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?



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.



TO THE WEST.

[In an interview with Lawrence Barrett, he said: "The literature of the New World must look to the West for its poetry."]

Not to the crowded East, Where, in a well-worn groove, Like the harnessed wheel of a great machine, The trammeled mind must move— Where Thought must follow the fashion of Thought, Or be counted vulgar and set at naught.

Not to the languid South, Where the mariners of the brain Are lured by the Sirens of the Sense, And wrecked upon its main— Where Thought is rocked, on the sweet wind's breath, To a torpid sleep that ends in death.

But to the mighty West, That chosen realm of God, Where Nature reaches her hands to men, And Freedom walks abroad— Where mind is King, and fashion is naught: There shall the New World look for thought.

To the West, the beautiful West, She shall look, and not in vain— For out of its broad and boundless store Come muscle, and nerve, and brain. Let the bards of the East and the South be dumb— For out of the West shall the Poets come.

They shall come with souls as great As the cradle where they were rocked; They shall come with brows that are touched with fire, Like the Gods with whom they have walked; They shall come from the West in royal state, The Singers and Thinkers for whom we wait.



THE LAND OF CONTENT.

I set out for the Land of Content, By the gay crowded pleasure-highway, With laughter, and jesting, I went With the mirth-loving throng for a day; Then I knew I had wandered astray, For I met returned pilgrims, belated, Who said, "We are weary and sated, But we found not the Land of Content."

I turned to the steep path of fame, I said, "It is over yon height— This land with the beautiful name— Ambition will lend me its light." But I paused in my journey ere night, For the way grew so lonely and troubled; I said—my anxiety doubled— "This is not the road to Content."

Then I joined the great rabble and throng That frequents the moneyed world's mart; But the greed, and the grasping and wrong, Left me only one wish—to depart. And sickened, and saddened at heart, I hurried away from the gateway, For my soul and my spirit said straightway, "This is not the road to Content."

Then weary in body and brain, An overgrown path I detected, And I said "I will hide with my pain In this by-way, unused and neglected." Lo! it led to the realm God selected To crown with his best gifts of beauty, And through the dark pathway of duty I came to the land of Content.



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.



WARNING.

High in the heavens I saw the moon this morning, Albeit the sun shone bright; Unto my soul it spoke, in voice of warning, "Remember Night!"



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 mold 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.



IN THE NIGHT.

Sometimes at night, when I sit and write, I hear the strangest things,— As my brain grows hot with burning thought, That struggles for form and wings, I can hear the beat of my swift blood's feet, As it speeds with a rush and a whir From heart to brain and back again, Like a race-horse under the spur.

With my soul's fine ear I listen and hear The tender Silence speak, As it leans on the breast of Night to rest, And presses his dusky cheek. And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns For something that is kin; And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss, As it folds and fondles Sin.

In its hurrying race through leagues of space, I can hear the Earth catch breath, As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans, And longs for the rest of Death. And high and far, from a distant star, Whose name is unknown to me, I hear a voice that says, "Rejoice, For I keep ward o'er thee!"

Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range Through the chambers of the night; And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates, May hear, if he lists aright.



GOD'S MEASURE.

God measures souls by their capacity For entertaining his best Angel, Love. Who loveth most is nearest kin to God, Who is all Love, or Nothing. He who sits And looks out on the palpitating world, And feels his heart swell in him large enough To hold all men within it, he is near His great Creator's standard, though he dwells Outside the pale of churches, and knows not A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line Of Scripture even. What God wants of us Is that outreaching bigness that ignores All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds, And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.



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.



AFTER THE BATTLES ARE OVER.

[Read at Re-union of the G. A. T., Madison, Wis., July 4, 1872.]

After the battles are over, And the war drums cease to beat, And no more is heard on the hillside The sound of hurrying feet, Full many a noble action, That was done in the days of strife, By the soldier is half forgotten, In the peaceful walks of life.

Just as the tangled grasses, In Summer's warmth and light, Grow over the graves of the fallen And hide them away from sight, So many an act of valor, And many a deed sublime, Fade from the mind of the soldier, O'ergrown by the grass of time.

Not so should they be rewarded, Those noble deeds of old; They should live forever and ever, When the heroes' hearts are cold. Then rally, ye brave old comrades, Old veterans, re-unite! Uproot Time's tangled grasses— Live over the march, and the fight.

Let Grant come up from the White House, And clasp each brother's hand, First chieftain of the army, Last chieftain of the land. Let him rest from a nation's burdens, And go, in thought, with his men, Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh, And save the day again.

This silent hero of battles Knew no such word as defeat. It was left for the rebels' learning, Along with the word—retreat. He was not given to talking, But he found that guns would preach In a way that was more convincing Than fine and flowery speech.

Three cheers for the grave commander Of the grand old Tennessee! Who won the first great battle— Gained the first great victory. His motto was always "Conquer," "Success" was his countersign, And "though it took all Summer," He kept fighting upon "that line."

Let Sherman, the stern old General, Come rallying with his men; Let them march once more through Georgia And down to the sea again. Oh! that grand old tramp to Savannah, Three hundred miles to the coast, It will live in the heart of the nation, Forever its pride and boast.

As Sheridan went to the battle, When a score of miles away, He has come to the feast and banquet, By the iron horse, to-day. Its pace is not much swifter Than the pace of that famous steed Which bore him down to the contest And saved the day by his speed.

Then go over the ground to-day, boys, Tread each remembered spot. It will be a gleesome journey, On the swift-shod feet of thought; You can fight a bloodless battle, You can skirmish along the route, But it's not worth while to forage, There are rations enough without.

