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Transcriber’s Note

      Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).





THE RING OF AMETHYST.

by

ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS


                    “He but only kissed
  The fingers of this hand wherewith I write.
                    A ring of Amethyst
  I could not wear here plainer to my sight
  Than that first kiss.”

                              --_Mrs. Browning._






New York
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
182 Fifth Avenue
1878

Copyright by
Alice Wellington Rollins
1878




CONTENTS.


                                                                    PAGE
    THE RING AND THE BOOK:

        THE RING:--TO GEORGE ELIOT                                     v
        THE BOOK:--TO D.M.R.                                          vi
        TO THE CRITIC                                                vii
        NARCISSUS                                                   viii
        PROEM                                                         ix

    JOY                                                                1

    PAIN                                                               3

    A STUDY                                                            5

    “MANY THINGS THOU HAST GIVEN ME, DEAR HEART”                       7

    BRUTUS AT PHILIPPI                                                 8

    “VINO SANTO” TO H. H.                                              9

    CHARM                                                             12

    A FACE                                                            14

    LOVE WILL FIND OUT A WAY                                          17

    SUMNER                                                            18

    SIGHT                                                             29

    PURITY                                                            30

    A ROSE                                                            32

    RUE WITH A DIFFERENCE                                             33

    TO MAY H. R----.                                                  34

    CYCLES                                                            35

    EXPERIENCE                                                        37

    A TRUST IN GOD                                                    38

    FORESIGHT                                                         41

    TO FRANK S. R----. WITH A VIOLIN                                  42

    “THE EAGER SUN COMES GLADLY FROM THE SEA”                         43

    RESERVE                                                           44

    A SONG OF SUMMER                                                  47

    THOUGHT                                                           50

    A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE                                             51

    A REMEMBERED CRITIC. TO J. R. D.                                  52

    DAWN                                                              53

    WITH AN ANTIQUE                                                   55

    DOUBT                                                             56

    “I KNOW MYSELF THE BEST BELOVED OF ALL”                           58

    OCTOBER                                                           59

    SERENITY                                                          61

    “A YEAR AGO TO-DAY, LOVE”                                         62

    STEADFAST                                                         63

    WITH A CRYSTAL LION. FOR L. R. W.                                 64

    ABSENT-MINDED                                                     66

    ANSWERED PRAYER                                                   68

    EXPRESSION                                                        69

    FULFILLMENT                                                       71

    “THERE WILL BE SILENCE HERE, LOVE”                                73

    FAITH IN WORKS                                                    74

    “NO. 33--A PORTRAIT.” FOR R. H. L.                                75

    LONGING                                                           76

    THE NEW DAY                                                       78

    CONFESSION                                                        79

    “AMONG THOSE JOYS FOR WHICH WE UTTER PRAISE.”                     82

    BECAUSE                                                           83

    IVY                                                               85

    INFLUENCE                                                         86

    MIRACLE                                                           88

    “SHE CAME AND WENT”                                               89

    DREAMERS                                                          91

    ANDROMEDA                                                         93

    LOVE SONG                                                         97

    CLOSED                                                            98

    BABY-HOOD. M. W. R.                                              100

    “IF I COULD KNOW, LOVE.”                                         102

    THE DIFFERENCE                                                   103

    INDIAN SUMMER                                                    104

    LAST--AN AMETHYST                                                108




“THE RING AND THE BOOK.”


THE RING.----TO GEORGE ELIOT.

  As she, thy Dorothea, loved of thee,
    Refused to wear in careless ornament
    The amethysts and emeralds that lent
  Their charm to other women;--even as she,
  Turning one day by chance the golden key
    Of their close casket, started as they sent
    Swift, glowing rays to greet her, and then bent
  To lift them in her white hands lovingly;--

         *       *       *       *       *

  O great of heart, so calmly dost thou stand
    In the proud splendor of thy fame, and bring
  Thy glorious gifts to all the listening land,--
    Thou canst not greatly care what I may sing!
    Yet since I hold to thee my amethyst ring,
  Take it one little moment in thy hand!


THE BOOK.----To D. M. R.

  Dear, if this little book of thine and mine
    Could bring me fame as glorious and rare
    As that whose splendid laurels shine so fair
  For Dorothea,----it were less divine
  A gift than this most priceless love of thine.
    Since, then, that came to me, why now despair
    Of laurel? though I may not hope to wear
  Laurel or myrtle as the precious sign
  Of any proud desert. Yet if I might
  Not find that love could keep its holy tryst
  With fame, how quickly would I yield the bright
    New dream, to keep my ring of amethyst:
    The memory of that day when love first kissed
  The fingers of this hand wherewith I write!


Ἀμέθυστος

TO THE CRITIC.

  I know full well I cannot pour for you
    The nectar of the gods;--no epic wine
    Is this I bring, to tempt you with its fine
  Poetic flavor, as of grapes that grew
  In the young vineyards when the world was new,
  And only poets wrote;--a slender vine
  You scarce will care for, bore these grapes of mine,
  From which frail hands have crushed the purple dew.
    Yet if from what I bring you, there is missed
    The lyric loveliness of some who write,
    The passionate fervor and the keen delight
  Of eloquent fire in some to whom you list,--
  Think it may be, not that the gift is slight,
  But that my cup is rimmed with amethyst!


NARCISSUS.

TO THE READER.

  If haply in these pages you should read
    Aught that seems true to human nature, true
    To heavenly instincts;--if they speak to you
  Of love, of sorrow, faith without a creed,
  Of doubt, of hope, of longing,--or indeed
    Of any pain or joy the poet knew
    A heart could feel,--think not to find a clue
  To his own heart--its gladness or its need.
  From a deep spring with tangled weeds o’ergrown
    The poet parts the leaves; if they who pass,
    Bending to look down through the tall wild grass,
  By winds of heaven faintly overblown,
    Should start to see there, dimly in a glass,
  Some face,----’tis not the poet’s, but their own!


PROEM.

