Chapter 3
I love him--or I think I do; Sure one MUST love what is so sweet. He is all tender and all true, All eloquent to plead and sue, All strength--though kneeling at my feet.
Yet I had visions once of yore, Girlish imaginings of a zest, A possible thrill,--but why run o'er These fancies?--idle dreams, no more; I will forget them, this is best.
So let him take,--the past is past; The future, with its golden key, Into his outstretched hands I cast. I shall love him--perhaps--at last, As now I love his love for me.
II.
Nor as all other women may, Love I my Love; he is so great, So beautiful, I dare essay No nearness but in silence lay My heart upon his path,--and wait.
Poor heart! its healings are so low He does not heed them passing by, Save as one heeds, where violets grow, A fragrance, caring not to know Where the veiled purple buds may lie.
I sometimes think that it is dead, It lies so still. I bend and lean, Like mother over cradle-head, Wondering if still faint breaths are shed Like sighs the parted lips between.
And then, with vivid pulse and thrill, It quickens into sudden bliss At sound of step or voice, nor will Be hushed, although, regardless still, He knows not, cares not, it is his.
I would not lift it if I could; The little flame, though faint and dim As glow-worm spark in lonely wood, Shining where no man calls it good, May one day light the path for him,--
May guide his way, or soon or late, Through blinding mist or wintry rain; And, so content, I watch and wait. Let others share his happier fate, I only ask to share his pain!
And if some day, when passing by, My dear Love should his steps arrest, Should mark the poor heart waiting nigh, Should know it his, should lift it,--why, Patience is good, but joy is best!
AFTER-GLOW.
My morn was all dewy rose and pearl, Peace brimmed the skies, a cool and fragrant air Caressed my going forth, and everywhere The radiant webs, by hope and fancy spun, Stretched shining in the sun.
Then came a noon, hot, breathless, still,-- No wind to visit the dew-thirsty flowers, Only the dust, the road, the urging hours; And, pressing on, I never guessed or knew That day was half-way through.
And when the pomp of purple lit the sky, And sheaves of golden lances tipped with red Danced in the west, wondering I gazed, and said, "Lo, a new morning comes, my hopes to crown!" Sudden the sun dropped down
Like a great golden ball into the sea, Which made room, laughing, and the serried rank Of yellow lances flashed, and, turning, sank After their chieftain, as he led the way, And all the heaven was gray.
Startled and pale, I stood to see them go; Then a long, stealing shadow to me crept, And laid his cold hand on me, and I wept And hid my eyes, and shivered with affright At thought of coming night.
But as I wept and shuddered, a warm thrill Smote on my sense. I raised my eyes, and lo! The skies, so dim but now, were all aglow With a new flush of tender rose and gold, Opening fold on fold.
Higher and higher soared the gracious beam, Deeper and deeper glowed the heavenly hues, Nor any cowering shadow could refuse The beautiful embrace which clasped and kissed Its dun to amethyst.
A little longer, and the lovely light, Draining the last drops from its wondrous urn, Departed, and the swart shades in their turn, Impatient of the momentary mirth, Crowded to seize the earth.
No longer do I shudder. With calm eye I front the night, nor wish its hours away; For in that message from my banished day I read his pledge of dawn, and soon or late I can endure to wait.
HOPE AND I.
Hope stood one morning by the way, And stretched her fair right hand to me, And softly whispered, "For this day I'll company with thee."
"Ah, no, dear Hope," I sighing said; "Oft have you joined me in the morn, But when the evening came, you fled And left me all forlorn.
"'Tis better I should walk alone Than have your company awhile, And then to lose it, and go on For weary mile on mile,"
She turned, rebuked. I went my way, But sad the sunshine seemed, and chill; I missed her, missed her all the day, And O, I miss her still.
LEFT BEHIND.
We started in the morning, a morning full of glee, All in the early morning, a goodly company; And some were full of merriment, and all were kind and dear: But the others have pursued their way, and left me sitting here.