Don't start if you hear the cannon, It is not the sound of doom, It does not call to the contest— To the battle's smoke and gloom. "Let us have peace," was spoken, And lo! peace ruled again; And now the nation is shouting, Through the cannon's voice, "Amen."

O boys who besieged old Vicksburg, Can time e'er wash away The triumph of her surrender, Nine years ago to-day? Can you ever forget the moment, When you saw the flag of white, That told how the grim old city Had fallen in her might?

Ah, 'twas a bold brave army, When the boys, with a right good will, Went gayly marching and singing To the fight at Champion Hill. They met with a warm reception, But the soul of "Old John Brown" Was abroad on that field of battle, And our flag did NOT go down.

Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain, Of Corinth and Donelson, Of Kenesaw and Atlanta, And tell how the day was won! Hush! bow the head for a moment— There are those who cannot come. No bugle-call can arouse them— No sound of fife or drum.

Oh, boys who died for the country, Oh, dear and sainted dead! What can we say about you That has not once been said? Whether you fell in the contest, Struck down by shot and shell, Or pined 'neath the hand of sickness Or starved in the prison cell,

We know that you died for Freedom, To save our land from shame, To rescue a periled Nation, And we give you deathless fame. 'T was the cause of Truth and Justice That you fought and perished for, And we say it, oh, so gently, "Our boys who died in the war."

Saviors of our Republic, Heroes who wore the blue, We owe the peace that surrounds us— And our Nation's strength to you. We owe it to you that our banner, The fairest flag in the world, Is to-day unstained, unsullied, On the Summer air unfurled.

We look on its stripes and spangles, And our hearts are filled the while With love for the brave commanders, And the boys of the rank and file. The grandest deeds of valor Were never written out, The noblest acts of virtue The world knows nothing about.

And many a private soldier, Who walks his humble way, With no sounding name or title, Unknown to the world to-day, In the eyes of God is a hero As worthy of the bays, As any mighty General To whom the world gives praise.

Brave men of a mighty army, We extend you friendship's hand! I speak for the "Loyal Women," Those pillars of our land. We wish you a hearty welcome, We are proud that you gather here To talk of old times together On this brightest day in the year.

And if Peace, whose snow-white pinions, Brood over our land to-day, Should ever again go from us, (God grant she may ever stay!) Should our Nation call in her peril For "Six hundred thousand more," The loyal women would hear her, And send you out as before.

We would bring out the treasured knapsack, We would take the sword from the wall, And hushing our own hearts' pleadings, Hear only the country's call. For next to our God, is our Nation; And we cherish the honored name, Of the bravest of all brave armies Who fought for that Nation's fame.



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 mold 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.



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!



NIGHT.

As some dusk mother shields from all alarms The tired child she gathers to her breast, The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms, And hushes me to perfect peace and rest. Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear. O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art! Come, fold me closer to thy pulsing heart.

The day is full of gladness, and the light So beautifies the common outer things, I only see with my external sight, And only hear the great world's voice which rings But silently from daylight and from din The sweet Night draws me—whispers, "Look within!" And looking, as one wakened from a dream, I see what is—no longer what doth seem.

The Night says, "Listen!" and upon my ear Revealed, as are the visions to my sight, The voices known as "Beautiful" come near And whisper of the vastly Infinite. Great, blue-eyed Truth, her sister Purity, Their brother Honor, all converse with me, And kiss my brow, and say, "Be brave of heart!" O holy three! how beautiful thou art!

The Night says, "Child, sleep that thou may'st arise Strong for to-morrow's struggle." And I feel Her shadowy fingers pressing on my eyes: Like thistledown I float to the Ideal— The Slumberland, made beautiful and bright As death, by dreams of loved ones gone from sight, O food for soul's, sweet dreams of pure delight, How beautiful the holy hours of Night!



ALL FOR ME.

The world grows green on a thousand hills— By a thousand willows the bees are humming, And a million birds by a million rills, Sing of the golden season coming. But, gazing out on the sun-kist lea, And hearing a thrush and a blue-bird singing, I feel that the Summer is all for me, And all for me are the joys it is bringing.

All for me the bumble-bee Drones his song in the perfect weather; And, just on purpose to sing to me, Thrush and blue-bird came North together. Just for me, in red and white, Bloom and blossom the fields of clover; And all for me and my delight The wild Wind follows and plays the lover.

The mighty sun, with a scorching kiss (I have read, and heard, and do not doubt it) Has burned up a thousand worlds like this, And never stopped to think about it. And yet I believe he hurries up Just on purpose to kiss my flowers— To drink the dew from the lily-cup, And help it to grow through golden hours.

I know I am only a speck of dust, An individual mite of masses, Clinging upon the outer crust Of a little ball of cooling gases. And yet, and yet, say what you will, And laugh, if you please, at my lack of reason, For me wholly, and for me still, Blooms and blossoms the Summer season.

Nobody else has ever heard The story the Wind to me discloses; And none but I and the humming-bird Can read the hearts of the crimson roses. Ah, my Summer—my love—my own! The world grows glad in your smiling weather; Yet all for me, and me alone, You and your Court came north together.



PHILOSOPHY.

At morn the wise man walked abroad, Proud with the learning of great fools. He laughed and said, "There is no God— 'Tis force creates, 'tis reason rules."

Meek with the wisdom of great faith, At night he knelt while angels smiled, And wept and cried with anguished breath, "Jehovah, God, save thou my child."



"CARLOS."