  I wonder, little book, if after all
    I greatly care whether with praise or blame
    Men turn your leaves. Once, the fair hope of fame
  Had made me wonder what fate should befall
  My first faint singing; now I cannot call
    The singing mine; I gave it him who came
    To place my joy where no harsh touch can maim
  Its safe, secure, bright beauty. Like a wall
    Of strong defence to me this blessedness:
  That of his love I am so proudly sure,
    Though the whole world should bend to my success,
  I think he could not love me any more!
  And though the whole world say my book is poor,
    I know he will not love me any less!




JOY.


  My heart was like a flower once,
    That from its jewel-tinted cup
  The generous fragrance of its joy
    To all the world sent floating up.
  But now ’tis like a humming-bird,
    That in the cup his bright wing dips,
  And with most dainty selfishness
    Himself the choicest honey sips,
    With eager, thirsty, longing lips!

  And once my heart was like a gem,
    Set in a fair betrothal ring;
  Content to light the happy darks
    That shield love’s shy self-wondering.
  But now I think my heart is like
    The lady fair who wears the ring;
  Pressed closely to her lips at night
    With love’s mysterious wondering
    That hers should be the precious thing!

  And once my heart was like a nest,
    Where singing-birds have made their home;
  Set where the apple-boughs in bloom
    Fleck the blue air with flower-foam.
  But now it is itself a bird;
    And if it does not always sing,
  The Heavenly Father knows what thoughts,--
    Too strangely sweet for uttering,--
    Stir faintly underneath its wing!




PAIN.


  My heart was once a folded flower,
    Within whose jewel-tinted cup,--
  Still hidden even from itself,--
    A wealth of joy is treasured up.
  But now my heart is like a flower
    From which a dainty humming-bird
  Has rifled all the choicest sweets,
    And left without one last fond word
    The flower-soul so deeply stirred.

  And once my heart was like a gem,
    Set in a rich betrothal ring;
  Unconscious in its darkened case
    How fair it lies there glittering.
  But now I think my heart is like
    The lady who has worn the ring,
  And draws it from her finger slight
    With love’s bewildered wondering
    That love should be a poor bruised thing.

  And once my heart was like a nest,
    High in the apple branches hung;
  Where in the early April dew
    No happy birds have ever sung.
  Now ’tis itself a wounded bird;
    And though sometimes you hear it sing,
  The Heavenly Father knows what pain
    It tries to hide by uttering
    The same sweet notes it used to sing.




A STUDY.


  I think, indeed, ’twas only this that made
  Her seem peculiar: namely, she had no
  Peculiarity. The world to-day
  Is disappointed if we are not odd,
  And hold decided views on some one point,
  Or else unsettled views on all. But she
  Was living simply what she wished to live:
  A lovely life of rounded womanhood;
  With no sharp, salient points for eye or ear
  To seize and pass quick judgment on. Not quite
  Content was she to let the golden days
  Slip from her fingers like the well-worn beads
  Of some long rosary, told o’er and o’er
  Each night with dull, mechanical routine;
  But yet she had no central purpose; no
  Absorbing aim to which all else must yield;
  And so the very sweetness of her life,
  Its exquisite simplicity and calm,
  Musical in its silence, smote the ear
  More sharply than the discords of the rest.
  So do we grow accustomed far at sea
  To jar and clang of harsh machinery,
  And sleep profoundly in our narrow berths
  Amid the turmoil; but if suddenly
  The noisy whirr is silent, and the deep
  Low murmur of the moonlit sea is all
  That stirs the air, we waken with a start,
  And ask in terror what has happened! Then
  Sink back again upon the pillows; strange,
  That silence should have wakened us!
                                  Alas!
  The world has grown so feverishly hot
  With restless aims and poor ambitious dreams,
  That lives which have the cool and temperate flow
  Of healthful purpose in their veins, will seem
  Peculiar!




“MANY THINGS THOU HAST GIVEN ME, DEAR HEART.”


  Many things thou hast given me, dear heart;
  But one thing thou hast taken: that high dream
    Of heaven as of a country that should seem
  Beyond all glory that divinest art
  Has pictured:--with this I have had to part
    Since knowing thee;--how long, love, will the gleam
    Of each day’s sunlight on my pathway stream,
  Richer than what seemed richest at the start?
    Make my days happy, love; yet I entreat
  Make not each happier than the last for me;
    Lest heaven itself should dawn to me, complete
  In joy, not the surprise I dreamed ’twould be,
    But simply as the natural and sweet
  Continuance of days spent here with thee.




BRUTUS AT PHILIPPI.


  Rome, for whose haughtier sake proud Cæsar made
    His legions hers, to win her victories,
  Denied him when her gods let Casca’s blade
    Pierce him who learned to make her legions his.
  Still he is mighty; with unchanging dread
    Her people murmur for great Cæsar slain;
  Nor value, at the price of Cæsar dead,
    Their greater cause lost on Philippi’s plain.
  If haply there are fields, as some pretend,
    Beyond the silent Styx, where vaguely grim
  Souls of dead heroes, shadowy and dim,
    Awake,--I may find entrance at life’s end,
  Not as a hero who freed Rome from him,
    But as a man who once was Cæsar’s friend!




“VINO SANTO.”

TO H. H.


  I taste the cup of sacred wine,
    Nor count with you the cost too great
    For those who steadfastly can wait;
  Though grapes of fragrance so divine
    Should ripen to their vintage late.

  Gathered when only richest suns
    Pour down a wealth of golden fire;
    Pressed while the holy heart’s desire
  Breathes grateful for these perfect ones,
    And solemn prayer floats high and higher;--

  Type of a love that lets no stain
    Of doubt or dullness mar its creed;
    But patient through its own great need
  Of loving, wins its sure domain,--
    Such love, such wine, is pure indeed.

  Yet as I turn to pour for you,--
    Vivid and sparkling at your gaze,--
    My own heart’s vintage,--let me praise
  This glowing wine as holy, too;
    Since love may come in many ways.

