Poems and sonnets of Louise Chandler Moulton / [by Louise Chandler Moulton] [electronic text]

Lyrics.

In the world of dreams I have chosen my partTo sleep for a season, and hear no wordOf love's truth, or of light love's art,Only the song of a secret bird.

A. C. SWINBURNE.

Shall I not tell my dream in a song?

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

AT THE WIND'S WILL.

SONGS AT SEA.

I HAVE been lonely the whole day long; Come and find me to-night with a song; Sing to me now, when the wind is low, And my heart shall answer as on we go; Listen and answer, and none shall know.

Over the brooding, wonderful sea The song that is sung alone for me Floats, and none other its strain can hear, Or catch the music, subtle and dear, Of the delicate singing that seeks my ear.

The West is red with the sunset's glow; In the East the moon is hanging low; And fast and far the light winds flee, As I sail, with your songs for company, 'Twixt the silent sky and the silent sea.

Do these birds of song need a sheltering nest? See! I will hide them warm in my breast; There shall they fold their venturous wing, And all the night through nestle and sing Songs of love and of sorrowing.

Then, when the morning is young and gay, Up from their shelter and far away! And, like carrier doves, they shall bear as they flee The echoes of all they have sung to me Alone with the night and the wind and the sea;—

The echoes of passion's divine despair, The bliss and the bane of a lover's prayer, All the delicate singing that none might hear; And the answer my heart shall send, my dear, On the breath of the morning fine and clear.

ON A ROSE PRESSED IN A BOOK.

I WIN the summer back again At touch of this dead rose.—O lavish joy! O tender pain! The very June wind blows, And thrills me with the old refrain Whose music my heart knows: I win the summer back again At touch of this dead rose.

Ah, lost is all the summer's gain, And lost my heart's repose; And was it tears or was it rain That wept the season's close? The winter suns they coldly wane; White fall the winter snows: But Love and Summer come again At touch of this dead rose.

THE SUN IS LOW.

I SIT and wait for you, Dear, my Dear, Now the sun is low; From the far-off town the path runs clear, And the way you know— The old, old way that brought you here, In the Long-Ago.

The white moon climbs, and looks at me— Her smile is cold; Something she sees that I do not see— The moon is old.

I catch a sigh from the winds that flee Across the wold— What is the secret they hide from me?— They have not told.

To Lethe-country your steps were set— Did you taste that spring That makes the heart of a man forget The dearest thing?

Nay! I sit and wait for you, Dear, my Dear, For the sun is low— From your far-off place the path runs clear, And you still must know The old, old way that brought you here In the Long-Ago.

THE SECRET OF ARCADY.

I HIED me off to Arcady — The month it was the month of May, And all along the pleasant way The morning birds were mad with glee, And all the flowers sprang up to see, As I went on to Arcady.

But slow I fared to Arcady—The way was long, the winding way— Sometimes I watched the children play, And then I laid me down to see The great white clouds sail over me— I thought they sailed to Arcady.

Then by me sped to Arcady Two lovers, each on palfrey gray, And blithe with love, and blithe with May, And they were rich, and held in fee The whole round world: and Youth is he Who knows the path to Arcady.

I followed on to Arcady— But I was all alone that day, And shadows stole along the way,

And somehow I had lost the key That makes an errant mortal free Of the dear fields of Arcady.

But still I fared toward Arcady, Until I slept at set of day, And in my dreams I found the way; And all the Fates were kind to me; So that I woke beneath a tree In the dear land of Arcady.

What did I find in Arcady?—Ah, that I never must betray: I learned the secrets of the May; And why the winds are fresh and free, And all the birds are mad with glee That soar and sing in Arcady.

I dwell no more in Arcady:— But when the sky is blue with May, And flowers spring up along the way, And birds are blithe, and winds are free, I know what message is for me,—For I have been in Arcady.

AT NIGHT'S HIGH NOON.

UNDER the heavy sod she lies— I saw them close her beautiful eyes— She lies so still, and she lies so deep, That all of them think she is fast asleep.

I, only, know at the night's high noon She comes from the grave they made too soon: I see the light of her cold, bright eyes, As I see the stars in the wintry skies.

The scornful gleam of an old surprise Is still alive in those wonderful eyes— And the mocking lips are ripe and red, Smiling, still, at the words I said.

