know Each one that came, our ignorant hearts to raise To love’s high level;) let us count the days Before we knew each other; days when no Sweet premonition of love’s full rich glow Gleamed on the darkness of our separate ways. All preludes should be simple; that no dream Or hint of this new beauty came to fill The unconscious hours with meaning, does but seem Fit introduction to the joys that thrill Our glad souls now, from love that knew no still Awaking,--but dawned instantly supreme.

BECAUSE.

Not because you are gentle of speech, O brave knight of mine! Nor because in the chivalrous list With the brightest you shine; Nor because when you pass on the street All the world turn to praise The wonderful charm of your look And grace of your ways; Nor because in your presence I know I have but to command, And the coveted treasures at once Will fall from your hand; Nor because by the glance of your eyes That so tenderly drew My whole heart unto yours, I may know I am perfect to you;

But because in your presence, dear, _I_ Grow gentle of speech; The haughty young maiden who once Was so wilful to teach; And because when I pass on the street All the world turn to praise A certain new charm in _my_ look And grace in _my_ ways; And because in your presence I lose The proud wish to command; Contented, nay eager, dear love, To be led by your hand; And because your eyes full of reproach At some things that I do, Still show the belief I shall grow To be worthy of you;-- Do I love you? ’twere idle indeed To refuse now to yield; Quite useless for lips to deny What the eyes have revealed; Yet not, (let me say it, for fear That too vain you should be--) Not so much for what you are yourself, As for what you make me!

IVY.

Threading its noiseless way among fair things Love-chosen to make beautiful my room, The ivy spreads its tender living gloom, Darkening and brightening the wall; now clings Closely around some picture, and now swings Some airy shoot of tremulous young bloom Into the freer sunlight; till the doom Of their slow silent fate together brings At last the branches that for long years went Their single, separate ways. Did no swift thrill Of subtle recognition flash, and fill Their veins? Oh Ivy, still must we lament Thou canst not with our joy in thee have part, And thyself know how fair a thing thou art!

INFLUENCE.

Hearts that are glad Beat quicker for the smiling of her lips; Even as the summer air that seems o’ercharged With fragrance, will grow even sweeter still At sudden blossoming of one more rose. But the rose, too, Has her own secret. From the heavenly blue, Regnant upon his throne of light, the sun Sends her his glances; till the timid rose Slowly, leaf after leaf, unveils to him Her beauty; and the summer air at once Takes to itself the soft and fragrant sigh, Nor dreams she offered to a distant sun The incense of her soul. Even so I hear You praise a sudden sweetness in her ways, Grown strangely kind and tender to us all; For me, I recognize the o’erfull heart, Trembling and faint with effort to express Surcharge of beauty that her soul has drawn From one who stood above her.

MIRACLE.

If love had found me in cold cheerless ways And led me forth into the light;--if bloom Of sweet and sudden flowers, instead of gloom In the long nights and unillumined days, Thy love had brought me;--then at love’s high praise I had not so much wondered;--if the doom Of pitiless destiny had given room To thy bright presence,--then in swift amaze I were less awed than now. No life could be More sweet than that past life of mine, I thought; And when the changing years in fulness brought Another life enriched by love and thee, That all my beautiful past should seem as naught,-- This is the miracle Love wrought for me!

“SHE CAME AND WENT.”

As a shy bird that startled from her nest Wings her far way into the highest blue, Nor dreams that she has left us any clue To find which elm tree had been loved the best;

Though all the while its light boughs, fluttering In the deep noonday silence, softly beat Their soundless echoes to her flying feet Now swiftly in the blue air vanishing:--

So haply you would keep a secret, dear, Your unseen presence in my little room, That glorified into unwonted bloom Betrays to me what fair guest has been here.

Who else, dear, in my absence would have thought To close the favorite book, left open here Where a disputed passage was made clear By a few words with tedious patience sought;--

Then with a sudden and repentant grace That all the mischief of its fault bereft, Have found the very page again, and left A rose in the shut book to mark the place.

DREAMERS.

I.

I saw her, though with earnest eyes bent low, Unheedful of the violets at her feet, That clustering in purple fragrance sweet Touched her white dress; absorbed in revery so, She knew not that the morning sunshine’s glow Was for her sake; and robins, fain to greet So fair a lady with a love-song meet, No recognition won from her below. O dreamer of a dream thy heart shall see Crowned with fulfillment when the dawn of day Has deepened into noontide’s richer gleam,-- Lest I too rudely should awaken thee, With hushed and reverent step I steal away, Praying God bless the dreamer and the dream!

II.

I saw her with her tearful eyes raised high, Unheedful of the whirling flakes of snow, That flitting through the sad air to and fro Flecked her dark dress; cold from the leaden sky, The autumn winds came sobbing restless by, Wailing to find it still so cold below; While faded violets of a year ago, Pressed to her lips, hushed her own rising cry. O lonely dreamer of a dream long flown, I come to waken thee! for dying day In purple twilight shrouds the noontide gleam; And when the lovely visions that have grown So fair and dear flit vanishing away, God blesses dreamers who no longer dream.

ANDROMEDA.