  And mine came to me as a star
    Shines suddenly from worlds apart;
    And suddenly my lifted heart
  Caught the rare brightness from afar
    And mirrored its swift counterpart.

  Love born of instant trust and need,
    Each heart of each; a love that knew
    No test of time to prove it true,
  No fostering care; without a seed
    It seemed as if the flower grew!

  And you whose tender love was nursed
    In strong sweet patience, till the wine
    Of joy became for you divine,
  Ripened in sunlight from the first,--
    Will not refuse to this of mine

  A sacredness; remembering,--
    By miracle changed instantly,--
    The holy wine of Galilee;--
  Even so the wine of joy I bring
    For you to taste, was changed for me!




CHARM.


  One day in June a crimson-breasted bird
    Flitted from Heaven through the golden air,
  And lit upon an apple-bough, that stirred
    With rapture of delight to hold her there;
  And finding at the same time on its breast
    A wealth of flowers, rose-red lined with snow,
  Believed in joy its graceful little guest
    Had brought them with her, and so murmured low
  In greeting,--“Little bird, a poor old tree
  Scarce can breathe worthily its thanks to thee,
  For these sweet flowers thou hast brought to me!”

  And then the pretty bird whose restless feet
    Danced in and out among the blossoms there,
  For very joyousness sent rippling sweet
    A carol of bright laughter through the air.
  Flushing with joy, the blooming sprays swung high,
    Responsive to the quiver of her wings;
  As light of heart beneath the summer sky
    Her voice ceased suddenly its twitterings,
  To murmur back, “Thou foolish, dear old tree,
  It is not I who bring the flowers to thee,
  But thy most tempting flowers that bring me!”




A FACE.


                          We have known
  Of many a man whose features were not carved
  By his own soul to their high nobleness,
  But handed down by some far ancestor.
  Strange, that a man a generation long
  Should do good deeds that mould his generous lips
  To noble curves, and then should die and leave
  His son the curves without the nobleness.
  We’ve known of many a woman, many a man,
  Whose own soul leaped in passionate high flames;
  But locked behind the fatal prison bars
  Of cold ancestral dignity of face,
  No glimmer of the light and warmth within
  Creeps to the surface.

                          But this face of hers
  Is not a face like those we’ve analyzed;
  True to its wearer, it is justly proud
  With her own pride and not her ancestors.
  Were you to chide her gently for some fault,
  Or promise that whatever grand mistakes
  Her woman’s impulses might lead her to,
  You would judge all with Christian charity,
  Tis not impossible that she would say,
  “Sir, I make no mistakes; I have no faults;
  I thank you, but I need no charity!”
  Well, what of that? I would that there were more
  Of us, who, bidden to confess our sins,
  Could say Job’s litany: “May God forbid
  That you be justified! my righteousness
  Will I hold fast and will not let it go;
  My heart shall not reproach me while I live!”
  Humility’s a grace at thirty-nine,
  But scarce a virtue in the very young,
  Who bend to us from fear, not reverence.
  Nor truly humble is the violet
  That keeps its face quite upturned to the sun
  And would grow higher if it could; it cannot.
  Better for our young friend the haughtiness
  Of strong white lilies that refuse to bloom
  Near the dark earth they rose from; eagerly
  They push aside the lazy weeds that hide
  The upper air; and keeping in their breasts
  The fair white secret of their blossoming,
  Rise to the heaven they worship. Suddenly,
  Awed at the vast immensity of light
  That wraps the earth as with a garment; awed
  By the deep silence of that upper air,
  They bend their stately heads, to breathe to earth
  A murmured penitence for olden pride.
  The fair white bells they kept so jealously
  Lifted to heaven, now they overturn,
  And let the cherished fragrance of their souls
  Swing censer-like upon the general air.

                  You’ll look at it again?
  No, I have put it back; it’s not a face
  I like to argue over with a friend.
  It is a woman’s face; and what is more,
  A face I care for!




“LOVE WILL FIND OUT A WAY.”


  That Love should find a way through iron bars
  And close-drawn bolts--this does not seem so strange;--
  More strange I count it that with wider range,
  With naught to mark its course beneath the stars,
  Love finds its sure, swift way. That day when we
  First parted, Love, how dangerously near
  The chance we never met again! though clear
  In the broad daylight, unrestrained and free
  As breeze from heaven, naught between us lay
  But the wide, shining, trackless fields of air
  That gave no sign; the lonely vastness, where
  Love saw no clue to guide it, or to stay
  Its course;--well might the lover in despair
  Yield up his search;--and yet Love found a way!




SUMNER.


I.

  Dead!
  But not where the flashing guns
  Bring in a moment’s glittering space
  Death,--and heaven--and deathless fame--
  To Victory’s sons.
  Dead!
  But not where the crimson flame,
  Leaping fierce in a cruel grace,
  From the earthly clod
  Burns away all pitiful dross
  Till a martyr’s soul on fiery cross
  Ascends to God.
  Whose life was martyrdom
  Shall be spared a martyr’s death
  In winning a martyr’s crown.
  No struggle for restless breath;--
  A life laid calmly down;--
  Eloquent lips grown dumb;--
  Only for us the pain,
  And the agony of loss;
  Only for us the test;
  For him, the wonderful gain,
  For him, a longed-for rest.


II.

  Dead!
  And the mother state,
  Mother of noble sons,
  Reaches her yearning arms.
  Give him back to her now!
  Cold is the kingly brow,
  Noblest of noble ones!
  He cannot serve you now;
  Unheeding earthly things,
  The royal soul, so great
  To shield from threatening harms,
  Has passed through a silent gate
  That never outward swings.
  Living, the world had need
  Of him and his deathless name;--
  Living, the world had need
  Of him and his stainless fame;--
  Living, we knew her need
  Of him, and confessed her claim;--
  Dead, he is only ours!
  Cover his bier with flowers;
  Give him back to us now!


III.