Last night I knelt low at my lady's feet. One soft, caressing hand played with my hair, And one I kissed and fondled. Kneeling there, I deemed my meed of happiness complete.

She was so fair, so full of witching wiles— Of fascinating tricks of mouth and eye; So womanly withal, but not too shy— And all my heaven was compassed by her smiles.

Her soft touch on my cheek and forehead sent, Like little arrows, thrills of tenderness Through all my frame. I trembled with excess Of love, and sighed the sigh of great content.

When any mortal dares to so rejoice, I think a jealous Heaven, bending low, Reaches a stern hand forth and deals a blow. Sweet through the dusk I heard my lady's voice.

"My love!" she sighed, "My Carlos!" even now I feel the perfumed zephyr of her breath Bearing to me those words of living death, And starting out the cold drops on my brow.

For I am Paul—not Carlos! Who is he That, in the supreme hour of love's delight, Veiled by the shadows of the falling night, She should breathe low his name, forgetting me?

I will not ask her! 'twere a fruitless task, For, woman-like, she would make me believe Some well-told tale; and sigh, and seem to grieve, And call me cruel. Nay, I will not ask.

But this man Carlos, whosoe'er he be, Has turned my cup of nectar into gall, Since I know he has claimed some one or all Of these delights my lady grants to me.

He must have knelt and kissed her, in some sad And tender twilight, when the day grew dim. How else could I remind her so of him? Why, reveries like these have made men mad!

He must have felt her soft hand on his brow. If Heaven was shocked at such presumptuous wrongs, And plunged him in the grave, where he belongs, Still she remembers, though she loves me now.

And if he lives, and meets me to his cost, Why, what avails it? I must hear and see That curst name "Carlos" always haunting me— So has another Paradise been lost.



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 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 a banquet, and revel, and mirth, Where I was king, for I ruled in might; For 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 the iron rail. I have made good ships go down at sea, And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me. Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; And my might and power are over all! Ho, ho! pale brother," said 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 bright and glad; Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved; Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have 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 prospect 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 of 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 wine-chained 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 a rich man's table, rim to rim.



THROUGH TEARS.

An artist toiled over his pictures; He labored by night and by day. He struggled for glory and honor, But the world, it had nothing to say. His walls were ablaze with the splendors We see in the beautiful skies; But the world beheld only the colors That were made out of chemical dyes.

Time sped. And he lived, loved, and suffered; He passed through the valley of grief. Again he toiled over his canvas, Since in labor alone was relief. It showed not the splendor of colors Of those of his earlier years, But the world? the world bowed down before it, Because it was painted with tears.

A poet was gifted with genius, And he sang, and he sang all the days. He wrote for the praise of the people, But the people accorded no praise. Oh, his songs were as blithe as the morning, As sweet as the music of birds; But the world had no homage to offer, Because they were nothing but words.

Time sped. And the poet through sorrow Became like his suffering kind. Again he toiled over his poems To lighten the grief of his mind. They were not so flowing and rhythmic As those of his earlier years, But the world? lo! it offered its homage Because they were written in tears.

So ever the price must be given By those seeking glory in art; So ever the world is repaying The grief-stricken, suffering heart. The happy must ever be humble; Ambition must wait for the years, Ere hoping to win the approval Of a world that looks on through its tears.



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-by 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, life 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 vapory 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?



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 splendor, 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.



LA MORT D'AMOUR.

When was it that love died? We were so fond, So very fond, a little while ago. With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow, We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond,

When we should dwell together as one heart, And scarce could wait that happy time to come. Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb, And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart.

How was it that love died! I do not know. I only know that all its grace untold Has faded into gray! I miss the gold From our dull skies; but did not see it go.

Why should love die? We prized it, I am sure; We thought of nothing else when it was ours; We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers; It was our all; why could it not endure?

Alas, we know not how, or when or why This dear thing died. We only know it went, And left us dull, cold, and indifferent; We who found heaven once in each other's sigh.

How pitiful it is, and yet how true That half the lovers in the world, one day, Look questioning in each other's eyes this way And know love's gone forever, as we do.

Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart, As I look out o'er all the wide, sad earth And see love's flame gone out on many a hearth, That those who would keep love must dwell apart.



THE PUNISHED.

Not they who know the awful gibbet's anguish, Not they who, while sad years go by them, in The sunless cells of lonely prisons languish, Do suffer fullest penalty for sin.

'Tis they who walk the highways unsuspected Yet with grim fear forever at their side, Who hug the corpse of some sin undetected, A corpse no grave or coffin-lid can hide—

'Tis they who are in their own chambers haunted By thoughts that like unbidden guests intrude, And sit down, uninvited and unwanted, And make a nightmare of the solitude.



HALF FLEDGED.

I feel the stirrings in me of great things. New half-fledged thoughts rise up and beat their wings, And tremble on the margin of their nest, Then flutter back, and hide within my breast.

Beholding space, they doubt their untried strength. Beholding men, they fear them. But at length Grown all too great and active for the heart That broods them with such tender mother art, Forgetting fear, and men, and all, that hour, Save the impelling consciousness of power That stirs within them—they shall soar away Up to the very portals of the Day.

Oh, what exultant rapture thrills me through When I contemplate all those thoughts may do; Like snow-white eagles penetrating space, They may explore full many an unknown place, And build their nests on mountain heights unseen, Whereon doth lie that dreamed-of rest serene.

Stay thou a little longer in my breast, Till my fond heart shall push thee from the nest, Anxious to see thee soar to heights divine— Oh, beautiful but half-fledged thoughts of mine.



LOVE'S SLEEP.

(Vers de Societe.)

