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Title: Poems of life

Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Release date: December 23, 2024 [eBook #74967]

Language: English

Original publication: EDINBURGH: W. P. NIMMO, HAW & MITCHELL

Credits: Debra Ella LaVergne


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF LIFE ***

POEMS OF LIFE
BY
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX




EDINBURGH.
W. P. NIMMO, HAW & MITCHELL




Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co.
at the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh





CONTENTS

LIFE
A SONG OF LIFE
CONVERSION
LIFE AND I
LIMITLESS
TWO SUNSETS
UNREST
ARTIST'S LIFE
NOTHING BUT STONES
SECRETS
USELESSNESS
WILL
WINTER RAIN
INEVITABLE
THE OCEAN OF SONG
GETHSEMANE
DUST-SEALED
ADVICE
OVER THE BANISTERS
MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER
THE FAREWELL
THE PAST
"IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN"
THE SONNET
NOTHING NEW
HELENA
NOTHING REMAINS
FINIS
APPLAUSE
LIFE
THE STORY
LET THEM GO
THE ENGINE
IN THE LONG RUN
A SONG
THE TWO GLASSES
WHAT WE NEED
IS IT DONE?
BURDENED
TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY?
A MARCH SNOW
COMRADES
IN THE CROWD
INTO SPACE
SNOWED UNDER
NOBLESSE OBLIGE
THE YEAR
THROUGH DIM EYES
TRUE CULTURE
WHAT GAIN?
THE CHRISTIAN'S NEW YEAR PRAYER
AND THEY ARE DUMB


POEMS OF LIFE


LIFE

I feel the great immensity of life.
All little aims slip from me, and I reach
My yearning soul toward the Infinite.

As when a mighty forest, whose green leaves
Have shut it in, and made it seem a bower
For lovers' secrets, or for children's sports,
Casts all its clustering foliage to the winds,
And lets the eye behold it, limitless,
And full of winding mysteries of ways:
So now with life that reaches out before,
And borders on the unexplained Beyond.

I see the stars above me, world on world:
I hear the awful language of all Space;
I feel the distant surging of great seas,
That hide the secrets of the Universe
In their eternal bosoms; and I know
That I am but an atom of the Whole.


A SONG OF LIFE

In the rapture of life and of living,
   I lift up my heart and rejoice,
And I thank the great Giver for giving
   The soul of my gladness a voice.
In the glow of the glorious weather,
   In the sweet-scented, sensuous air,
My burdens seem light as a feather--
   They are nothing to bear.

In the strength and the glory of power,
   In the pride and the pleasure of wealth
(For who dares dispute me my dower
   Of talents and youth-time and health?),
I can laugh at the world and its sages--
   I am greater than seers who are sad,
For he is most wise in all ages
   Who knows how to be glad.

I lift up my eyes to Apollo,
   The god of the beautiful days,
And my spirit soars off like a swallow,
   And is lost in the light of its rays.
Are you troubled and sad?  I beseech you
   Come out of the shadows of strife--
Come out in the sun while I teach you
   The secret of life.

Come out of the world--come above it--
   Up over its crosses and graves,
Though the green earth is fair and I love it,
   We must love it as masters, not slaves.
Come up where the dust never rises--
   But only the perfume of flowers--
And your life shall be glad with surprises
   Of beautiful hours.
Come up where the rare golden wine is
   Apollo distills in my sight,
And your life shall be happy as mine is,
   And as full of delight.


CONVERSION

When this world's pleasures for my soul sufficed,
  Ere my heart's plummet sounded depths of pain,
  I called on Reason to control my brain,
And scoffed at that old story of the Christ.

But when o'er burning wastes my feet had trod,
  And all my life was desolate with loss,
  With bleeding hands I clung about the cross,
And cried aloud, "Man needs a suffering God!"


LIFE AND I

Life and I are lovers, straying
   Arm in arm along:
Often like two children Maying,
   Full of mirth and song,

Life plucks all the blooming hours
   Growing by the way;
Binds them on my brow like flowers,
   Calls me Queen of May.

Then again, in rainy weather,
   We sit vis-a-vis,
Planning work we'll do together
   In the years to be.

Sometimes Life denies me blisses,
   And I frown or pout;
But we make it up with kisses
   Ere the day is out.

Woman-like, I sometimes grieve him,
   Try his trust and faith,
Saying I shall one day leave him
   For his rival, Death.

Then he always grows more zealous,
   Tender, and more true;
Loves the more for being jealous,
   As all lovers do.

Though I swear by stars above him,
   And by worlds beyond,
That I love him--love him--love him;
   Though my heart is fond;

Though he gives me, doth my lover,
   Kisses with each breath--
I shall one day throw him over,
   And plight troth with Death.


LIMITLESS

There is nothing, I hold, in the way of work
  That a human being may not achieve
If he does not falter, or shrink or shirk,
  And more than all, if he will _believe_.

Believe in himself and the power behind
  That stands like an aid on a dual ground,
  With hope for the spirit and oil for the wound,
Ready to strengthen the arm or mind.

When the motive is right and the will is strong
  There are no limits to human power;
For that great force back of us moves along
  And takes us with it, in trial's hour.

And whatever the height you yearn to climb,
  Tho' it never was trod by the foot of man,
  And no matter how steep--I say you _can_,
If you will be patient-and use your time.


TWO SUNSETS

In the fair morning of his life,
   When his pure heart lay in his breast,
   Panting, with all that wild unrest
To plunge into the great world's strife

That fills young hearts with mad desire,
   He saw a sunset.  Red and gold
   The burning billows surged and rolled,
And upward tossed their caps of fire.

He looked.  And as he looked, the sight
   Sent from his soul through breast and brain
   Such intense joy, it hurt like pain.
His heart seemed bursting with delight.

So near the Unknown seemed, so close
   He might have grasped it with his hands
   He felt his inmost soul expand,
As sunlight will expand a rose.

One day he heard a singing strain--
   A human voice, in bird-like trills.
   He paused, and little rapture-rills
Went trickling downward through each vein.

And in his heart the whole day long,
   As in a temple veiled and dim,
   He kept and bore about with him
The beauty of that singer's song.