  Nay!
  Let Massachusetts wait!
  In the capitol of the great
  Let the statesman lie in state.
  Let the house be draped in woe;
  Let the sentinel below
  Pace solemnly to and fro.
  All night let the tireless street
  Echo the sad, slow feet
  Of those who come and go.
  All day let the voiceless street
  In silence then repeat
  The name we honor so.
  Let the Senate chamber ring
  Once more with his eloquence,
  The eloquence of his death!
  Let choicest flowers bring,
  Delicate and intense,
  Tribute of fragrant breath.
  For ever the gentlest thing
  With strongest love will cling
  To one so grandly great.
  Let Massachusetts wait!
  Honored by every land,
  Around him there shall stand
  The noblest of each state!
  And a nation’s tears be shed
  For our Massachusetts’ dead!


IV.

  Living, there was none so poor
  That he need to hesitate
  Loftiest aid from him to claim;--
  Dead, there is not one so great,
  Standing now at his right hand,
  But may tremble so to stand;
  Lest the touchstone of that pure
  Stainless soul and deathless fame
  Prove all poor who seem so great!


V.

  Now,
  To his mother where she stands,
  Envied by the childless lands,
  Bring him back with reverent hands.
  Lonely mother, it is well
  That your sorrowing lips should tell
  Once again repentant woe
  For the wound of long ago,
  For rebuke that hurt him so!
  No reproof could alienate
  Patriot soul from patriot state;--
  Grandly patient, he could wait,
  Cancelling reproachful past,
  Words that almost came too late!
  “You were right and we were wrong!”
  Strong and clear they came at last;
  And his sovereign spirit, great
  In forgiveness for the long
  Silent strain so gently borne,
  Hearing Massachusetts mourn
  For the wrong that she had done
  Turned to her, her reverent son.
  Ere her last word met his ear,
  He had answered--he is here!


VI.

  Here!
  At the city gates!
  And the long procession waits
  To bear him to his bier.
  No sound of muffled drums
  Tells that a hero comes;
  No volleying cannon roll
  The loss of a leader’s soul;
  Not with the aid of these
  Had he won his victories;
  He never loved such voice;--
  Let not these be our choice
  To give this pain relief;
  For the people’s hearts are mute
  With the passion of their grief.
  Break not upon his peace
  With Massachusetts guns!
  Only a tolling bell
  To the sorrowing state shall tell
  That the noblest of her sons,--
  Highest in the world’s repute,
  Lowliest in the toil he gave,--
  Given of God this swift release,
  Comes at last from her to crave
  For the service that he gave
  The guerdon of a grave!


VII.

  Dark
  Over all,
  Falls the twilight like a pall.
  Kindle not the restless flare
  Of the midnight torches’ glare;
  Let the restful stars look down,
  Silent through the clear, cold air,
  High and pure as his renown!
  Pale against the evening sky
  Burns the banner that ye drape
  With the heavy folds of crape;
  And ye have no need to tie
  All its fluttering crimson back
  With those heavy folds of black;--
  For the very winds to-day
  Droop with sadness, nor would care
  With their crimson toy to play!


VIII.

  He is here!
  Massachusetts called him back,
  And he answered--he is here!
  Let the walls be hung with black,
  Yet let roses richly red
  On the casket of the dead
  Be in bright profusion spread;
  And all night with solemn tread
  Let the dusky sentinel,
  Guarding what he loved so well,
  Guarding what he held so dear,
  Pace beside the quiet bier!


IX.

  O beautiful sad day!
  All of earthly must we lay
  In the silent grave away.
  And the very Winter, pale
  At the sight of so much grief,
  From her harshness will relent;
  Stoop to brush away the snow
  From the frozen earth below
  Where the noble dead shall lie.
  Let no glorious dome less high
  Than the over-arching sky
  Bend above that royal grave;
  And for living monument,
  Over it shall rise and wave
  Living flower and living leaf.
  Lay your costly roses down,
  Civic wreath and cross and crown;
  These are frail!
  Spring shall be your sentinel;
  Guarding now untiring here
  All of what we held so dear,
  All of what we loved so well!
  Lay your costly roses down,
  Civic wreath and crown and cross;
  Turn away with hearts made great
  By the greatness of your loss!
  Spring shall wait;--
  To her sacred care entrust
  All of what is left us here:--
  Dust to dust!
  Lay your costly roses down,
  Civic wreath and cross and crown;
  These are frail!
  In the dim, unwonted shade,
  These will fade!
  But when next ye come this way,
  Ye shall find the Spring still here;
  And a grave with violets set;
  Purple, living violet,
  With the tears of heaven wet.




SIGHT.

  I try to make the baby on my knee
  Look at the sunset; pointing where it glows
  Beyond the window-pane in tints of rose
  And violet and gold; when suddenly
  He dimples with responsive baby-glee,
  I think how wonderfully well he knows
  Its beauty; till the changing child-face shows
  He had not seen the sky, but laughed to see
  The sparkle of my rings;--O baby dear,
  This world of lovely gems and sunsets, bright
  With children’s faces,--is perhaps the near
  Though lesser glory, dazzling our poor sight,
  Until we cannot see, for very light,
  The heaven that shines for us, revealed and clear.




PURITY.


                      Some souls are white
  With perfectness, like stars full-orbed in heaven,
  Silently moving through the stainless blue;
  Seeming naught of their nature to have drawn
  From contact with the earth; and some are white
  With innocence, like daisies that too near
  The ground their fair leaves fearlessly unfold.
                      This woman’s soul
  Is white with purity; the snowy bloom
  Of a camelia, that feels no disdain
  In drawing from this common earth of ours
  The sources of its beauty and its life;
  Yet with a wise and lofty self-control,
  Refuses long to blossom to the sun;
  Spreading its glossy leaves to light and air;
  Winning a deep, sure knowledge of the world;
  Rising with quiet dignity and grace
  Into a higher air; and when at last
  Its stately petals open to the day,
  Not with the daisy’s foolish trustfulness,
  But with the confidence of slow-won strength,
  To the world’s gaze it silently unfolds
  The perfect flower of a royal soul,
  Not innocent, and yet forever pure.