We'll cover Love with roses, And sweet sleep he shall take. None but a fool supposes Love always keeps awake. I've known loves without number. True loves were they, and tried; And just for want of slumber They pined away and died.

Our love was bright and cheerful A little while agone; Now he is pale and tearful, And—yes, I've seen him yawn. So tired is he of kisses That he can only weep; The one dear thing he misses And longs for now is sleep.

We could not let him leave us One time, he was so dear, But now it would not grieve us If he slept half a year. For he has had his season, Like the lily and the rose, And it but stands to reason That he should want repose.

We prized the smiling Cupid Who made our days so bright; But he has grown so stupid We gladly say good-night. And if he wakens tender And fond, and fair as when He filled our lives with splendor, We'll take him back again.

And should he never waken, As that perchance may be, We will not weep forsaken, But sing, "Love, tra-la-lee!"



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 they gaze Turns it 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.



THE VOLUPTUARY.

Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated, Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified. Life holds no thing to be anticipated, And I am sad from being satisfied.

The eager joy felt climbing up the mountain Has left me now the highest point is gained. The crystal spray that fell from Fame's fair fountain Was sweeter than the waters were when drained.

The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure, And which I purchased with my youth and strength, Pleased me a moment. But the empty treasure Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length.

And love, all glowing with a golden glory, Delighted me a season with its tale. It pleased the longest, but at last the story So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale.

I lived for self, and all I asked was given, I have had all, and now am sick of bliss, No other punishment designed by Heaven Could strike me half so forcibly as this.

I feel no sense of aught but enervation In all the joys my selfish aims have brought, And know no wish but for annihilation, Since that would give me freedom from the thought.

Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated; Some mighty loss to balance all his gain. For him there is a hope not yet completed; For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain.

But cursed is he who has no balked ambition, No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair, But sick and sated with complete fruition, Keeps not the pleasure even of despair.



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.



THE UNATTAINED.

A vision beauteous as the morn, With heavenly eyes and tresses streaming, Slow glided o'er a field late shorn Where walked a poet idly dreaming. He saw her, and joy lit his face, "Oh, vanish not at human speaking," He cried, "thou form of magic grace, Thou art the poem I am seeking.

"I've sought thee long! I claim thee now— My thought embodied, living, real." She shook the tresses from her brow. "Nay, nay!" she said, "I am ideal. I am the phantom of desire— The spirit of all great endeavor, I am the voice that says, 'Come higher,' That calls men up and up forever.

"'Tis not alone thy thought supreme That here upon thy path has risen; I am the artist's highest dream, The ray of light he cannot prison. I am the sweet ecstatic note Than all glad music gladder, clearer, That trembles in the singer's throat, And dies without a human hearer.

"I am the greater, better yield, That leads and cheers thy farmer neighbor, For me he bravely tills the field And whistles gayly at his labor. Not thou alone, O poet soul, Dost seek me through an endless morrow, But to the toiling, hoping whole I am at once the hope and sorrow.

The spirit of the unattained, I am to those who seek to name me, A good desired but never gained. All shall pursue, but none shall claim me."



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 bon 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 honor, That 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.



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.



GUERDON.

Upon the white cheek of the Cherub Year I saw a tear. Alas! I murmured, that the Year should borrow So soon a sorrow. Just then the sunlight fell with sudden flame: The tear became A wond'rous diamond sparkling in the light— A beauteous sight.

Upon my soul there fell such woeful loss, I said, "The Cross Is grievous for a life as young as mine." Just then, like wine, God's sunlight shone from His high Heavens down; And lo! a crown Gleamed in the place of what I thought a burden— My sorrow's guerdon.



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!



PLATONIC.

I knew it the first of the Summer— I knew it the same at the end— That you and your love were plighted, But couldn't you be my friend? Couldn't we sit in the twilight, Couldn't we walk on the shore, With only a pleasant friendship To bind us, and nothing more?

There was never a word of nonsense Spoken between us two, Though we lingered oft in the garden Till the roses were wet with dew. We touched on a thousand subjects— The moon and the stars above; But our talk was tinctured with science, With never a hint of love.

"A wholly platonic friendship," You said I had proved to you, "Could bind a man and a woman The whole long season through, With never a thought of folly, Though both are in their youth." What would you have said, my lady, If you had known the truth?

Had I done what my mad heart prompted— Gone down on my knees to you, And told you my passionate story There in the dusk and dew; My burning, burdensome story, Hidden and hushed so long, My story of hopeless loving— Say, would you have thought it wrong?

But I fought with my heart and conquered: I hid my wound from sight; You were going away in the morning And I said a calm good-night. But now, when I sit in the twilight Or when I walk by the sea, That friendship quite "platonic" Comes surging over me. And a passionate longing fills me For the roses, the dusk and the dew,— For the beautiful Summer vanished— For the moonlit talks—and you.



WHAT WE NEEDED.

What does our country need? Not armies standing With sabres gleaming ready for the fight. Not increased navies, skillful 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 jeweled dolls with one another vieing 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.

O these are they who mold 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.



"LEUDEMANN'S-ON-THE-RIVER."

Toward even when the day leans down To kiss the upturned face of night, Out just beyond the loud-voiced town I know a spot of calm delight. Like crimson arrows from a quiver The red rays pierce the waters flowing While we go dreaming, singing, rowing To Leudemann's-on-the-River.

The hills, like some glad mocking-bird, Send back our laughter and our singing, While faint—and yet more faint is heard The steeple bells all sweetly ringing. Some message did the winds deliver To each glad heart that August night, All heard, but all heard not aright; By Leudemann's-on-the-River.