And then?  But why relate what then?
   His smouldering heart flamed into fire--
   He had his one supreme desire,
And plunged into the world of men.

For years queen Folly held her sway.
   With pleasures of the grosser kind
   She fed his flesh and drugged his mind,
Till, shamed, he sated, turned away.

He sought his boyhood's home.
   That hour Triumphant should have been, in sooth,
   Since he went forth, an unknown youth,
And came back crowned with wealth and power.

The clouds made day a gorgeous bed;
   He saw the splendour of the sky
   With unmoved heart and stolid eye;
He only knew the West was red.

Then suddenly a fresh young voice
   Rose, bird-like, from some hidden place,
   He did not even turn his face--
It struck him simply as a noise.

He trod the old paths up and down.
   Their rich-hued leaves by Fall winds whirled--
   How dull they were--how dull the world--
Dull even in the pulsing town.

O! worst of punishments, that brings
   A blunting of all finer sense,
   A loss of feelings keen, intense,
And dulls us to the higher things.

O! penalty most dire, most sure,
   Swift following after gross delights,
   That we no more see beauteous sights,
Or hear as hear the good and pure.

O! shape more hideous and more dread
   Than Vengeance takes in creed-taught minds,
   This certain doom that blunts and blinds,
And strikes the holiest feelings dead.


UNREST

In the youth of the year, when the birds were building,
   When the green was showing on tree and hedge,
And the tenderest light of all lights was gilding
   The world from zenith to outermost edge,
My soul grew sad and longingly lonely!
   I sighed for the season of sun and rose,
And I said, "In the Summer and that time only
   Lies sweet contentment and blest repose."

With bee and bird for her maids of honour
   Came Princess Summer in robes of green.
And the King of day smiled down upon her
   And wooed her, and won her, and made her queen.
Fruit of their union and true love's pledges,
   Beautiful roses bloomed day by day,
And rambled in gardens and hid in hedges
   Like royal children in sportive play.

My restless soul for a little season
   Revelled in rapture of glow and bloom,
And then, like a subject who harbours treason,
   Grew full of rebellion and grey with gloom.
And I said, "I am sick of the summer's blisses,
   Of warmth and beauty, and nothing more.
The full fruition my sad soul misses
   That beauteous Fall-time holds in store!"

But now when the colours are almost blinding,
   Burning and blending on bush and tree,
And the rarest fruits are mine for the finding,
   And the year is ripe as a year can be,
My soul complains in the same old fashion;
   Crying aloud in my troubled breast
Is the same old longing, the same old passion.
   O where is the treasure which men call rest?


"ARTIST'S LIFE"

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote,
   Mad with melody, rhythm--rife
From the very first to the final note.
   Give me his "Artist's Life!"

It stirs my blood to my finger-ends,
   Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest,
And all that is sweetest and saddest blends
   Together within my breast.

It brings back that night in the dim arcade,
   In love's sweet morning and life's best prime,
When the great brass orchestra played and played,
   And set our thoughts to rhyme.

It brings back that Winter of mad delights,
   Of leaping pulses and tripping feet,
And those languid moon-washed Summer nights
   When we heard the band in the street.

It brings back rapture and glee and glow,
   It brings back passion and pain and strife,
And so of all the waltzes I know,
   Give me the "Artist's Life."

For it is so full of the dear old time--
   So full of the dear old friends I knew.
And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme,
   I am always finding--YOU.


NOTHING BUT STONES

I think I never passed so sad an hour,
   Dear friend, as that one at the church to-night.
The edifice from basement to the tower
   Was one resplendent blaze of coloured light.
Up through broad aisles the stylish crowd was thronging,
   Each richly robed like some king's bidden guest.
"Here will I bring my sorrow and my longing,"
   I said, "and here find rest."

I heard the heavenly organ's voice of thunder,
   It seemed to give me infinite relief.
I wept.  Strange eyes looked on in well-bred wonder.
   I dried my tears:  their gaze profaned my grief.
Wrapt in the costly furs, and silks, and laces,
   Beat alien hearts, that had no part with me.
I could not read, in all those proud cold faces,
   One thought of sympathy.

I watched them bowing and devoutly kneeling,
   Heard their responses like sweet waters roll
But only the glorious organ's sacred pealing
   Seemed gushing from a full and fervent soul.
I listened to the man of holy calling,
   He spoke of creeds, and hailed his own as best;
Of man's corruption and of Adam's-falling,
   But naught that gave me rest:

Nothing that helped me bear the daily grinding
   Of soul with body, heart with heated brain;
Nothing to show the purpose of this blinding
   And sometimes overwhelming sense of pain.
And then, dear friend, I thought of thee, so lowly,
   So unassuming, and so gently kind,
And lo! a peace, a calm serene and holy,
   Settled upon my mind.

Ah, friend, my friend! one true heart, fond and tender,
   That understands our troubles and our needs,
Brings us more near to God than all the splendour
   And pomp of seeming worship and vain creeds.
One glance of thy dear eyes so full of feeling,
   Doth bring me closer to the Infinite
Than all that throng of worldly people kneeling
   In blaze of gorgeous light.


SECRETS

Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone;
   Why, even God's stupendous secret, Death,
   We one by one, with our expiring breath,
Do pale with wonder seize and make our own;
The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown,
   Despite her careful hiding; and the air
   Yields its mysterious marvels in despair
To swell the mighty store-house of things known.
In vain the sea expostulates and raves;
   It cannot cover from the keen world's sight
   The curious wonders of its coral caves.
And so, despite thy caution or thy tears,
The prying fingers of detective years
   Shall drag THY secret out into the light.


USELESSNESS

Let mine not be that saddest fate of all
   To live beyond my greater self; to see
   My faculties decaying, as the tree
Stands stark and helpless while its green leaves fall.
Let me hear rather the imperious call,
   Which all men dread, in my glad morning time,
   And follow death ere I have reached my prime,
Or drunk the strengthening cordial of life's gall.
The lightning's stroke or the fierce tempest blast
   Which fells the green tree to the earth to-day
Is kinder than the calm that lets it last,
   Unhappy witness of its own decay.
   May no man ever look on me and say,
"She lives, but all her usefulness is past."