My feet were not so fleet as theirs, my courage soon was gone, And so I lagged and fell behind, although they cried "Come on!" They cheered me and they pitied me, but one by one went by, For the stronger must outstrip the weak; there is no remedy.
Some never looked behind, but smiled, and swiftly, hand in hand, Departed with, a strange sweet joy I could not understand; I know not by what silver streams their roses bud and blow, Rut I am glad--O very glad--they should be happy so.
And some they went companionless, yet not alone, it seemed; For there were sounds of rustling wings, and songs,--or else we dreamed; And a glow from lights invisible to us lit up the place, And tinged, as if with glory, each dear and parting face.
So happy, happy did they look, as one by one they went, That we, who missed them sorely, were fain to be content; And I, who sit the last of all, left far behind, alone, Cannot be sorry for their sakes, but only for my own.
My eyes seek out the different paths by which they went away, And oft I wish to follow, but oftener wish to stay; For fair as may the new things be, the farther things they know, This is a pleasant resting-place, a pleasant place also.
There are flowers for the gathering, which grow my path anear, The skies are fair, and everywhere the sun is warm and clear: I may have missed the wine of life, the strong wine and the new, But I have my wells of water, my sips of honey-dew.
So when I turn my thoughts from those who shared my dawn of day, My fresh and joyous morning prune, and now are passed away, I can see just how sweet all is, how good, and be resigned To sit thus in the afternoon, alone and left behind.
SAVOIR C'EST PARDONNER.
Myriad rivers seek the sea, The sea rejects not any one; A myriad rays of light may be Clasped in the compass of one sun; And myriad grasses, wild and free, Drink of the dew which faileth none.
A myriad worlds encompass ours; A myriad souls our souls enclose; And each, its sins and woes and powers, The Lord He sees, the Lord He knows, And from the Infinite Knowledge flowers The Infinite Pity's fadeless rose.
Lighten our darkness, Lord, most wise; All-seeing One, give us to see; Our judgments are profanities, Our ignorance is cruelty, While Thou, knowing all, dost not despise To pardon even such things as we.
MORNING.
O word and thing most beautiful! Our yesterday was cold and dull, Gray mists obscured the setting sun, Its evening wept with sobbing rain; But to and fro, mid shrouding night, Some healing angel swift has run, And all is fresh and fair again.
O, word and thing most beautiful! The hearts, which were of cares so full, The tired hands, the tired feet, So glad of night, are glad of morn,-- Where are the clouds of yesterday? The world is good, the world is sweet, And life is new and hope re-born.
O, word and thing most beautiful! O coward soul and sorrowful, Which sighs to note the ebbing light Give place to evening's shadowy gray! What are these things but parables,-- That darkness heals the wrongs of day, And dawning clears all mists of night.
O, word and thing most beautiful! The little sleep our cares to lull, The long, soft dusk and then sunrise, To waken fresh and angel fair, Lite all renewed and cares forgot, Ready for Heaven's glad surprise. So Christ, who is our Light, be there.
A BLIND SINGER.
In covert of a leafy porch, Where woodbine clings, And roses drop their crimson leaves, He sits and sings; With soft brown crest erect to hear, And drooping wings.
Shut in a narrow cage, which bars His eager flight, Shut in the darker prison-house Of blinded sight, Alike to him are sun and stars, The day, the night.
But all the fervor of high noon, Hushed, fragrant, strong, And all the peace of moonlit nights When nights are long, And all the bliss of summer eves, Breathe in his song.
The rustle of the fresh green woods, The hum of bee, The joy of flight, the perfumed waft Of blossoming tree, The half-forgotten, rapturous thrill Of liberty,--
All blend and mix, while evermore, Now and again, A plaintive, puzzled cadence comes, A low refrain, Caught from some shadowy memory Of patient pain.
In midnight black, when all men sleep, My singer wakes, And pipes his lovely melodies, And trills and shakes. The dark sky bends to listen, but No answer makes.
O, what is joy? In vain we grasp Her purple wings; Unwon, unwooed, she flits to dwell With humble things; She shares my sightless singer's cage, And so--he sings.
MARY.