Night falls as in some foreign clime, Between the hills that slope and rise. So dusk the shades at landing time, We could not see each other's eyes. We only saw the moonbeams quiver Far down upon the stream! that night The new moon gave but little light By Leudemann's-on-the-River.

How dusky were those paths that led Up from the river to the hall. The tall trees branching overhead Invite the early shades that fall. In all the glad blithe world, oh, never Were hearts more free from care than when We wandered through those walks, we ten, By Leudemann's-on-the-River.

So soon, so soon, the changes came. This August day we two alone, On that same river, not the same, Dream of a night forever flown. Strange distances have come to sever The hearts that gayly beat in pleasure, Long miles we cannot cross or measure— From Leudemann's-on-the-River.

We'll pluck two leaves, dear friend, to-day. The green, the russet! seems it strange So soon, so soon, the leaves can change! Ah, me! so runs all life away. This night wind chills me, and I shiver; The Summer time is almost past. One more good-bye—perhaps the last To Leudemann's-on-the-River.



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 pretense, 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 goodly 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 confest 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.



PLEA TO SCIENCE.

O Science reaching backward through the distance, Most earnest child of God, Exposing all the secrets of existence, With thy divining rod, I bid thee speed up to the heights supernal, Clear thinker, ne'er sufficed; Go seek and bind the laws and truths eternal, But leave me Christ.

Upon the vanity of pious sages Let in the light of day. Break down the superstitions of all ages— Thrust bigotry away; Stride on, and bid all stubborn foes defiance Let Truth and Reason reign. But I beseech thee, O Immortal Science, Let Christ remain.

What canst thou give to help me bear my crosses, In place of Him, my Lord? And what to recompense for all my losses, And bring me sweet reward? Thou couldst not with thy clear, cold eyes of reason, Thou couldst not comfort me Like one who passed through that tear-blotted season, In sad Gethsemane!

Through all the weary, wearing hour of sorrow, What word that thou hast said, Would make me strong to wait for some to-morrow When I should find my dead? When I am weak, and desolate, and lonely— And prone to follow wrong? Not thou, O Science—Christ, my Savior, only Can make me strong.

Thou are so cold, so lofty and so distant, Though great my need might be, No prayer, however constant and persistent, Could bring thee down to me. Christ stands so near, to help me through each hour, To guide me day by day. O Science, sweeping all before thy power Leave Christ, I pray!



LOVE'S BURIAL.

Let us clear a little space, And make Love a burial place.

He is dead, dear, as you see, And he wearies you and me,

Growing heavier, day by day, Let us bury him, I say.

Wings of dead white butterflies, These shall shroud him, as he lies

In his casket rich and rare, Made of finest maiden-hair.

With the pollen of the rose Let us his white eye-lids close.

Put the rose thorn in his hand, Shorn of leaves—you understand.

Let some holy water fall On his dead face, tears of gall—

As we kneel by him and say, "Dreams to dreams," and turn away.

Those grave diggers, Doubt, Distrust, They will lower him to the dust.

Let us part here with a kiss, You go that way, I go this.

Since we buried Love to-day We will walk a separate way.



LITTLE BLUE HOOD.

Every morning and every night There passes our window near the street, A little girl with an eye so bright, And a cheek so round and a lip so sweet; The daintiest, jauntiest little miss That ever any one longed to kiss.

She is neat as wax, and fresh to view, And her look is wholesome and clean, and good. Whatever her gown, her hood is blue, And so we call her our "Little Blue Hood," For we know not the name of the dear little lass, But we call to each other to see her pass.

"Little Blue Hood is coming now!" And we watch from the window while she goes by, She has such a bonny, smooth, white brow, And a fearless look in her long-lashed eye; And a certain dignity wedded to grace, Seems to envelop her form and face.

Every morning, in sun or rain, She walks by the window with sweet, grave air, And never guesses behind the pane We two are watching and thinking her fair; Lovingly watching her down the street, Dear little Blue Hood, bright and sweet.

Somebody ties that hood of blue Under the face so fair to see, Somebody loves her, beside we two, Somebody kisses her—why can't we? Dear Little Blue Hood fresh and fair, Are you glad we love you, or don't you care?



NO SPRING.

Up from the South come the birds that were banished, Frightened away by the presence of frost. Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished, Back to the forest the leaves that were lost. Over the hillside the carpet of splendor, Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again; Along the horizon, the tints that were tender, Lost hues of Summer time, burn bright as then.

Only the mountains' high summits are hoary, To the ice-fettered river the sun gives a key. Once more the gleaming shore lists to the story Told by an amorous Summer-kissed sea. All things revive that in Winter time perished, The rose buds again in the light o' the sun, All that was beautiful, all that was cherished, Sweet things and dear things and all things—save one.

Late, when the year and the roses were lying Low with the ruins of Summer and bloom, Down in the dust fell a love that was dying, And the snow piled above it, and made it a tomb. Lo! now! the roses are budded for blossom— Lo! now! the Summer is risen again. Why dost thou bud not, O Love of my bosom? Why dost thou rise not, and thrill me as then?

Life without love, is a year without Summer, Heart without love, is a wood without song. Rise then, revive then, thou indolent comer, Why dost thou lie in the dark earth so long? Rise! ah, thou canst not! the rose-tree that sheddest Its beautiful leaves, in the Spring time may bloom, But of cold things the coldest, of dead things the deadest, Love buried once, rises not from the tomb. Green things may grow on the hillside and heather, Birds seek the forest and build there and sing. All things revive in the beautiful weather, But unto a dead love there cometh no Spring.