WILL

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent or hinder or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;
All things give way before it, soon or late.
   What obstacle can stay the mighty force
   Of the sea-seeking river in its course,
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?

Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.
Let the fool prate of luck.  The fortunate
   Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,
   Whose slightest action or inaction serve.
The one great aim.
         Why, even Death stands still,
And waits an hour sometimes for such a will.


WINTER RAIN

Falling upon the frozen world last night
I heard the slow beat of the Winter rain--
Poor foolish drops, down-dripping all in vain;
The ice-bound Earth but mocked their puny might,
Far better had the fixedness of white
And uncomplaining snows--which make no sign,
But coldly smile, when pitying moonbeams shine--
Concealed its sorrow from all human sight.
Long, long ago, in blurred and burdened years,
I learned the uselessness of uttered woe.
Though sinewy Fate deals her most skilful blow,
   I do not waste the gall now of my tears,
   But feed my pride upon its bitter, while
I look straight in the world's bold eyes, and smile.


INEVITABLE

To-day I was so weary and I lay
   In that delicious state of semi-waking,
When baby, sitting with his nurse at play,
   Cried loud for "mamma," all his toys forsaking.

I was so weary and I needed rest,
   And signed to nurse to bear him from the room.
Then, sudden, rose and caught him to my breast,
   And kissed the grieving mouth and cheeks of bloom.

For swift as lightning came the thought to me,
   With pulsing heart-throes and a mist of tears,
Of days inevitable, that are to be,
   If my fair darling grows to manhood's years;

Days when he will not call for "mamma," when
   The world, with many a pleasure and bright joy,
Shall tempt him forth into the haunts of men
   And I shall lose the first place with my boy;

When other homes and loves shall give delight,
   When younger smiles and voices will seem best.
And so I held him to my heart to-night,
   Forgetting all my need of peace and rest.


THE OCEAN OF SONG

In a land beyond sight or conceiving,
   In a land where no blight is, no wrong,
No darkness, no graves, and no grieving,
   There lies the great ocean of song.
And its waves, oh, its waves unbeholden
   By any save gods, and their kind,
Are not blue, are not green, but are golden,
   Like moonlight and sunlight combined.

It was whispered to me that their waters
   Were made from the gathered-up tears
That were wept by the sons and the daughters
   Of long-vanished eras and spheres.
Like white sands of heaven the spray is
   That falls all the happy day long,
And whoever it touches straightway is
   Made glad with the spirit of song.

Up, up to the clouds where their hoary
   Crowned heads melt away in the skies,
The beautiful mountains of glory
   Each side of the song-ocean rise.
Here day is one splendour of sky-light--
   Of God's light with beauty replete.
Here night is not night, but is twilight,
   Pervading, enfolding, and sweet.

Bright birds from all climes and all regions,
   That sing the whole glad summer long,
Are dumb, till they flock here in legions
   And lave in the ocean of song.
It is here that the four winds of heaven,
   The winds that do sing and rejoice,
It is here they first came and were given
   The secret of sound and a voice.

Far down along beautiful beeches,
   By night and by glorious day,
The throng of the gifted ones reaches,
   Their foreheads made white with the spray,
And a few of the sons and the daughters
   Of this kingdom, cloud-hidden from sight,
Go down in the wonderful waters,
   And bathe in those billows of light.

And their souls evermore are like fountains,
   And liquid and lucent and strong,
High over the tops of the mountains
   Gush up the sweet billows of song.
No drouth-time of waters can dry them.
   Whoever has bathed in that sea,
All dangers, all deaths, they defy them,
   And are gladder than gods are, with glee.


GETHSEMANE

In golden youth when seems the earth
A Summer-land of singing mirth,
When souls are glad and hearts are light,
And not a shadow lurks in sight,
We do not know it, but there lieu
Somewhere veiled under evening skies
A garden which we all must see--
The garden of Gethsemane.

With joyous steps we go our ways,
Love lends a halo to our days;
Light sorrows sail like clouds afar,
We laugh, and say how strong we are.
We hurry on; and hurrying, go
Close to the borderland of woe
That waits for you, and waits for me--
Forever waits Gethsemane.

Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams,
Bridged over by our broken dreams;
Behind the misty caps of years,
Beyond the great salt fount of tears,
The garden lies.  Strive as you may,
You cannot miss it in your way;
All paths that have been, or shall be,
Pass somewhere through Gethsemane.

All those who journey, soon or late,
Must pass within the garden's gate;
Must kneel alone in darkness there,
And battle with some fierce despair.
God pity those who cannot say,
"Not mine but Thine"; who only pray
"Let this cup pass," and cannot see
The PURPOSE in Gethsemane.


DUST-SEALED

I know not wherefore, but mine eyes
   See bloom, where other eyes see blight.
They find a rainbow, a sunrise,
   Where others but discern deep night.

Men call me an enthusiast,
   And say I look through gilded haze:
Because where'er my gaze is cast,
   I see something that calls for praise.

I say, "Behold those lovely eyes--
   That tinted cheek of flower-like grace."
They answer in amused surprise:
   "We thought it a common face."

I say, "Was ever seen more fair?
   I seem to walk in Eden's bowers."
They answer, with a pitying air,
   "The weeds are choking out the flowers."

I know not wherefore, but God lent
   A deeper vision to my sight.
On whatsoe'er my gaze is bent
   I catch the beauty Infinite;

That underlying, hidden half
   That all things hold of Deity.
So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh--
   Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.


"ADVICE"

I must do as you do?  Your way I own
   Is a very good way.  And still,
There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,
   One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,
   That the prudent choose each time;
And you think me reckless and rash to-day,
   Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine.
   We are not like peas in a pod,
Compelled to lie in a certain line,
   Or else be scattered abroad.

'Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend,
   If we all went just one way;
Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,
   Though they lead apart to-day.

You like the shade, and I like the sun;
   You like an even pace,
 I like to mix with the crowd and run,
   And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm and strife,
   You like a peaceful time;
I like the passion and surge of life,
   You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet,
   And crocuses, framed in snow;
I like roses, born of the heat,
   And the red carnation's glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend,
   For so it was written down;
We must follow our given paths to the end,
   But I trust we shall meet--in town.