The drowsy summer in the flowering limes Had laid her down at ease, Lulled by soft, sportive winds, whose tinkling chimes Summoned the wandering bees To feast, and dance, and hold high carnival Within that vast and fragrant banquet-hall.
She stood, my Mary, on the wall below, Poised on light, arching feet, And drew the long, green branches down to show Where hung, mid odors sweet,-- A tiny miracle to touch and view,-- The humming-bird's, small nest and pearls of blue.
Fair as the summer's self she stood, and smiled, With eyes like summer sky, Wistful and glad, half-matron and half-child, Gentle and proud and shy; Her sweet head framed against the blossoming bough, She stood a moment,--and she stands there now!
'Tis sixteen years since, trustful, unafraid, In her full noon of light, She passed beneath the grass's curtaining shade, Out of our mortal sight; And springs and summers, bearing gifts to men, And long, long winters have gone by since then.
And each some little gift has brought to dress That unforgotten bed,-- Violet, anemone, or lady's-tress, Or spray of berries red, Or purpling leaf, or mantle, pure and cold, Of winnowed snow, wrapped round it, fold on fold.
Yet still she stands, a glad and radiant shape, Set in the morning fair,-- That vanished morn which had such swift escape. I turn and see her there,-- The arch, sweet smile, the bending, graceful head; And, seeing thus, why do I call her dead?
WHEN LOVE WENT.
What whispered Love the day he fled? Ah! this was what Love whispered; "You sought to hold me with a chain; I fly to prove such holding vain.
"You bound me burdens, and I bore The burdens hard, the burdens sore; I bore them all unmurmuring, For Love can bear a harder thing.
"You taxed me often, teased me, wept; I only smiled, and still I kept Through storm and sun and night and day, My joyous, viewless, faithful way.
"But, dear, once dearest, you and I This day have parted company. Love must be free to give, defer, Himself alone his almoner.
"As free I freely poured my all, Enslaved I spurn, renounce my thrall, Its wages and its bitter bread." Thus whispered Love the day he fled!
OVERSHADOWED.
"Insomuch that they brought forth the sick into the streets, and laid them on beds and couches, that at the least the shadow of Peter, passing by, might overshadow some of them."
Mid the thronged bustle of the city street, In the hot hush of noon, I wait, with folded hands and nerveless feet. Surely He will come soon. Surely the Healer will not pass me by, But listen to my cry.
Long are the hours in which I lie and wait, Heavy the load I bear; But He will come ere evening. Soon or late I shall behold Him there; Shall hear His dear voice, all the clangor through; "What wilt thou that I do?"
"If Thou but wilt, Lord, Thou canst make me clean." Thus shall I answer swift. And He will touch me, as He walks serene; And I shall rise and lift This couch, so long my prison-house of pain, And be made whole again.
He lingers yet. But lo! a hush, a hum. The multitudes press on After some leader. Surely He is come! He nears me; He is gone! Only His shadow reached me, as He went; Yet here I rest content.
In that dear shadow, like some healing spell, A heavenly patience lay; Its balm of peace enwrapped me as it fell; My pains all fled away,-- The weariness, the deep unrest of soul; I am indeed "made whole."
It is enough, Lord, though Thy face divine Was turned to other men. Although no touch, no questioning voice was mine, Thou wilt come once again; And, if Thy shadow brings such bliss to me, What must Thy presence be?
TIME TO GO.
They know the time to go! The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour In field and woodland, and each punctual flower Bows at the signal an obedient head And hastes to bed.
The pale Anemone Glides on her way with scarcely a good-night; The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight; Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines, In blithesome lines,
Drop their last courtesies, Flit from the scene, and couch them for their rest; The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vest And hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green; Fair and serene,
Her sister Lily floats On the blue pond, and raises golden eyes To court the golden splendor of the skies,-- The sudden signal comes, and down she goes To find repose,
In the cool depths below, A little later, and the Asters blue Depart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew; While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay, Turns him away,
Furls his bright parasol, And, like a little hero, meets his fate. The Gentians, very proud to sit up late, Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set 'Neath coverlet,
Downy and soft and warm. No little seedling voice is heard to grieve Or make complaints the folding woods beneath; No lingerer dares to stay, for well they know The time to go.