LIPPO.

Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so, I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise; Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes— 'T was thine own hand which dealt dear Love's death-blow.

I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till then Thy heart was like a covered golden cup Always above my eager lip held up. I fancied thou wert not as other men.

I knew that heart was filled with Love's sweet wine, Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lip Grew parched with thirsting for one nectared sip Of what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.

Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilled Its precious contents. Even to the lees Were offered to me, saying, "Drink of these!" And when I saw it empty, Love was killed.

No word was left unsaid, no act undone, To prove to me thou wert my abject slave. Ah, Love! hadst thou been wise enough to save One little drop of that sweet wine—but one—

I still had loved thee, longing for it then. But even the cup is mine. I look within, And find it holds not one last drop to win, And cast it down.—Thou art as other men.



MIDSUMMER.

After the May time, and after the June time Rare with blossoms and perfumes sweet, Cometh the round world's royal noon time, The red midsummer of blazing heat. When the sun, like an eye that never closes, Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses Droop and wither and die in its rays.

Unto my heart has come that season, O my lady, my worshiped one, When over the stars of Pride and Reason Sails Love's cloudless, noonday sun. Like a great red ball in my bosom burning With fires that nothing can quench or tame. It glows till my heart itself seems turning Into a liquid lake of flame.

The hopes half shy, and the sighs all tender, The dreams and fears of an earlier day, Under the noontide's royal splendor, Droop like roses and wither away. From the hills of doubt no winds are blowing, From the isle of pain no breeze is sent. Only the sun in a white heat glowing Over an ocean of great content.

Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory, Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon, For the Autumn must come with its mournful story, And Love's midsummer will fade too soon.



A REMINISCENCE.

I saw the wild honey-bee kissing a rose A wee one, that grows Down low on the bush, where her sisters above Cannot see all that's done As the moments roll on. Nor hear all the whispers and murmurs of love.

They flaunt out their beautiful leaves in the sun, And they flirt, every one, With the wild bees who pass, and the gay butterflies. And that wee thing in pink— Why, they never once think That she's won a lover right under their eyes.

It reminded me, Kate, of a time—you know when! You were so petite then, Your dresses were short, and your feet were so small. Your sisters, Maud-Belle And Madeline—well, They both set their caps for me, after that ball.

How the blue eyes and black eyes smiled up in my face! 'T was a neck-and-neck race, Till that day when you opened the door in the hall, And looked up and looked down, With your sweet eyes of brown, And you seemed so tiny, and I felt so tall.

Your sisters had sent you to keep me, my dear, Till they should appear. Then you were dismissed like a child in disgrace. How meekly you went! But your brown eyes, they sent A thrill to my heart, and a flush to my face.

We always were meeting some way after that. You hung up my hat, And got it again, when I finished my call. Sixteen, and so sweet! Oh, those cute little feet! Shall I ever forget how they tripped down the hall?

Shall I ever forget the first kiss by the door, Or the vows murmured o'er, Or the rage and surprise of Maud-Belle? Well-a-day, How swiftly time flows, And who would suppose That a bee could have carried me so far away.



RESPITE.

The mighty conflict, which we call existence, Doth wear upon the body and the soul. Our vital forces wasted in resistance, So much there is to conquer and control.

The rock which meets the billows with defiance. Undaunted and unshaken day by day, In spite of its unyielding self-reliance, Is by the warfare surely worn away.

And there are depths and heights of strong emotions That surge at times within the human breast, More fierce than all the tides of all the oceans Which sweep on ever in divine unrest.

I sometimes think the rock worn with adventures, And sad with thoughts of conflicts yet to be, Must envy the frail reed which no one censures, When overcome 'tis swallowed by the sea.

This life is all resistance and repression, Dear God, if in that other world unseen, Not rest, we find, but new life and progression, Grant us a respite in the grave between.



A GIRL'S FAITH.

Across the miles that stretch between, Through days of gloom or glad sunlight, There shines a face I have not seen Which yet doth make my world more bright.

He may be near, he may be far, Or near or far I cannot see, But faithful as the morning star He yet shall rise and come to me.

What though fate leads us separate ways, The world is round, and time is fleet. A journey of a few brief days, And face to face we two shall meet.

Shall meet beneath God's arching skies, While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam, And looking in each other's eyes Shall hold the past but as a dream.

But round and perfect and complete, Life like a star shall climb the height, As we two press with willing feet Together toward the Infinite.

And still behind the space between, As back of dawns the sunbeams play, There shines the face I have not seen, Whose smile shall wake my world to Day.



TWO.

One leaned on velvet cushions like a queen— To see him pass, the hero of an hour, Whom men called great. She bowed with languid mien, And smiled, and blushed, and knew her beauty's power.

One trailed her tinseled garments through the street, And thrust aside the crowd, and found a place So near, the blooded courser's praning feet Cast sparks of fire upon her painted face.

One took the hot-house blossoms from her breast, And tossed them down, as he went riding by. And blushed rose-red to see them fondly pressed To bearded lips, while eye spoke unto eye.

One, bold and hardened with her sinful life, Yet shrank and shivered painfully, because His cruel glance cut keener than a knife, The glance of him who made her what she was.

One was observed, and lifted up to fame, Because the hero smiled upon her! while One who was shunned and hated, found her shame In basking in the death-light of his smile.



SLIPPING AWAY.

Slipping away—slipping away! Out of our brief year slips the May; And Winter lingers, and Summer flies; And Sorrow abideth, and Pleasure dies; And the days are short, and the nights are long; And little is right, and much is wrong.