A ROSE.


  Last night a little rose of love was laid
  Softly in this poor hand, by one who knew
  Not what most gracious breeze from heaven blew
  The blossom in his path; but since, he said,
  All loveliest things he summoned to his aid
  To win me,--let the fragrant flower that grew
  Surely in Paradise to help him woo
  And gain his wish,--be mine; then half afraid,
  Here on my breast I laid it, where it glows
  With such rich sudden beauty, that my eyes,
  Quickened by some new instinct, recognize
  What is indeed my own; for the fair rose,--
  The rose of love bewilderingly sweet--
  From my own heart had fallen at his feet!




RUE WITH A DIFFERENCE.


                        It is said
  That women are more curious than men;--
  I should not put it so: they are more frank.
  A woman who would like to know if this
  Or that be so or so, makes no disguise,
  But lifts her clear eyes candidly to yours
  And asks directly, “_Is this true?_” a man,
  More wise and quite as curious, simply states
  A fact: “_This is so_;” knowing well indeed
  That if it is not, no true woman needs
  A sharper challenge instantly to arm
  Her soul with weapons to defend herself,
  Her country, or her friends; and so he gains
  The knowledge that he wished, and yet has shown
  No idle curiosity!




TO MAY H. R----.


  Many a lovely dream a poet might
  Weave into fancies round thy lovely name,
  Sweetheart; yet I, who surely have no claim
  To be a poet,--(save the holy right
  Love gives me to write poems at the sight
  Of a young face whose eager brightness came
  As part of life’s best gift to me,--) can frame
  No fitter reason why in such delight
  I hold the one sweet syllable, than this:
  Not for its visions of the field or wood,
  But for its wealth of possibilities;
  Its hint of undefined, ideal good,
  Suggesting all thy soul can scarcely miss,
  That _May_ one day crown thy rich womanhood.




CYCLES.


  Sing cheerily, O bluebird from on high!
  Earth will be blue with violets by-and-by,
  More blue than those you came from in the sky.

  Haste, butterflies! for radiant Summer brings
  A crimson rose to match your sunlit wings,
  Brighter than violets the blue-bird sings.

  Croon, happy insects; violet and rose
  Have faded; yet the autumn corn-field glows
  Where in the golden grain the poppy grows.

  Hush, eager voices! for in dreamless sleep,
  Wrapped in cool snow, the restless earth would keep
  Forevermore serenity so deep.

  Forevermore? nay, tired earth, not so;
  Sweet as the violets of long ago
  The pink arbutus rises from the snow.

  Gathered too eagerly, it fades too soon;
  Then large white lilies open wide in June
  Their golden hearts up to the golden noon.

  And when the perfect lily in the gleam
  Of too much sunlight, fades like a fair dream,
  The crimson cardinals fringe the brightening stream.

  Then once again the softly falling snow;
  While bright above the ivy green below
  The scarlet berries of the holly glow.




EXPERIENCE.


  A child laid in the grave ere it had known
  Earth held delight beyond its mother’s kiss;--
  A fair girl passing from a world like this
  Into God’s vast eternity, alone;--
  A brave man’s soul in one brief instant thrown
  To deepest agony from highest bliss;--
  A woman steeling her young heart to miss
  All joys in life, one dear one having flown;--
  These have I seen; yet happier these, I said,
  Than one who by experience made strong,
  Learning to live without the precious dead,
  Survive despair, outlive remorse and wrong,
  Can say when new grief comes, with unbowed head,
  “Let me not mourn! I shall forget ere long!”




A TRUST IN GOD.


                            She knew
  She was not wise; was conscious in herself
  Of eager impulses that would have wrecked
  Her whole heart’s happiness a thousand times,
  Had not some Power from without herself
  Shut down the sudden gates, and with its stern
  “_Thou shalt not!_” left her, stunned perhaps, but saved.
  For she was but a woman, and her will
  Hung poised upon her heart, and swayed with each
  Quick-passing impulse, like a humming-bird
  Lit tremulous on some rich-tinted flower.
  Rich-tinted, truly; no forget-me-not,
  Placid with blue serenity; nor yet
  That regal flower, stately in its calm
  Fair dignity, that hoards its loveliness
  From common gaze, with instinct to discern
  The presence of unworthy worshippers.
  Not till the twilight shadows have shut out
  The common crowd that would have rifled all
  Its queenly beauty,--does it condescend
  For him who with a patient reverence
  Has waited, to unfold with lovely grace
  The royal petals; and it droops and dies
  Before the garish day has ushered in
  Again the curious crowd.
                              This woman’s soul
  Was not so snowy in its purity,
  And not so keen in its fine instincts; nay,
  But tinted with all splendid hues, intense
  With high enthusiasms, and yet indeed
  Not passionate, but pure as lilies are.
  Transparent flames are surely just as pure
  As icicles; and something of the rich
  And brilliant glow of her own nature fell
  On everyone about her, till they stood
  Transfigured in her eyes, with glory caught
  From her own loveliness. She was not keen
  To judge of human nature; she believed
  All men were noble; and a thousand times
  The poor heart would have offered up its all
  On some unworthy shrine, had not the fates
  Kindly removed the shrine. How could she help
  Believe that God had stooped from highest heaven,
  To save her from herself?




FORESIGHT.


  Unbar, O heavy clouds, the gated West!
  That this most weary day, beholding so
  Her goal, may hasten her sad steps; I know
  She comes without fair gifts; upon her breast
  Close-clasped, the pale cold hands together pressed
  Hold nothing;--then let some red sunset glow
  Tempt her to seek the unknown world below
  The far horizon where she hopes for rest!

  At last the day, like some poor toil-worn slave,
  Passes, and leaves in sooth no gift for me;--
  Yet I, who thought my heart could be so brave
  To bear what I had wisdom to foresee,
  Sob in despair, as this poor day that gave
  Me nothing, sinks behind the western sea!




TO FRANK S. R----.