Teach us your patience, brave, Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you, Willing God's will, sure that his clock strikes true, That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow, With smiles, not sorrow.
GULF-STREAM.
Lonely and cold and fierce I keep my way, Scourge of the lands, companioned by the storm, Tossing to heaven my frontlet, wild and gray, Mateless, yet conscious ever of a warm And brooding presence close to mine all day.
What is this alien thing, so near, so far, Close to my life always, but blending never? Hemmed in by walls whose crystal gates unbar Not at the instance of my strong endeavor To pierce the stronghold where their secrets are?
Buoyant, impalpable, relentless, thin, Rise the clear, mocking walls. I strive in vain To reach the pulsing heart that beats within, Or with persistence of a cold disdain, To quell the gladness which I may not win.
Forever sundered and forever one, Linked by a bond whose spell I may not guess, Our hostile, yet embracing currents run; Such wedlock lonelier is than loneliness. Baffled, withheld, I clasp the bride I shun.
Yet even in my wrath a wild regret Mingles; a bitterness of jealous strife Tinges my fury as I foam and fret Against the borders of that calmer life, Beside whose course my wrathful course is set.
But all my anger, all my pain and woe, Are vain to daunt her gladness; all the while She goes rejoicing, and I do not know, Catching the soft irradiance of her smile, If I am most her lover or her foe.
MY WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM.
As purely white as is the drifted snow, More dazzling fair than summer roses are, Petalled with rays like a clear rounded star, When winds pipe chilly, and red sunsets glow, Your blossoms blow.
Sweet with a freshening fragrance, all their own, In which a faint, dim breath of bitter lies, Like wholesome breath mid honeyed flatteries; When other blooms are dead, and birds have flown, You stand alone.
Fronting the winter with a fearless grace, Flavoring the odorless gray autumn chill, Nipped by the furtive frosts, but cheery still, Lifting to heaven from the bare garden place A smiling face.
Roses are fair, but frail, and soon grow faint, Nor can endure a hardness; violets blue, Short-lived and sweet, live but a day or two; The nun-like lily bows without complaint, And dies a saint.
Each following each they hasten them away, And leave us to our winter and our rue, Sad and uncomforted; you, only you, Dear, hardy lover, keep your faith and stay Long as you may.
And so we choose you out from all the rest, For that most noble word of "Loyalty," Which blazoned on your petals seems to be; Winter is near,--stay with us; be our guest, The last and best.
TILL THE DAY DAWN.
Why should I weary you, dear heart, with words, Words all discordant with a foolish pain? Thoughts cannot interrupt or prayers do wrong, And soft and silent as the summer rain Mine fall upon your pathway all day long.
Giving as God gives, counting not the cost Of broken box or spilled and fragrant oil, I know that, spite of your strong carelessness, Rest must be sweeter, worthier must be toil, Touched with such mute, invisible caress.
One of these days, our weary ways quite trod, Made free at last and unafraid of men, I shall draw near and reach to you my hand. And you? Ah! well, we shall be spirits then, I think you will be glad and understand.
MY BIRTHDAY.
Who is this who gently slips Through my door, and stands and sighs, Hovering in a soft eclipse, With a finger on her lips And a meaning in her eyes?
Once she came to visit me In white robes with festal airs, Glad surprises, songs of glee; Now in silence cometh she, And a sombre garb she wears.
Once I waited and was tired, Chid her visits as too few; Crownless now and undesired, She to seek me is inspired Oftener than she used to do.
Grave her coming is and still, Sober her appealing mien, Tender thoughts her glances fill; But I shudder, as one will When an open grave is seen.
Wherefore, friend,--for friend thou art,-- Should I wrong thee thus and grieve? Wherefore push thee from my heart? Of my morning thou wert part; Be a part too of my eve.
See, I hold my hand to meet That cool, shadowy hand of thine; Hold it firmly, it is sweet Thus to clasp and thus to greet, Though no more in full sunshine.