Slipping away is the Summer time; It has lost its rhythm and lilting rhyme— For the grace goes out of the day so soon, And the tired head aches in the glare of noon, And the way seems long to the hills that lie Under the calm of the western sky.

Slipping away are the friends whose worth Lent a glow to the sad old earth: One by one they slip from our sight; One by one their graves gleam white; Or we count them lost by the crueler death Of a trust betrayed, or a murdered faith.

Slipping away are the hopes that made Bliss out of sorrow, and sun out of shade. Slipping away is our hold on life. And out of the struggle and wearing strife, From joys that diminish, and woes that increase, We are slipping away to the shores of Peace.



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 shriveled 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.



A LEAF.

Somebody said, in the crowd, last eve, That you were married, or soon to be. I have not thought of you, I believe, Since last we parted. Let me see: Five long Summers have passed since then— Each has been pleasant in its own way— And you are but one of a dozen men Who have played the suitor a Summer day.

But, nevertheless, when I heard your name, Coupled with some one's, not my own, There burned in my bosom a sudden flame, That carried me back to the day that is flown. I was sitting again by the laughing brook, With you at my feet, and the sky above, And my heart was fluttering under your look— The unmistakable look of Love.

Again your breath, like a South wind, fanned My cheek, where the blushes came and went; And the tender clasp of your strong, warm hand Sudden thrills through my pulses sent. Again you were mine by Love's own right— Mine forever by Love's decree: So for a moment it seemed last night, When somebody mentioned your name to me.

Just for the moment I thought you mine— Loving me, wooing me, as of old. The tale remembered seemed half divine— Though I held it lightly enough when told. The past seemed fairer than when it was near, As "Blessings brighten when taking flight;" And just for the moment I held you dear— When somebody mentioned your name last night.



AESTHETIC.

In a garb that was guiltless of colors She stood, with a dull, listless air— A creature of dumps and of dolors, But most undeniably fair.

The folds of her garment fell round her, Revealing the curve of each limb; Well proportioned and graceful I found her, Although quite alarmingly slim.

From the hem of her robe peeped one sandal— "High art" was she down to her feet; And though I could not understand all She said, I could see she was sweet.

Impressed by her limpness and languor, I proffered a chair near at hand; She looked back a mild sort of anger— Posed anew, and continued to stand.

Some praises I next tried to mutter Of the fan that she held to her face; She said it was "utterly utter," And waved it with languishing grace.

I then, in a strain quite poetic, Begged her gaze on the bow in the sky, She looked—said its curve was "aesthetic." But the "tone was too dreadfully high."

Her lovely face, lit by the splendor That glorified landscape and sea, Woke thoughts that were daring and tender: Did her thoughts, too, rest upon me?

"Oh, tell me," I cried, growing bolder, "Have I in your musings a place?" "Well, yes," she said over her shoulder: "I was thinking of nothing in space."



POEMS OF THE WEEK.

SUNDAY.

Lie still and rest, in that serene repose That on this holy morning comes to those Who have been burdened with the cares which make The sad heart weary and the tired head ache. Lie still and rest— God's day of all is best.

MONDAY.

Awake! arise! Cast off thy drowsy dreams! Red in the East, behold the Morning gleams. "As Monday goes, so goes the week," dames say. Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day. And see! thy neighbor Already seeks his labor.

TUESDAY.

Another morning's banners are unfurled— Another day looks smiling on the world. It holds new laurels for thy soul to win: Mar not its grace by slothfulness or sin, Nor sad, away, Send it to yesterday.

WEDNESDAY.

Half-way unto the end—the week's high noon. The morning hours do speed away so soon! And, when the noon is reached, however bright, Instinctively we look toward the night. The glow is lost Once the meridian crost.

THURSDAY.

So well the week has sped, hast thou a friend Go spend an hour in converse. It will lend New beauty to thy labors and thy life To pause a little sometimes in the strife. Toil soon seems rude That has no interlude.

FRIDAY.

From feasts abstain; be temperate, and pray; Fast if thou wilt; and yet, throughout the day, Neglect no labor and no duty shirk: Not many hours are left thee for thy work— And it were meet That all should be complete.

SATURDAY.

Now with the almost finished task make haste; So near the night thou hast no time to waste. Post up accounts, and let thy Soul's eyes look For flaws and errors in Life's ledger-book. When labors cease, How sweet the sense of peace!



GHOSTS.

There are ghosts in the room. As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there They come out of the gloom, And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair.

There's the ghost of a Hope That lighted my days with a fanciful glow, In her hand is the rope That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.

But her ghost comes to-night, With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes, And it stands in the light, And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

There's the ghost of a Joy, A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much, And the hands that destroy Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

There's the ghost of a Love, Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest, But he towers above All the others—this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.

I am weary, and fain Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host Make my struggle in vain, In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.



FLEEING AWAY.

My thoughts soar not as they ought to soar, Higher and higher on soul-lent wings; But ever and often, and more and more They are dragged down earthward by little things, By little troubles and little needs, As a lark might be tangled among the weeds.

My purpose is not what it ought to be, Steady and fixed, like a star on high, But more like a fisherman's light at sea; Hither and thither it seems to fly— Sometimes feeble, and sometimes bright, Then suddenly lost in the gloom of night.

My life is far from my dream of life— Calmly contented, serenely glad; But, vexed and worried by daily strife, It is always troubled, and ofttimes sad— And the heights I had thought I should reach one day Grow dimmer and dimmer, and farther away.