WITH A VIOLIN.


  The stately trees that in the forest grow
  Are not all destined for the same high thing;
  Some burn to useless cinders in the glow
  Of the hearth-fire; while some are meant to sing

  For centuries the never-dying song
  Once caught from wandering breeze or lingering bird
  So clearly and so surely, that the strong
  Firm wood was quickly seized by one who heard,

  To fashion his dear violin;--even so
  Our human souls are fashioned; some will fade
  Away to useless ashes, others grow
  Immortal through the sweetness they have made.




“THE EAGER SUN COMES GLADLY FROM THE SEA.”


  The eager sun comes gladly from the sea;
  Remembering that one short year ago
  He rose from unknown worlds of light below
  Those same far waves, to shine on you and me
  Standing together on the shore;--but we
  Are strangely far apart to-day; and so
  The saddened sun with lingering step and slow
  Climbs the horizon, wondering not to see
  Your face beside mine; nor can understand
  As we do, dear, that you and I to-day,--
  Though million miles of ocean or of land
  And centuries of time between us lay,--
  Are nearer to each other than when hand
  Touched hand, before we gave our hearts away!




RESERVE.


                          I hear you praise
  What you are pleased to call unsounded depths
  Of character; a nature that the world
  Would call reserved; tempting you while it hides--
  Or you suspect it hides--a richer wealth
  Deep in some far recesses of the soul.
  As if, indeed, you should approve the host
  Who with most admirable courtesy
  Should throw wide open to your curious gaze
  His drawing-room, his green-house and his hall;
  Yet should not hesitate to let you see
  Certain close-bolted doors of hardest oak,
  Upon whose thresholds he informed you, “Here,
  Alas! I cannot let you enter.”
                          You
  At once are filled with curiosity
  To listen at the keyhole.
                          So am I;
  Yet much I doubt if after all those deep
  Recesses of the soul are filled with aught
  But emptiness. Too thick the cobwebs hang;
  The master of the house can scarce himself
  Feel tempted to draw back such heavy bolts;
  Although he take an honorable pride,
  Leaning at ease in comfortable chair,
  To know there are some chambers in his soul
  Unentered even by himself.
                          But him
  I call reserved, whose clear eyes seem a well
  Of frank sincerity; whose smiling lips,
  Curving with hospitable gayety,
  Bid you most welcome to his house and home;
  Throwing wide open to your curious gaze
  Each nook and corner; leaving you at ease
  To wander where you will; and if at times
  You half suspect some hidden sweet retreat
  Where hyacinths are blossoming unseen,
  ’Tis not because cold iron-bolted doors
  Whisper of secrets you would fain explore;
  But that the tapestries upon the wall
  So lightly hang, that swaying to and fro,
  They half betray a fragrance from within.
  You never once suspect that secret doors
  Are sliding in the panels underneath;
  But when you go, the master of the house
  Lifts easily the soft and shining silk,
  To find there sacred silence from you all.
                          ’Tis easier
  To read the secrets of a dark, deep pool
  That coldly says, “You cannot fathom me,”
  With unstirred face turned blankly to the sky,
  Than catch the meaning of a silver spring,
  Though crystal-clear, above whose bright full heart
  Delicate vine-leaves flutter in the sun.




A SONG OF SUMMER.


  Laden with gifts of your giving,
  O summer of June!
  With the rapturous idyl of living
  In perfect attune;
  With the sweetness of eve when it closes
  A day of delight;
  With the tremulous breath of the roses
  Entrancing the night;
  With the glow of your cardinal flowers
  On lips that had paled;
  And the coolness of silvery showers
  For hands that had failed;
  With geraniums vivid with fire
  To wear on my breast,
  Where the lilies had paled with desire
  To bring to me rest;
  With the joy that was born of your brightness
  Still thrilling my soul,
  And a heart whose bewildering lightness
  I cannot control;
  Ah! now that your idyl of living
  Is over too soon,
  What gifts can compare with your giving,
  O summer of June?

  Then a wraith of the winter said gently,
  “I will not deceive;
  Of the brightness you prize so intently
  No trace shall I leave.
  The glow of the cardinal flowers
  Shall pass from the field,
  And the softness of silvery showers
  To ice be congealed;
  The geraniums vivid with fire
  Shall curl at the heart;
  And the lily forget the desire
  Its peace to impart;
  Pale as the rose that is dying,
  Your whitening cheek;
  Faint as its tremulous sighing,
  Words you would speak;
  For a joy that was born of their brightness
  I tremble with you,
  When the gleam and the glory and lightness
  Shall pass with the dew.
  Ah! now that your idyl of living
  Is over so soon,
  What gifts will be left of your giving,
  O summer of June?”




THOUGHT.


  A palace richly furnished is the mind,
  In whose fair chambers we may walk at will;
  And in its cloistered calm, serene and still,
  Continual delight and comfort find.
  Not only fretful cares we leave behind,
  But restless happiness, and hopes that fill
  The eager soul with too much light, until
  Eyes dazzled see less wisely than the blind.
  So perfect is the joy we find therein,
  No pleasures of the outer world compare
  With the divine repose so gladly sought;
  When from the wearying world we turn to win
  High mental solitude, and cherish there
  Silent companionship with lofty thought.




A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE.


  I thought to hold thy memory as the sea
    Holds in its heart a pale reflected moon,
    Lost when the sunny radiance of noon
  Dissolves the moonlight’s tender mystery.

  Lo! thou art not her semblance in the seas,
    But the fair moon herself, that near or far,
    Orbed high in heaven as a shining star
  Or hid from sight at love’s antipodes;--

  Still sways the waters with love’s restless tides;
    Not by her own will; no coquette is she,--
    The lovely moon to whom I liken thee;--
  For high above our earthly air she glides,

  Unconscious as the waves that rise to greet
    Her coming, of the mystery of God’s law
    Compelling her those far-off waves to draw
  Forever towards her whom they never meet.




A REMEMBERED CRITIC.