She mocks me now, as she mocked me then:— 'Dead is dead,' say the world of men— But I know when the stars of midnight rise She shines on me with her cold, bright eyes.

THE VOICE OF SPRING.

IT was the Voice of Spring— That faint, far cry— And birds began to sing, And winds blew by.

And up the blossoms got—They knew the call:— The blue Forget-me-not, The Lily, tall,

And Mayflowers, pink and white As any lass, Sprang up, for heart's delight, Among the grass.

The happy world is fain To hail the feet Of Spring, who comes again, Spring that is sweet.

Let us, dear Heart, rejoice—You, Love, and I; We, too, have heard the Voice, Our Spring is nigh.

IN EXTREMIS.

HOW can I go into the dark, Away from your clasping hand, Set sail on a shadowy bark For the shore of an unknown land?

Your eyes look love into mine; Your lips are warm on my mouth; I drink your breath like a wine Aglow with the sun of the South.

You have made this world so dear! How can I go forth alone In the bark that phantoms steer To a port afar and unknown?

The desperate mob of the dead, Will they hustle me to and fro, Or leave me alone to tread The path of my infinite woe?

Shall I cry, in terror and pain, For a death that I cannot die, And pray with a longing vain To the gods that mock my cry?

Oh, hold me closer, my dear! Strong is your clasp,—ay, strong,— But stronger the touch that I fear, And the darkness to come is long.

WHEN LOVE IS YOUNG.

IN Summer, when the days are long, The roses and the lilies talk— Beneath the trees young lovers walk, And glad birds coo their wooing song.

In Autumn, when the days are brief, Roses and lilies turn to dust— Lovers grow old, as all men must, And birds shun trees that have no leaf.

Then, youth, be glad, in love's brief day! Pluck life's best blossom while you can—Time has his will of every man— From leafless hearts love turns away.

AT THE END.

TIME was when Love's dear ways I used to know— That time's at end, and Love has passed me by: Be merciful, dear God, and let me die—How can I lift my head from this last blow?

I cannot bear this life whence Faith has fled— This jostling world in which I walk alone— Where through long, lonesome nights old memories moan, With human voices, that the dead is dead.

I cannot bear to meet the day's cold eyes— The lonesome nights are bitter with my tears— Shuddering I face the empty hideous years, Sure that no trumpet's call will bid my dead arise.

Since Love's at end, be merciful, oh God!. . . . I ask no new-born hope, but only this,— That I may die as died that vanished bliss, And hide my fruitless pain 'neath some green sod.

Yet there—if the strong soul in me live on—How deep soe'er the grave, what hope of rest? Still shall I be discrowned and dispossest, And find new tortures with new life begun.

The Heavens are deaf! No answer comes to prayer— I face the cold scorn of the risen day—Since Love that was my life has turned away, And left me for companion my Despair.

TO SLEEP.

COME Sleep, and kiss mine eyelids down; Let me forget Hope's treachery, and Fortune's frown, And Life's vain fret.

And would you hold me fast, dear Sleep, I need not wake, Since they wake not who used to weep For my poor sake.

WHEN YOU ARE DEAD.

A LOVER SPEAKS.

WHEN you are dead, my dainty dear, And buried 'neath the grass, Will something of you linger near, And know me if I pass?

Last night you wore a wild, sweet rose, To match your sweet, wild grace—The only flower on earth that grows I liken to your face.

I would that I that rose had been, To bloom upon your breast! One golden hour I should have seen— What matter for the rest?

To-day you will not grant my prayer, Or listen while I plead— But when you dwell alone, down there, It may be you will heed;

And then your silent heart will stir With some divine, sweet thrill, To know that I, your worshipper, Through death am faithful still;

And something of you, lingering near, May bless me if I pass— When you are dead, my dainty dear, And buried 'neath the grass.

THE BIRDS AND I.

A THOUSAND voices whisper it is spring; Shy flowers start up to greet me on the way, And homing birds preen their swift wings and sing The praises of the friendly, lengthening day.

The buds whose breath the glad wind hither bears, Whose tender secret the young May shall find, Seem all for me—for me the softer airs, The gentle warmth, wherewith the day is kind.

Let me rejoice, now skies are blue and bright, And the round world pays tribute to the spring; The birds and I will carol our delight, And every breeze Love's messages shall bring.