Come and freely seek my door, I will open willingly; I will chide the past no more, Looking to the things before, Led by pathways known to thee.
BY THE CRADLE.
The baby Summer lies asleep and dreaming-- Dreaming and blooming like a guarded rose; And March, a kindly nurse, though rude of seeming, Is watching by the cradle hung with snows.
Her blowing winds but keep the rockers swinging, And deepen slumber in the shut blue eyes, And the shrill cadences of her high singing Are to the babe but wonted lullabies.
She draws the coverlet white and tucks it trimly, She folds the little sleeper safe from harm; Or bends to lift the veil, and, peering inly, Makes sure it lies all undisturbed and warm.
And so she sits, till in the still, gray dawning Two fairer nurses come, her place to take, And smiling, beaming, with no word of warning, Draw off the quilt, and kiss the babe awake.
A THUNDER STORM.
The day was hot and the day was dumb, Save for cricket's chirr or the bee's low hum, Not a bird was seen or a butterfly, And ever till noon was over, the sun Glared down with a yellow and terrible eye;
Glared down in the woods, where the breathless boughs Hung heavy and faint in a languid drowse, And the ferns were curling with thirst and heat; Glared down on the fields where the sleepy cows Stood munching the grasses, dry and sweet.
Then a single cloud rose up in the west, With a base of gray and a white, white crest; It rose and it spread a mighty wing. And swooped at the sun, though he did his best And struggled and fought like a wounded thing.
And the woods awoke, and the sleepers heard, Each heavily hanging leaflet stirred With a little expectant quiver and thrill, As the cloud bent over and uttered a word,-- One volleying, rolling syllable.
And once and again came the deep, low tone Which only to thunder's lips is known, And the earth held up her fearless face And listened as if to a signal blown,-- A signal-trump in some heavenly place.
The trumpet of God, obeyed on high, His signal to open the granary And send forth his heavily loaded wains Rambling and roaring down the sky And scattering the blessed, long-harvested rains.
THROUGH THE DOOR.
The angel opened the door A little way, And she vanished, as melts a star, Into the day, And, for just a second's space, Ere the bar he drew, The pitying angel paused, And we looked through.
What did we see within? Ah! who can tell? What glory and glow of light Ineffable; What peace in the very air, What hush and calm, Soothing each tired soul Like healing balm!
Was it a dream we dreamed, Or did we hear The harping of silver harps, Divinely clear? A murmur of that "new song," Which, soft and low, The happy angels sing,-- Sing as they go?
And, as in the legend old, The good monk heard, As he paced his cloister dim, A heavenly bird, And, rapt and lost in the joy Of the wondrous song, Listened a hundred years, Nor deemed them long,
So chained in sense and limb, All blind with sun, We stood and tasted the joy Of our vanished one; And we took no note of time, Till soon or late The gentle angel sighed, And shut the gate.
The vision is closed and sealed. We are come back To the old, accustomed earth, The well-worn track,-- Back to the daily toil, The daily pain,-- But we never can be the same, Never again.
We who have bathed in noon, All radiant white, Shall we come back content To sit in night? Content with self and sin, The stain, the blot? To have stood so near the gate And enter not?
O glimpse so swift, so sweet, So soon withdrawn! Stay with us; light our dusks Till day shall dawn; Until the shadows flee, And to our view Again the gate unbars, And we pass through.
READJUSTMENT.
After the earthquake shock or lightning dart Comes a recoil of silence o'er the lands, And then, with pulses hot and quivering hands, Earth calls up courage to her mighty heart, Plies every tender, compensating art, Draws her green, flowery veil above the scar, Fills the shrunk hollow, smooths the riven plain, And with a century's tendance heals again The seams and gashes which her fairness mar. So we, when sudden woe like lightning sped, Finds us and smites us in our guarded place, After one brief, bewildered moment's space, By the same heavenly instinct taught and led, Adjust our lives to loss, make friends with pain, Bind all our shattered hopes and bid them bloom again.
AT THE GATE