OVER THE BANISTERS

Over the banisters bends a face,
   Daringly sweet and beguiling.
Somebody stands in careless grace
   And watching the picture, smiling.

The light burns dim in the hall below,
   Nobody sees her standing,
Saying good-night again, soft and low,
   Halfway up to the landing.

Nobody only the eyes of brown,
   Tender and full of meaning,
That smile on the fairest face in town,
   Over the banisters leaning.

Tired and sleepy, with drooping head,
   I wonder why she lingers;
Now, when the good-nights all are said,
   Why, somebody holds her fingers.

He holds her fingers and draws her down,
   Suddenly growing bolder,
Till the loose hair drops its masses brown
   Like a mantle over his shoulder.

Over the banisters soft hands, fair,
   Brush his cheeks like a feather,
And bright brown tresses and dusky hair
   Meet and mingle together.

There's a question asked, there's a swift caress,
   She has flown like a bird from the hallway,
But over the banisters drops a "Yes,"
   That shall brighten the world for him alway.


MOMUS, GOD OF LAUGHTER

Though with gods the world is cumbered,
Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered,
Never god was known to be
Who had not his devotee.
So I dedicate to mine,
Here in verse, my temple-shrine.

'Tis not Ares,--mighty Mars,
Who can give success in wars.
'Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep
Guard above us while we sleep,
'Tis not Venus, she whose duty
'Tis to give us love and beauty;
Hail to these, and others, after
Momus, gleesome god of laughter.

Quirinus would guard my health,
Plutus would insure me wealth;
Mercury looks after trade,
Hera smiles on youth and maid.
All are kind, I own their worth,
After Momus, god of mirth.

Though Apollo, out of spite,
Hides away his face of light,
Though Minerva looks askance,
Deigning me no smiling glance,
Kings and queens may envy me
While I claim the god of glee.

Wisdom wearies, Love has wings--
Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings,
Glory proves a thorny crown--
So all gifts the gods throw down
Bring their pains and troubles after;
All save Momus, god of laughter.
He alone gives constant joy.
Hail to Momus, happy boy.


THE FAREWELL

'Tis not the untried soldier new to danger
  Who fears to enter into active strife.
Amidst the roll of drums, the cannon's rattle,
  He craves adventure, and thinks not of life.

But the scarred veteran knows the price of glory,
  He does not court the conflict or the fray.
He has no longing to rehearse that gory
  And most dramatic act, of war's dark play.

He who to love has always been a stranger
  All unafraid may linger in your spell.
My heart has known the warfare, and its danger.
  It craves no repetition--so farewell.


THE PAST

I fling my past behind me like a robe
Worn threadbare in the seams, and out of date.
I have outgrown it.  Wherefore should I weep
And dwell upon its beauty, and its dyes
Of Oriental splendour, or complain
That I must needs discard it?  I can weave
Upon the shuttles of the future years
A fabric far more durable.  Subdued,
It may be, in the blending of its hues,
Where sombre shades commingle, yet the gleam
Of golden warp shall shoot it through and through,
While over all a fadeless lustre lies,
And starred with gems made out of crystalled tears,
My new robe shall be richer than the old.


"IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN"

We will be what we could be.  Do not say,
   "It might have been, had not or that, or this."
No fate can keep us from the chosen way;
      He only might, who IS.

We will do what we could do.  Do not dream
   Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve.
I hold, all men are greatly what they seem;
      He does, who could achieve.

We will climb where we could climb.  Tell me not
   Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height.
What eagle ever missed the peak he sought?
      He always climbs who might.

I do not like the phrase, "It might have been!"
   It lacks all force, and life's best truths perverts
For I believe we have, and reach, and win,
      Whatever our deserts.


THE SONNET

Alone it stands in Poesy's fair land,
   A temple by the muses set apart;
   A perfect structure of consummate art,
By artists builded and by genius planned,
Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand,
   Beyond the ken of the untutored heart,
   Like a fine carving in a common mart,
Only the favoured few will understand.
A chef d'œuvre toiled over with great care,
   Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by,
A plainly set, but well-cut solitaire,
An ancient bit of pottery, too rare
   To please or hold aught save the special eye,
These only with the sonnet can compare.


NOTHING NEW

FROM the dawn of spring till the year grows hoary,
  Nothing is new that is done or said,
The leaves are telling the same old story--
  "Budding, bursting, dying, dead."
And ever and always the wild birds' chorus
  Is "coming, building, flying, fled."

Never the round Earth roams or ranges
  Out of her circuit, so old, so old,
And the smile o' the sun knows but these changes--
  Beaming, burning, tender, cold,
As spring-time softens or winter estranges
  The mighty heart of this orb of gold.

From our great sire's birth to the last morn's breaking
  There were tempest, sunshine, fruit, and frost.
And the sea was calm or the sea was shaking
  His mighty mane like a lion crossed,
And ever this cry the heart was making--
  Longing, loving, losing, lost.

For ever the wild wind wanders, crying,
  Southerly, easterly, north and west,
And one worn song the fields are sighing,
  "Sowing, growing, harvest, rest,"
And the tired thought of the world, replying
  Like an echo to what is last and best,
          Murmurs--"Rest."


HELENA

Last night I saw Helena.  She whose praise
   Of late all men have sounded.  She for whom
   Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb
Rather than live without her all his days.

Wise men go mad who look upon her long,
   She is so ripe with dangers.  Yet meanwhile
   I find no fascination in her smile,
Although I make her theme of this poor song.

"Her golden tresses?" yes, they may be fair,
   And yet to me each shining silken tress
   Seems robbed of beauty and all lustreless--
Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.

(I know a little maiden so demure
   She will not let her one true lover's hands
   In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands
So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)

"Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night?
   Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?" that may be,
   And yet they are not beautiful to me.
Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.

(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid
   So underneath white curtains, and so veiled
   That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed
To see more than the shyly lifted lid.)

"Her perfect mouth so liked a carved kiss?"
   "Her honeyed-mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?"
   I would not taste its sweetness for a crown;
Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.