TO J. R. D.


  Kind words, that greater kindness still implied
    From one unused to praise, for one unknown
    To him and to the world where he had grown
  Less wont to cheer the artist than to chide;
  And always in my heart I thought with pride
    Some day to know him, and for him alone
    Bring the fair finished work, that he might own--
  “O friend, behold my full faith justified!”
    Now he is dead! a man severe, they said
  Who knew the critic; but around the spot
    We call his grave, by some sweet memory led
  Of kindred sweetness, violets have not
  Refused to bloom; and one he had forgot
    Wept suddenly to hear that he was dead.




DAWN.


  Wake, happy heart, O awake!
    For the mists are flitting away;
  And the hawthorn boughs for thy sake
  Are eager and longing to break
    Into garlands of blossoming spray.
  Sing, sing it, O gay little linnet!
  And hasten, O glad lark, to bring it,
          The beautiful Day!

  O Dawn, I am hungry with yearning
    For gifts thou canst give;--
  The proud soul within me is burning
    With new life to live.
  I am strong with the strength of long sleeping;
    Fill full now each vein
  With rich crimson wine thou art keeping
    For glad hearts to drain!
  O hush! for the clouds break asunder;
    Her delicate feet
  Touch the hills with a reverent wonder
    If earth will be sweet.
  And the heart that within me was breaking
    With longing for her,
  Breaks utterly, now that awaking
    I hear her low stir.
  So frail and so dainty and tender;
    What heart could foresee
  That the goddess it longed for, a slender
    Young fairy would be?
  Empty-handed, she dreads my displeasure,
    And turns half away;
  ’Tis for me then to give of my treasure,
          O beautiful Day!
  Appealing, she waits till I greet her,
    With no gifts for me;
  Dear Day, after all it is sweeter
    For me to crown thee!
  If I am not a happier maiden
    Because of thy stay,
  Thou shalt be with bright gifts from me laden,
          A happier Day!




WITH AN ANTIQUE.


  The old, old story men would call our love;
    One cannot think of any time so old
    That some “I love you” was not gladly told
  To some one listening gladly; each remove
  Of the long lingering centuries does but prove
    Its deathlessness;--and we to-day who hold
    Each other dear as if young Love had sold
  To us alone his birthright from above,--
    Love’s secret ours alone,--turn back to seek
    In the rich types of Roman art or Greek
    Some fitting gift wherewith to fitly speak
  A love that each heart to the other drew;--
  An old, old story it may seem to you;
  To us, each year more beautiful, more new.




DOUBT.


                        Tell me, my friend;
  Across your faith (which, pardon me, I know
  To be sincere and honest; else, indeed,
  I had not spent this hour with you here;)
  Across your faith, then, does there never creep
  A haunting doubt it may not all be true?
  For me, although my life were spanned above
  With faith as honest as your own, if once
  On the horizon there had dawned a doubt
  No bigger than a pigmy’s little hand,
  Then heaven would be always overcast
  With possible untruth, and I should think
  The stars I saw were but poor will-o’-the-wisps
  Created in my brain, beyond which rolled
  The eternal darkness of a blank despair.
  Whereas now, living underneath a sky
  Continually clouded,--when a rift
  Shows me a tender heavenly blue beyond,
  I fancy then the darkness overhead
  May be a gathered mist of my poor brain,
  Beyond which rolls, immortal and unstained,
  The glory of the everlasting Truth!




“I KNOW MYSELF THE BEST-BELOVED OF ALL.”


  I know myself the best-beloved of all
    The many dear to him; yet not indeed
    Because of his swift thought for every need
  Of my love’s craving; I could scarcely call
  My very own the power to enthrall
    Such chivalry as his, that turns to heed
    Each slightest claim, nor thinks to ask the meed
  Of love returned where love’s sweet offerings fall.
    Not then because of all he is to me;
  But by this surer token; when he earns
  The right to his own happiness, or yearns
    For some sweet, sudden, answering sympathy,
    Ah me! with what quick-beating heart I see
  For his own joy it is to me he turns!




OCTOBER.


                          The very air
  Has grown heroic; a few crimson leaves
  Have fallen here; yet not to yield their breath
  In pitiful sighing at so sad a fate,
  But royally, as with spilt blood of kings.
  The full life throbs exultant in my veins,
  Till half ashamed to wear so high a mood,
  Not for some splendid triumph of the soul,
  But simply in response to light and air,
  Slowly I let it fall.
                      And later, steal
  Down the broad garden-walk, where cool and clear
  The sharp-defined white moonlight marks the path.
  Not the young moon that shy and wavering down
  Trembled through leafy tracery of the boughs
  In happy nights of June; the peace that wraps
  Me here is not the warm and golden peace
  Of summer afternoons that lull the soul
  To dreamy indolence; but strong white peace,
  Peace that is conscious power in repose.
  No fragrance floats on the autumnal air;
  The white chrysanthemums and asters star
  The frosty silence, but their leaves exhale
  No passion of remembrance or regret.
  The perfect calmness and the perfect strength
  My senses wrap in an enchanted robe
  Woven of frost and fire; while in my soul
  Blend the same mingled sovereignty and rest;
  As if indeed my spirit had drained deep
  Some delicate elixir of rich wine,
  Ripened beneath the haughtiest of suns,
  Then cooled with flakes of snow.




SERENITY.


  Her days are as a silver-flowing stream;--
  Above, the rippling sunbeams flash and gleam;
  Beneath, strong currents noiseless as a dream.

  Her heart is like the lilies that bloom wide
  In restful beauty on the restless tide,
  Asking not where the eager waters glide.

  Her thoughts are white-winged birds, that from below
  To the high heavens soar and vanish so--
  Alas! mine cannot follow where they go.

  Her joys are bright-winged birds that from on high
  Come singing down, and tempt the stream to try
  And sing with them as they flit singing by.

  Her sorrows--she has none her heart will own;
  The air is silent when the birds have flown;
  But the poor stream still sings the song, alone.