Loosen my arms! leave me one poor hand free, That I may shut one moment from my sight The dreadful heaving of the shuddering sea! For as it creeps back slowly from my feet, Rise from its inky depths swift-coming waves Big with the terrible and nameless thing That soon along the shrinking sands will crawl To wrap me in its hideous embrace. I will not struggle! leave me but one hand To shield the poor eyes that refuse to close; For stretched and wide the fascinated lids Deny their office, and I needs must look! What have I done, that these fair limbs of mine, (Nay, nay; I meant not fair; the gods forbid That I should boast!) but young and piteous And tender with soft flesh--O mother, take Your proud words back! O nymphs, be pitiful! The green waves part, and poisonous is the air! Red the fangs glitter! save me, O ye gods!

Nay, what is this that wraps my shuddering limbs With sudden coolness?--Can it be that now The merciless tall cliff which all day long Refused its wonted shadow to protect My burning body from the dazzling sun, Relents, and spreads its gentle shade around To calm my reeling senses? Nay, for more It seems to me like white o’ershadowing wings, Circling above my head. Alas! so dim My poor eyes are with tears, I cannot see What this may be so near me; yet it seems Like some young, gallant knight. Alack, good sir, If thou art come to free my quivering limbs, Know that against the gods contend in vain The bravest knights. And yet how like a god Himself he stands! See how he spurns the ground, Poised with sustaining wings upon the air, And deals the monster a sharp, sudden blow That sends him reeling from the trembling shore! Shattered, I hear the chains fall to my feet; Yet much I fear another gentler fate Fetters my heart anew. O valiant knight, If in thy sight this tearful face was fair,-- (Fair dare I call it now; since thou art near To shield me ever from the envious hate Of those less fair!) if worth it seemed to thee The dreadful daring of the doubtful fight, Surely that best should be thy dear reward Which prompted thee to struggle; all is thine! The dim eyes, dull with weeping bitter tears, Shall brighten at the sound of thy strong voice; The frail hands, red with struggling to be free, Once more shall turn to lilies in thy clasp; Rose-red for thee shall flush with happiness The poor, pale cheeks, still white with sickening fear; The tired feet sustained and strong shall grow, Walking beside thee; nay, dear love, not yet; For still they tremble, still I seem to need Thy firm supporting arm around me thrown. Fold me then, dearest, in thy close embrace; Bear me across the treacherous, yielding sands, To that far country which must needs be fair, Since thou hast followed from its chivalry, Where I may now forget all else but thee.

LOVE SONG.

Dreaming of love and fame, sweetheart, I dreamed that a sunbeam shone For a wavering instant, and where it played A hundred flowers had grown. The sunshine flitting so soon away Was a smile thou hadst given me; And the flowers that bloomed in the world for aye, Were the songs I wrote for thee.

Waking to love and life, sweetheart, I saw fair flowers fade; While still from the measureless heavens above The flickering sunshine played. The flowers fading from all men’s sight Were the songs they had heard from me; And the light that illumined the world to them, Was a single smile from thee!

CLOSED.

Within her soul there is a sacred place, Forever set apart to holy thought; There once a miracle divine was wrought, And common things grew fair with heavenly grace. Think not to know the secret of that room;-- Closed is the door, even to herself; no more She lingers there, though well our hearts are sure It is no spot of shadowy, haunted gloom. The violets that blossom there unseen Were never gathered, and so never fade; Breathing serenely through the gentle shade Their memories of all that once had been. When in the thoughtful twilight we, her friends, Walk with her, and in spirit dimly feel A strange, rare fragrance o’er the senses steal, Let us speak softly of a Past that sends Through the closed crevice of its silent door, No bitterness in those remembered hours; But in the delicate breath of such fair flowers Only the sweetness of the days of yore.

BABY-HOOD.

M. W. R.

Dear bird of mine, with strong and untried wing, Ignorant yet of restless fluttering, How long will you be so content to sing

For me alone? when will the world be stirred By notes that even I have scarcely heard, Since you are still only a mocking-bird?

My little Clytie with the constant eyes Turned to me ever, though the true sunrise Burns far above me in God’s holy skies,--

How can you know, my sweet unconscious one, In the bright days for you but just begun, That I am worthy to be held your sun?

My little loyal worshipper, the bloom Of whose fair face makes bright the midnight gloom, Turned ever steadily to my near room,

Knowing so well, with instinct fine and true, The one glad door through which I come to you, Caring for naught but what that hides from view,--

How long, dear one, how many precious years, Will this fair chamber where I hush your tears Be the one Mecca for your hopes and fears?

Not long, alas! not long; the mother heart Knows well how quickly she will have to part With all this wonder;--she who tries each art

To lure him on; the first to coax and praise Each added grace; then first in sore amaze To mourn that he has lost his baby ways!

“IF I COULD KNOW, LOVE.”

If I could know, love, that some single prayer From my full heart’s supreme desires for thee, With rich fulfillment would be granted me By Him who gave us to each other,--where Could I find truer wish than this: “O spare My life to him!” For surely love should be Love’s best interpreter; an argosy Freighted with all earth’s joy, wert thou not there,-- Beside me always--how could I be glad In aught of this? my own great speechless need, Not only of the love I once have had, But of thy presence, teaches me to read The deep, unspoken prayer thy heart would add To mine, if highest heaven could lean to heed!

THE DIFFERENCE.

One day I heard a little lady say, “O morning-glory, would that I were you! Twining around the porch that lovely way, Where you will see my dear one coming through. So fair you are, he’ll surely notice you, And wait perhaps a moment, just to praise The clinging prettiness of all your ways, And tender tint of melting white and blue. O morning-glory, would that I were you!”