(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried,
   Lies like a young grape's bloom, untouched and sweet,
   And though I plead in passion at her feet,
She would not let me brush it if I died.)

In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie
   For thy rare smile, or die from loss of it,
   Armoured by my sweet lady's trust, I sit,
And know thou are not worth her faintest sigh.


NOTHING REMAINS

Nothing remains of unrecorded ages
   That lie in the silent cemetery time;
Their wisdom may have shamed our wisest sages,
   Their glory may have been indeed sublime.
How weak do seem our strivings after power,
   How poor the grandest efforts of our brains,
If out of all we are, in one short hour
         Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Spaces,
   Time and decay uproot the forest trees.
Even the mighty mountains leave their places,
   And sink their haughty heads beneath strange seas
The great earth writhes in some convulsive spasms
   And turns the proudest cities into plains.
The level sea becomes a yawning chasm--
      Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Forces,
   The sad seas cease complaining and grow dry,
Rivers are drained and altered in their courses,
   Great stars pass out and vanish from the sky.
Ideas die and old religions perish,
   Our rarest pleasures and our keenest pains
Are swept away with all we hate or cherish--
      Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Nameless
   And all-creative spirit of the Law,
Uncomprehended, comprehensive, blameless,
   Invincible, resistless, with no flaw;
So full of love it must create for ever,
   Destroying that it may create again,
Persistent and perfecting in endeavour,
   It yet must bring forth angels, after men--
      This, this remains!


FINIS

An idle rhyme of the summer time,
  Sweet, and solemn, and tender;
Fair with the haze of the moon's pale rays,
  Bright with the sunset's splendor.

Summer and beauty over the lands--
  Careless hours of pleasure;
A meeting of eyes and a touching of hands--
  A change in the floating measure.

A deeper hue in the skies of blue,
   Winds from the tropics blowing;
A softer grace on the fair moon's face,
   And the summer going, going.

The leaves drift down, the green grows brown,
  And tears with smiles are blended;
A twilight hour and a treasured flower,--
  And now the poem is ended.


APPLAUSE

I hold it one of the sad certain laws
Which makes our failures sometime seem more kind
Than that success which brings sure loss behind--
True greatness dies, when sounds the world's applause
Fame blights the object it would bless, because
   Weighed down with men's expectancy, the mind
   Can no more soar to those far heights, and find
That freedom which its inspiration was.
When once we listen to its noisy cheers
   Or hear the populace' approval, then
We catch no more the music of the spheres,
   Or walk with gods, and angels, but with men.
Till, impotent from our self-conscious fears,
The plaudits of the world turn into sneers.


LIFE

Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee,
Doth bear us on his shoulder for a time.
There is no path too steep for him to climb.
With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free,
As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea,
   By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime,
   And all the world seems motion set to rhyme,
Till, tired out, he cries, "Now carry me!"
   In vain we murmur; "Come," Life says, "Fair play!"
And seizes on us.  God! he goads us so!
   He does not let us sit down all the day.
At each new step we feel the burden grow,
Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go,
   Watching for Death to meet us on the way.


THE STORY

They met each other in the glade--
   She lifted up her eyes;
Alack the day!  Alack the maid!
   She blushed in swift surprise.
Alas! alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.

The pail was full, the path was steep--
   He reached to her his hand;
She felt her warm young pulses leap,
   But did not understand.
Alas! alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.

She sat beside him in the wood--
   He wooed with words and sighs;
Ah! love in Spring seems sweet and good,
   And maidens are not wise.
Alas! alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers sighs.

The summer sun shone fairly down,
   The wind blew from the south;
As blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown,
   His kiss fell on her mouth.
Alas! alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.

And now the autumn time is near,
   The lover roves away,
With breaking heart and falling tear,
   She sits the livelong day.
Alas! alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.


LET THEM GO

Let the dream go.  Are there not other dreams
   In vastness of clouds hid from thy sight
That yet shall gild with beautiful gold gleams,
   And shoot the shadows through and through with light?
   What matters one lost vision of the night?
         Let the dream go!!

Let the hope set.  Are there not other hopes
   That yet shall rise like new stars in thy sky?
Not long a soul in sullen darkness gropes
   Before some light is lent it from on high;
   What folly to think happiness gone by!
         Let the hope set!

Let the joy fade.  Are there not other joys,
   Like frost-bound bulbs, that yet shall start and bloom?
Severe must be the winter that destroys
   The hardy roots locked in their silent tomb.
   What cares the earth for her brief time of gloom
         Let the joy fade!

Let the love die.  Are there not other loves
   As beautiful and full of sweet unrest,
Flying through space like snowy-pinioned doves?
   They yet shall come and nestle in thy breast,
And thou shalt say of each, "Lo, this is best!"
         Let the love die!


THE ENGINE

INTO the gloom of the deep, dark night,
    With panting breath and a startled scream;
Swift as a bird in sudden flight,
  Darts this creature of steel and steam.

Awful dangers are lurking nigh,
  Rocks and chasms are near the track,
But straight by the light of its great white eye,
  It speeds through the shadows, dense and black.

Terrible thoughts and fierce desires
  Trouble its mad heart many an hour,
Where burn and smoulder the hidden fires,
  Coupled ever with might and power.

It hates, as a wild horse hates the rein,
  The narrow track by vale and hill:
And shrieks with a cry of startled pain;
  And longs to follow its own wild will.

O, what am I but an engine, shod
  With muscle and flesh, by the hand of God,
Speeding on through the dense, dark night,
  Guided alone by the soul's white light.

Often and often my mad heart tires,
  And hates its way with a bitter hate,
And longs to follow its own desires,
  And leave the end in the hands of fate.

O mighty engine of steel and steam;
  O human engine of blood and bone,
 Follow the white light's certain beam--
  There lies safety, and there alone.

The narrow track of fearless truth,
  Lit by the soul's great eye of light,
O passionate heart of restless youth,
  Alone will carry you through the night.


IN THE LONG RUN

In the long run fame finds the deserving man.
   The lucky wight may prosper for a day,
But in good time true merit leads the van
   And vain pretence, unnoticed, goes its way.
There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate,
But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait,
      In the long run.