“A YEAR AGO TO-DAY, LOVE.”


  A year ago to-day, love, for the space
    Of a brief sudden moment, richly fraught
    With deeper meaning than our light hearts thought,
  You held my hand and looked into the face
  Which, poor in gifts, has since by God’s good grace
    Grown dear to you;--and the full year has brought
    Friendship--and love--and marriage; yet has taught
  My heart to call you in its sacred place
    Still by the earliest name; for you who are
  My lover and my husband, and who bring
  Heaven close around me, will not let me cling
    To that near heaven; but tempt my soul afar
  By your ideals for me; till life end,
  My calm, dispassionate, sincerest _friend_.




STEADFAST.


                Not like the stars that high in heaven
  Shine so serenely with unchanging rays
  That marveling at their calmness, you believe
  Of their “firm-fixed and lasting quality”
  There is no type upon the earth beneath.
  A few weeks hence look up, and you shall find
  Each steadfast planet steadfastly has moved
  Across the midnight azure of the sky
  With silent rays still tranquil and serene.
  Not steadfast like the stars is she I love,
  But as this gem I wear upon my breast;
  Whose rich rays wander from me through the room,
  Sparkling and fading with capricious gleam
  Of light and color, like the varying moods
  Of my beloved one; those who turn to praise
  The beauty of the gem, admire most
  The changefulness of its most restless rays;
  Yet I feel no uneasiness or doubt;
  Knowing full well whenever I look down
  Upon my breast, the jewel will be there.




WITH A CRYSTAL LION.

For L. R. W.


  Keep watch and ward,
        In stately guard,
  Around my Una’s wayward feet;
        Not lest she tread
        False ways instead
  Of higher paths, serenely sweet;--

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

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

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




ABSENT-MINDED.


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




ANSWERED PRAYER.


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




EXPRESSION.


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




FULFILLMENT.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




“THERE WILL BE SILENCE HERE, LOVE.”


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




FAITH IN WORKS.


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




“No. 33--A PORTRAIT.”

FOR R. H. L.


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




LONGING.


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




THE NEW DAY.


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




CONFESSION.


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

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




“AMONG THOSE JOYS FOR WHICH WE UTTER PRAISE.”


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




BECAUSE.


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

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




IVY.


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




INFLUENCE.


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




MIRACLE.


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




“SHE CAME AND WENT.”


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

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

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

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

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




DREAMERS.


I.

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


II.

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




ANDROMEDA.


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

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




LOVE SONG.


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

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




CLOSED.


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




BABY-HOOD.

M. W. R.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




“IF I COULD KNOW, LOVE.”


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




THE DIFFERENCE.


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

  I heard the little lady’s lover say,
  “O rose-white daisy, dying in the dew,
  Breathing your half-crushed, fainting life away
  Under her footstep,--would that I were you!
  For when how cruelly she wounded you,
  She turns to see in pitying distress,
  With murmured words of sorrowing tenderness
  Close to her lips your bruised leaves she will press;--
  O drooping daisy, would that I were you!”




INDIAN SUMMER.


            Linger, O Day!
            Let not thy purple haze
            Fade utterly away!
          The Indian Summer lays
    Her tender touch upon the emerald hills;
            Exquisite thrills
    Of delicate gladness fill the blue-veined air.
            More restful even than rest,
    The passionate sweetness that is everywhere.
            Soft splendors in the west
  Touch with the charm of coming changefulness
            The yielding hills.
            O linger, Day!
            Let not the dear
    Delicious languor of thy dreamfulness
            Vanish away!
            Serene and clear,
    The brooding stillness of the delicate air,
  Dreamier than the dreamiest depths of sleep,
            Falls softly everywhere.
            Still let me keep
      One little hour longer tryst with thee,
            O Day of days!
            Lean down to me,
      In tender beauty of thy amethyst haze!
            Upon the vine
    Rich, clinging clusters of the ripening grape
            Hang silent in the sun;
            But in each one
    Beats with full throb the quickening purple wine
  Whose pulse shall round the perfect fruit to shape.
            Too dreamy even to dream,
    I hear the murmuring bee and gliding stream;
        The singing silence of the afternoon
      Lulling my drowsy senses till they swoon
            Into still deeper rest;
          While soul released from sense,
            Passionate and intense,
      With quick, exultant quiver in its wings,
        Prophetic longing for diviner things,
                Escapes the unthinking breast;--
      Pierces rejoicing through the shining mist,
    But shrinks before the keen, cold ether, kissed
          By burning stars: delirious foretaste
        Of joys the soul--(too eager in its haste
          To grasp ere won by the diviner right
  Of birth through death)--is far too weak to bear!
                Bathed in earth’s lesser light,
    Slipping down slowly through the shining air,
    Once more it steals into the dreaming breast,
      Praying again to be its patient guest;
            And as my senses wake,
      The beautiful glad soul again to take,
            The twilight falls;--
            A lonely wood-thrush calls
            The Day away.
            Thou needst not linger, Day!
            My soul and I
    Would hold high converse of diviner things
    Than blossom underneath thy tender sky.
            Unfold thy wings!
    Wrap softly round thyself thy delicate haze,
  And gliding down the slowly darkening ways,
            Vanish away!




“LAST--AN AMETHYST.”


  O thou in whom, not knowing, I believe,
  If in these uttered phrases there is naught
  Of that supreme, deep language of Thy thought
  Men call religion--yet wilt Thou receive
  The finished task; though I have dared to leave
  Unseen, but not unfelt, though best unsought,
  As Thou thyself to my own heart hast taught,
  The solemn truths that so will strongest cleave
  Unto men’s souls. My hand would fain forget
  Its eager cunning, ere the fingers kissed
  By one whose love Thou gavest me, should yet
  Yield all to joy, uncaring if they list,--
  Thy angels--from the heavenly parapet
  Of precious stones: “the twelfth, an amethyst!”




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Transcriber’s note

Hyphenation in the Table of Contents was made consistent with
hyphenation in the titles of the poems.