My heart finds never the longed-for rest; Its worldly striving, its greed for gold, Chilled and frightened the calm-eyed guest, Who sometimes sought me in days of old; And ever fleeing away from me Is the higher self that I long to be.



ALL MAD.

"He is mad as a hare, poor fellow, And should be in chains," you say. I haven't a doubt of your statement, But who isn't mad, I pray? Why, the world is a great asylum, And people are all insane, Gone daft with pleasure or folly, Or crazed with passion and pain.

The infant who shrieks at a shadow, The child with his Santa Claus faith, The woman who worships Dame Fashion, Each man with his notions of death, The miser who hoards up his earnings, The spendthrift who wastes them too soon, The scholar grown blind in his delving, The lover who stares at the moon.

The poet who thinks life a paean, The cynic who thinks it a fraud, The youth who goes seeking for pleasure, The preacher who dares talk of God, All priests with their creeds and their croaking, All doubters who dare to deny, The gay who find aught to wake laughter, The sad who find aught worth a sigh, Whoever is downcast or solemn, Whoever is gleeful and glad, Are only the dupes of delusions— We are all of us—all of us mad.



HIDDEN GEMS.

We know not what lies in us, till we seek; Men dive for pearls—they are not found on shore, The hillsides most unpromising and bleak Do sometimes hide the ore.

Go, dive in the vast ocean of thy mind, O man! far down below the noisy waves, Down in the depths and silence thou mayst find Rare pearls and coral caves.

Sink thou a shaft into the mine of thought; Be patient, like the seekers after gold; Under the rocks and rubbish lieth what May bring thee wealth untold.

Reflected from the vasty Infinite, However dulled by earth, each human mind Holds somewhere gems of beauty and of light Which, seeking, thou shalt find.



BY-AND-BY.

"By-and-by," the maiden sighed—"by-and-by He will claim me for his bride, Hope is strong and time is fleet; Youth is fair, and love is sweet, Clouds will pass that fleck my sky. He will come back by-and-by—by-and-by."

"By-and-by," the soldier said—"by-and-by, After I have fought and bled, I shall go home from the wars, Crowned with glory, seamed with scars. Joy will flash from some one's eye When she greets me by-and-by—by-and-by."

"By-and-by," the mother cried—"by-and-by, Strong and sturdy at my side, Like a staff supporting me, Will my bonnie baby be. Break my rest, then, wail and cry— Thou'lt repay me by-and-by—by-and-by."

Fleeting years of time have sped—hurried by— Still the maiden is unwed; All unknown the soldier lies, Buried under alien skies; And the son, with blood-shot eye Saw his mother starve and die. God in Heaven! dost Thou on high, Keep the promised by-and-by—by-and-by?



OVER THE MAY HILL.

All through the night time, and all through the day time, Dreading the morning and dreading the night, Nearer and nearer we drift to the May time Season of beauty and season of blight, Leaves on the linden, and sun on the meadow, Green in the garden, and bloom everywhere, Gloom in my heart, and a terrible shadow, Walks by me, sits by me, stands by my chair.

Oh, but the birds by the brooklet are cheery, Oh, but the woods show such delicate greens, Strange how you droop and how soon you are weary— Too well I know what that weariness means. But how could I know in the crisp winter weather (Though sometimes I noticed a catch in your breath), Riding and singing and dancing together, How could I know you were racing with death?

How could I know when we danced until morning, And you were the gayest of all the gay crowd— With only that shortness of breath for a warning, How could I know that you danced for a shroud? Whirling and whirling through moonlight and starlight, Rocking as lightly as boats on the wave, Down in your eyes shone a deep light—a far light, How could I know 'twas the light to your grave?

Day by day, day by day, nearing and nearing, Hid under greenness, and beauty and bloom, Cometh the shape and the shadow I'm fearing, "Over the May hill" is waiting your tomb. The season of mirth and of music is over— I have danced my last dance, I have sung my last song, Under the violets, under the clover, My heart and my love will be lying ere long.



A SONG.

Is any one sad in the world, I wonder? Does any one 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 birds 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 ho, 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!



FOES.

Thank Fate for foes! I hold mine dear As valued friends. He cannot know The zest of life who runneth here His earthly race without a foe.

I saw a prize. "Run," cried my friend; "'Tis thine to claim without a doubt." But ere I half-way reached the end, I felt my strength was giving out.

My foe looked on the while I ran; A scornful triumph lit his eyes. With that perverseness born in man, I nerved myself, and won the prize.

All blinded by the crimson glow Of sin's disguise, I tempted Fate. "I knew thy weakness!" sneered my foe, I saved myself, and balked his hate.

For half my blessings, half my gain, I needs must thank my trusty foe; Despite his envy and disdain, He serves me well where'er I go.

So may I keep him to the end, Nor may his enmity abate: More faithful than the fondest friend, He guards me ever with his hate.



FRIENDSHIP.

Dear friend, I pray thee, if thou wouldst be proving Thy strong regard for me, Make me no vows. Lip-service is not loving; Let thy faith speak for thee.

Swear not to me that nothing can divide us— So little such oaths mean. But when distrust and envy creep beside us Let them not come between.

Say not to me the depths of thy devotion Are deeper than the sea; But watch, lest doubt or some unkind emotion Embitter them for me.

Vow not to love me ever and forever, Words are such idle things; But when we differ in opinions, never Hurt me by little stings.

I'm sick of words: they are so lightly spoken, And spoken, are but air. I'd rather feel thy trust in me unbroken Than list thy words so fair.

If all the little proofs of trust are heeded, If thou art always kind, No sacrifice, no promise will be needed To satisfy my mind.

THE END