In the long run all godly sorrow pays,
   There is no better thing than righteous pain,
The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days,
   Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain.
Unmeaning joys enervate in the end,
But sorrow yields a glorious dividend
      In the long run.

In the long run all hidden things are known,
   The eye of truth will penetrate the night,
And good or ill, thy secret shall be known,
   However well 'tis guarded from the light.
All the unspoken motives of the breast
Are fathomed by the years and stand confess'd
      In the long run.

In the long run all love is paid by love,
   Though undervalued by the hosts of earth;
The great eternal Government above
   Keeps strict account and will redeem its worth.
Give thy love freely; do not count the cost;
So beautiful a thing was never lost
      In the long run.


A SONG

IS anyone sad in the world, I wonder?
  Does anyone weep on a day like this
With the sun above, and the green earth under?
  Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

With the sun, and the skies, and the bird, above me,
  Birds that sing as they wheel and fly--
With the winds to follow and say they love me--
  Who could be lonely? O no, not I!

Somebody said, in the street this morning,
  As I opened my window to let in the light,
That the darkest day of the world was dawning;
  But I looked, and the East was a gorgeous sight.

One who claims that he knows about it
  Tells me the Earth is a vale of sin;
But I and the bees and the birds--we doubt it,
  And think it a world worth living in.

Some one says that hearts are fickle,
  That love is sorrow, that life is care,
And the reaper Death, with his shining sickle,
  Gathers whatever is bright and fair.

I told the thrush, and we laughed together,
  Laughed till the woods were all a-ring;
And he said to me, as he plumed each feather,
  "Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing."

Up he flew, but his song, remaining,
  Rang like a bell in my heart all day,
And silenced the voices of weak complaining,
  That pipe like insects along the way.

O world of light, and O world of beauty!
  Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine?
Yes, life is love, and love is duty;
  And what heart sorrows?  O no, not mine!


THE TWO GLASSES

There sat two glasses, filled to the brim,
On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
One was ruddy, and red as blood,
And one was as clear as the crystal flood.

Said the glass of wine to his paler brother,
"Let us tell tales of the past to each other;
I can tell of banquet, and revel, and mirth,
Where I was king, for I ruled in might.
And the proudest and grandest souls on earth
Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
From the heads of kings, I have torn the crown,
From the heights of fame, I have hurled men down;
I have blasted many an honored name,
I have taken virtue, and given shame;
I have tempted the youth, with a sip, a taste,
That has made his future a barren waste.
Far greater than any king am I,
Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made the arm of the driver fail,
And sent the train from its iron rail.
I have made good ships go down at sea,
And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me;
For they said, 'Behold, how great you be!
Fame, strength, wealth, genius, before you fall,
And your might and power are over all.'"
"Ho! ho! pale brother," laughed the wine,
"Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"

Said the water glass, "I cannot boast
Of a king dethroned or a murdered host;
But I can tell of hearts that were sad,
By my crystal drops made light and glad.
Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I've laved;
Of hands I have cooled, and souls I've saved.
I have leaped through the valley, dashed down the mountain;
Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
I have burst my cloud fetters, and dropped from the sky,
And everywhere gladdened the landscape and eye.
I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain,
I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain;
I can tell of the powerful wheel o' the mill,
That ground out the flour, and turned at my will;
I can tell of manhood, debased by you,
That I have uplifted, and crowned anew.
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid,
I gladden the heart of man and maid;
I set the chained wine-captive free,
And all are better for knowing me."

These are the tales they told each other,
The glass of wine, and its paler brother,
As they sat together, filled to the brim,
On the rich man's table, rim to rim.


WHAT WE NEED

What does our country need?  No armies standing
   With sabres gleaming ready for the fight;
Not increased navies, skilful and commanding,
   To bound the waters with an iron might;
Not haughty men with glutted purses trying
   To purchase souls, and keep the power of place;
Not jewelled dolls with one another vying
   For palms of beauty, elegance, and grace.

But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly,
   With that rare meekness, born of gentleness;
Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy,
   The women whom all little children bless;
Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,
   With finest scorn for all things low and mean;
Women who hold the names of wife and mother
   Far nobler than the title of a queen.

Oh! these are they who mould the men of story,
   These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth,
Who, worn and weary, ask no greater glory
   Than making some young soul the home of truth;
Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowing
   The seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin,
And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growing
   And weed out tares which crafty hands cast in;

Women who do not hold the gift of beauty
   As some rare treasure to be bought and sold.
But guard it as a precious aid to duty--
   The outer framing of the inner gold;
Women who, low above their cradles bending,
   Let flattery's voice go by, and give no heed,
While their pure prayers like incense are ascending
   THESE are our country's pride, our country's need,


IS IT DONE?

It is done! in the fire's fitful flashes,
   The last line has withered and curled.
In a tiny white heap of dead ashes
   Lie buried the hopes of your world.
There were mad foolish vows in each letter,
   It is well they have shrivelled and burned,
And the ring! oh, the ring was a fetter,
   It was better removed and returned.

But ah, is it done?  In the embers
   Where letters and tokens were cast,
Have you burned up the heart that remembers,
   And treasures its beautiful past?
Do you think in this swift reckless fashion
   To ruthlessly burn and destroy
The months that were freighted with passion,
   The dreams that were drunken with joy?

Can you burn up the rapture of kisses
   That flashed from the lips to the soul,
Or the heart that grows sick for lost blisses
   In spite of its strength of control?
Have you burned up the touch of warm fingers
   That thrilled through each pulse and each vein,
Or the sound of a voice that still lingers
   And hurts with a haunting refrain?

Is it done? is the life drama ended?
   You have put all the lights out, and yet,
Though the curtain, rung down, has descended,
   Can the actors go home and forget?
Ah, no! they will turn in their sleeping
   With a strange restless pain in their hearts,
And in darkness, and anguish, and weeping,
   Will dream they are playing their parts.


BURDENED

"Genius, a man's weapon, a woman's burden."--Lamartine.

Dear God! there is no sadder fate in life
   Than to be burdened so that you can not
   Sit down contented with the common lot
Of happy mother and devoted wife.