What matter though sometimes the cup of tears We drink, instead of the rich wine of mirth? There are as many springs as there are years; And, glad or sad, we love this dear old Earth.

Shall we come back, like birds, from some far sphere— We and the Spring together—and be glad With the old joy to hail the sweet young year, And to remember what good days we had?

THE BIRDS COME BACK.

THE birds come back to their last year's nest, And the wild-rose nods in the lane; And gold in the east, and red in the west, The sun bestirs him again.

The thief-bee rifles the hawthorn flower; And the breezes softly sigh For the columbine in my lady's bower, And then at her feet they die.

And all the pomp of the June is here— The mirth and passion and song; And young is the summer, and life is dear, And the day is never too long.

Ah! birds come back to their last year's nest, And the wild-rose laughs in the lane; But I turn to the east and I turn to the west— "She never will come again."

A WINTER'S DAWN.

AFTER the long and dreary night I wake to the blessed morning light, And the white surprise of the snow. Dreams have mocked me the dark hours through; And something cried on the winds that blew Across the country that dreamers know.

Back from the memory-haunted ways We trod together in by-gone days, Came a voice—was it yours, my dear?— Oh, was it yours? Did I hear you plead, As I heard you once, when I would not heed— In that far-off land—in that by-gone year?

Wild is my heart, with its hopeless pain—Oh, for one hour of the past again!— One brief, bright hour—one least little touch! Do you forgive me the words I said, As you look back from the realm of the dead?— Much is forgiven, when one loves much.

Grief makes wise; for I knew not then, While you were alive in the world of men, How the heart of my heart would starve and die,

When you should be gone, beyond my reach, Where the death-tide breaks on a ghostly beach, And spirits bereft on the night wind cry.

Spent and done is the lonesome night, And the sun of the morning is strong and bright— The sun is bright and the sky is clear—Yet better the dark, and the winds that blow Across the country that dreamers know, And the voice that calls from a by-gone year.

THE LURE.

WHENCE did the music come, my Dear, That wooed you into the waiting Night, The song you heard that I could not hear, The song you followed, my Heart's Delight?

The moon was full, and the sky was clear— How did you hide from my longing sight? Into the Dark we vainly peer, But I looked as vainly into the Light.

Does an echo come to my listening ear Of music dropped from some far-off height?. . . Nay, I do but dream, for I did not hear The song that lured you into the Night.

DEAD MEN'S HOLIDAY.

AFTER SHIPKA.

Every one kept holiday—except the dead.

VERESTSCHAGIN.

WHO dares to say the dead men were not glad, When all the banners flaunted triumph there And soldiers tossed their caps into the air, And cheered, and cheered as they with joy were mad?

Proudly the General galloped down the line, And shouted thanks and praise to all his men, And the free echoes tossed it back again, And the keen air stung all their lips like wine.

And there, in front, the dead lay silently—They who had given their lives the fight to win—Were their ears deaf, think you, to all the din, And their eyes blinded that they could not see?

I tell you, no! They heard, and hearing knew How brief a thing this triumph of a day, From which men journey on, the same old way, The same old snares and pitfalls struggle through.

Theirs the true triumph, for their fight was done; And with low laughter called they, each to each— "We are at rest, where foemen cannot reach, And better this than fighting in the sun."

WHEN YOU WERE HERE.

WHEN you, my love, were here My voice was full and loud— I sang to catch your ear: Now you are in your shroud I cannot sing for fear.

That vague world is so near— Beyond its veil of cloud— Where you abide, my dear, If I should sing too loud Who knows but you would hear?

And then your heart would break With pity, for my sake.

BECAUSE IT IS THE SPRING.

I will be glad because it is the spring.

AMY LEVY.

SHALL I be glad because the year is young? The shy, swift-coming green is on the trees; The jonquil's passion to the wind is flung; I catch the Mayflower's breath upon the breeze.

The birds, aware that mating-time has come, Swell their plumed, tuneful throats with love and glee; The streams, beneath the winter's thraldom dumb, Set free at last, run singing to the sea.

Shall I be glad because the year is young? Nay; you yourself were young that other year: Though sad and low the tender songs you sung, My fond heart heard them, and stood still to hear.