To feel your brain wild and your bosom rife
   With all the sea's commotion; to be fraught
   With fires and frenzies which you have not sought,
And weighed down with the wild world's weary strife;

To feel a fever always in your breast;
   To lean and hear, half in affright, half shame,
   A loud-voiced public boldly mouth your name;
To reap your hard-sown harvest in unrest,
   And know, however great your meed of fame,
You are but a weak woman at the best.


TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY?
A GIRL'S REVERIE

Mother says, "Be in no hurry,
Marriage oft means care and worry."

Auntie says, with manner grave,
"Wife is synonym for slave."

Father asks, in tones commanding,
"How does Bradstreet rate his standing?"

Sister crooning to her twins,
Sighs, "With marriage care begins."

Grandma, near life's closing days,
Murmurs, "Sweet are girlhood's ways."

Maud, twice widowed ("sod and grass")
Looks at me and moans "Alas!"

They are six, and I am one,
Life for me has just begun.

They are older, calmer, wiser:
Age should aye be youth's adviser.

They must know--and yet, dear me,
When in Harry's eyes I see

All the world of love there burning--
On my six advisers turning,

I make answer, "Oh, but Harry
Is not like most men who marry.

"Fate has offered me a prize,
Life with love means Paradise.

"Life without it is not worth
All the foolish joys of earth."

So, in spite of all they say,
I shall name the wedding day.


A MARCH SNOW

Let the old snow be covered with the new:
The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden.
Let it be hidden wholly from our view
   By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden.
When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring's feet,
Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet.
Let the old life be covered by the new:
   The old past life so full of sad mistakes,
Let it be wholly hidden from the view
   By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes.
Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring
Let the white mantle of repentance fling
Soft drapery about it, fold on fold,
Even as the new snow covers up the old.


COMRADES

I and my Soul are alone to-day,
   All in the shining weather;
We were sick of the world, and put it away,
   So we could rejoice together.

Our host, the Sun, in the blue, blue sky
   Is mixing a rare, sweet wine,
In the burnished gold of this cup on high,
   For me, and this Soul of mine.

We find it a safe and royal drink,
   And a cure for every pain;
It helps us to love, and helps us to think,
   And strengthens body and brain.

And sitting here, with my Soul alone,
   Where the yellow sun-rays fall,
Of all the friends I have ever known
   I find it the BEST of all.

We rarely meet when the world is near,
   For the World hath a pleasing art
And brings me so much that is bright and dear
   That my Soul it keepeth apart.

But when I grow weary of mirth and glee,
   Of glitter, glow, and splendour,
Like a tried old friend it comes to me,
   With a smile that is sad and tender.

And we walk together as two friends may,
   And laugh and drink God's wine.
Oh, a royal comrade any day
   I find this Soul of mine.


IN THE CROWD

HOW happy they are, in all seeming,
  How gay, or how smilingly proud,
How brightly their faces are beaming,
  These people who make up the crowd.
How they bow, how they bend, how they flutter,
  How they look at each other and smile,
How they glow, and what _bons mots_ they utter!
  But a strange thought has found me the while!

It is odd, but I stand here and fancy
  These people who now play a part,
All forced by some strange necromancy
  To speak, and to act, from the heart.
What a hush would come over the laughter!
  What a silence would fall on the mirth!
And then what a wail would sweep after,
  As the night-wind sweeps over the earth,

If, the secrets held under and hidden,
  In the intricate hearts of the crowd,
Were suddenly called to, and bidden
  To rise up and cry out aloud,
How strange one would look to another!
  Old friends of long standing and years--
Own brothers, would not know each other,
  Robed new in their sorrows and fears,

From broadcloth, and velvet, and laces,
  Would echo the groans of despair,
And there would be blanching of faces
  And wringing of hands and of hair.
That man with his record of honour,
  The lady down there with the rose,
That girl with Spring's freshness upon her,
  Who knoweth the secrets of those?

Smile on, O ye maskers, smile sweetly!
  Step lightly, bow low and laugh loud!
Though the world is deceived and completely,
  I know ye, O sad-hearted crowd!
I watch you with infinite pity:
  But play on, play ever your part,
Be gleeful, be joyful, be witty!
  'Tis better than showing the heart.


INTO SPACE

If the sad old world should jump a cog
   Sometime, in its dizzy spinning,
And go off the track with a sudden jog,
   What an end would come to the sinning,
What a rest from strife and the burdens of life
   For the millions of people in it,
What a way out of care, and worry and wear,
   All in a beautiful minute.

As 'round the sun with a curving sweep
   It hurries and runs and races,
Should it lose its balance, and go with a leap
   Into the vast sea-spaces,
What a blest relief it would bring to the grief,
   And the trouble and toil about us,
To be suddenly hurled from the solar world
   And let it go on without us.

With not a sigh or a sad good-bye
   For loved ones left behind us,
We would go with a lunge and a mighty plunge
   Where never a grave should find us.
What a wild mad thrill our veins would fill
   As the great earth, like a feather,
Should float through the air to God knows where,
   And carry us all together.

No dark, damp tomb and no mourner's gloom,
   No tolling bell in the steeple,
But in one swift breath a painless death
   For a million billion people.
What greater bliss could we ask than this,
   To sweep with a bird's free motion
Through leagues of space to a resting place,
   In a vast and vapoury ocean--
To pass away from this life for aye
   With never a dear tie sundered,
And a world on fire for a funeral pyre,
   While the stars looked on and wondered?


SNOWED UNDER

Of a thousand things that the Year snowed under--
   The busy Old Year who has gone away--
How many will rise in the Spring, I wonder,
   Brought to life by the sun of May?
Will the rose-tree branches, so wholly hidden
   That never a rose-tree seems to be,
At the sweet Spring's call come forth unbidden,
   And bud in beauty, and bloom for me?

Will the fair green Earth, whose throbbing bosom
   Is hid like a maid's in her gown at night,
Wake out of her sleep, and with blade and blossom
   Gem her garments to please my sight?
Over the knoll in the valley yonder
   The loveliest buttercups bloomed and grew;
When the snow has gone that drifted them under,
   Will they shoot up sunward, and bloom anew?

When wild winds blew, and a sleet-storm pelted,
   I lost a jewel of priceless worth;
If I walk that way when snows have melted,
   Will the gem gleam up from the bare brown Earth?
I laid a love that was dead or dying,
   For the year to bury and hide from sight;
But out of a trance will it waken, crying,
   And push to my heart, like a leaf to the light?

Under the snow lie things so cherished--
   Hopes, ambitions, and dreams of men--
Faces that vanished, and trusts that perished,
   Never to sparkle and glow again.
The Old Year greedily grasped his plunder,
   And covered it over and hurried away:
Of the thousand things that he did, I wonder
   How many will rise at the call of May?
O wise Young Year, with your hands held under
   Your mantle of ermine, tell me, pray!


NOBLESSE OBLIGE

I hold it the duty of one who is gifted
   And specially dowered in all men's sight,
To know no rest till his life is lifted
   Fully up to his great gifts' height.

He must mould the man into rare completeness,
   For gems are set only in gold refined.
He must fashion his thoughts into perfect sweetness.
   And cast out folly and pride from his mind.

For he who drinks from a god's gold fountain
   Of art or music or rhythmic song
Must sift from his soul the chaff of malice,
   And weed from his heart the roots of wrong.

Great gifts should be worn, like a crown befitting,
   And not like gems in a beggar's hands!
And the toil must be constant and unremitting
   Which lifts up the king to the crown's demands.


THE YEAR

What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That's not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of the year.


THROUGH DIM EYES

Is it the world, or my eyes, that are sadder?
I see not the grace that I used to see
In the meadow-brook whose song was so glad, or
In the boughs of the willow tree.
The brook runs slower--its song seems lower
And not the song that it sang of old;
And the tree I admired looks weary and tired
Of the changeless story of heat and cold.

When the sun goes up, and the stars go under,
In that supreme hour of the breaking day,
Is it my eyes, or the dawn, I wonder,
That finds less of the gold, and more of the gray
I see not the splendour, the tints so tender,
The rose-hued glory I used to see;
And I often borrow a vague half-sorrow
That another morning has dawned for me.

When the royal smile of that welcome comer
Beams on the meadow and burns in the sky,
Is it my eyes, or does the Summer
Bring less of bloom than in days gone by?
The beauty that thrilled me, the rapture that filled me,
To an overflowing of happy tears,
I pass unseeing, my sad eyes being
Dimmed by the shadow of vanished years.

When the heart grows weary, all things seem dreary;
When the burden grows heavy, the way seems long.
Thank God for sending kind death as an ending,
Like a grand Amen to a minor song.


TRUE CULTURE

The highest culture is to speak no ill,
The best reformer is the man whose eyes
Are quick to see all beauty and all worth;
And by his own discreet, well-ordered life,
Alone reproves the erring.

      When thy gaze
Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe.
But when it falls upon a fellow-man
Let kindliness control it; and refrain
From that belittling censure that springs forth
From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.


WHAT GAIN?

Now, while thy rounded cheek is fresh and fair,
   While beauty lingers, laughing, in thine eyes,
Ere thy young heart shall meet the stranger, "Care,"
   Or thy blithe soul become the home of sighs,
Were it not kindness should I give thee rest
By plunging this sharp dagger in thy breast?
Dying so young, with all thy wealth of youth,
What part of life wouldst thou not claim, in sooth?
         Only the woe,
      Sweetheart, that sad souls know.

Now, in this sacred hour of supreme trust,
   Of pure delight and palpitating joy,
Ere change can come, as come it surely must,
   With jarring doubts and discords, to destroy
Our far too perfect peace, I pray thee, Sweet,
Were it not best for both of us, and meet,
If I should bring swift death to seal our bliss?
Dying so full of joy, what could we miss?
         Nothing but tears,
      Sweetheart, and weary years.

How slight the action!  Just one well-aimed blow
   Here, where I feel thy warm heart's pulsing beat,
And then another through my own, and so
   Our perfect union would be made complete:
So, past all parting, I should claim thee mine.
Dead with our youth, and faith, and love divine,
Should we not keep the best of life that way?
What shall we gain by living day on day?
         What shall we gain,
      Sweetheart, but bitter pain?


THE CHRISTIAN'S NEW YEAR PRAYER

Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low bending
   Through these glad New Year days,
To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending--
   For e'en hard hearts do raise
Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power,
   Or freedom from all care--
Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour,
   Hear now a Christian's prayer.

Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me,
   Be as a means of grace
To lead me up, no matter what betide me,
   Nearer the Master's face.
If it need be that ere I reach the Fountain
   Where living waters play,
My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain,
   Then cast them in my way.

If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses
   To shape it for Thy crown,
Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses,
   With sorrows bear it down.
Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure,
   And if I should complain,
Heap full of anguish yet another measure
   Until I smile at pain.
Send dangers--deaths! but tell me how to dare them;
   Enfold me in Thy care.
Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them--
This is a Christian's prayer.


AND THEY ARE DUMB

I have been across the bridges of the years.
      Wet with tears
Were the ties on which I trod, going back
      Down the track
To the valley where I left, 'neath skies of Truth,
      My lost youth.

As I went, I dropped my burdens, one and all--
      Let them fall;
All my sorrows, all my wrinkles, all my care,
      My white hair,
I laid down, like some lone pilgrim's heavy pack,
      By the track.

As I neared the happy valley with light feet,
      My heart beat
To the rhythm of a song I used to know
      Long ago,
And my spirits gushed and bubbled like a fountain
      Down a mountain.

On the border of that valley I found you,
      Tried and true;
And we wandered through the golden Summer-Land
      Hand in hand.
And my pulses beat with rapture in the blisses
      Of your kisses.

And we met there, in those green and verdant places,
      Smiling faces,
And sweet laughter echoed upward from the dells
      Like gold bells.
And the world was spilling over with the glory
      Of Youth's story.

It was but a dreamer's journey of the brain;
      And again
I have left the happy valley far behind;
      And I find
Time stands waiting with his burdens in a pack
      For my back.

As he speeds me, like a rough, well-meaning friend,
      To the end,
Will I find again the lost ones loved so well?
      Who can tell!
But the dead know what the life will be to come--
      And they are dumb!







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