Can I forget the day you said good-by, And robbed the world and me for alien spheres? Do I not know, when wild winds sob and die, Your voice is on them, sadder than my tears?

You come to tell me heaven itself is cold,—The world was warm from which you fled away,— And moon and stars and sun are very old—And you?—oh, you were young in last year's May:

Now you, who were the very heart of spring, Are old, and share the secrets of the skies; But I lack something that no year will bring, Since May no longer greets me with your eyes.

HER PICTURE.

FAIR face the Greeks had worshipped, have you come With me to make your home? You look at me with those deep, haunting eyes, And all my life replies.

The silence thrills with vague, bewitching tone; I am no more alone: I who have sat upon the shore of Time, Coaxing my lute to rhyme,

Feel in my heart, at impulse of your will, Youth's eager music thrill; And since the years have left me not so old, Now their long tale is told,

But I can love the lovely, and be glad, I hide the cypress wreath I had For garland, and adorn me with the rose That in your garden glows.

A VIOLET SPEAKS.

O PASSER-BY, draw near! Upon a grave I grow; That she who died was dear They planted me to show.

Pluck me as you go by— I am her messenger; With her sweet breath I sigh; In me her pulses stir.

Through these my quivering leaves She fain would speak to you— She whom the grave bereaves Of the dear life she knew.

"How glad I was up there!" She whispers underground. "Have they who found me fair Some other fair one found?

"Has he who loved me best Learned Love's deep lore again, Since I was laid to rest Far from the world of men?

"Nay! Surely he will come To dwell here at the last; In Death's strange silent home My hand shall hold him fast.

"Yet would that he might know How hard it is to bide In darkness here below And miss him from my side!

"Fain would I send my soul To lie upon his breast, And breathe to him Love's whole That life left unconfest."

Ah, pluck me, passer-by! For I would bear her breath— Undying Love's own sigh— To him who flees from Death.

LEGEND OF A TOMB IN FLORENCE.

HERE he is, in marble, waiting by a tomb—Strong-winged for flying, yet, the legends say, Waiting till a maiden buried here below Shall break forth and join him once again, some day.

Long ago she lived here, in this Town of Flowers— She herself a blossom brighter than the rest— Myrtles blue as Heaven, lilies saintly white, Ne'er a one was worthy to bloom upon her breast.

Here he saw and loved her—he, the gallant Knight, Loved this gracious Lady, fairer than the May; Loved her, and won her, Flower of all Delight— Then Death, the Robber, stole his love away.

By her grave he waited, years on weary years, Sure that Love would sometime triumph over Fate, Till at length, o'er-tired, he too must go to sleep; Then he bade them carve him, still by her to wait—

But with wings for flying, so that when she came From her narrow chamber he could bear her high, Over seas and mountains, past the bars of Earth, To a spacious dwelling somewhere in the sky.

Still the summons comes not—long their silent dream— But the watching seraphs pity them, I know, And the tomb will open, and the dead will rise, And the Knight and Lady Heavenward will go.

THE SUMMER'S QUEEN.

I CHANT the praises of the regal June, Fair Queen of all the Twelve months' circling sphere, Hands full of roses, and sweet lips in tune To all the mirth and music of the year.

How gay and glad you are, fair Lady mine! How proud of conquered world and lavish sun, And air that sparkles like celestial wine, And laughing streams that frolic as they run!

You sow the fields with lilies—wake the choir Of summer birds to chorus of delight; Yours is the year's deep rapture—yours the fire That burns the' West, and ushers in the night—

The short, sweet night—that almost can deceive, So bright its moon, the birds to sing again, And fit their morning carols to the eve, And wake the midnight with the noontide strain.

O June, fair Queen of sunshine and of flowers, The affluent year will hold you not again— Once, only once, can Youth and Love be ours, And after them the autumn and the rain.

BEND LOW AND HARK.

BEND low and hark with me, my Dear, How the winds sigh! A voice is on them that I fear, It brings the by-gone days so near, Like a soul's cry.

Those whom we bury out of sight—How still they lie! Beyond the reaches of the Light, Outside the realm of Day and Night— Do they not die?

Shall we unbar the long-shut door—You, Dear, or I?—Could Love be what Love was before If we should call them back once more, And they reply?

Would they Life's largess claim again? ... They draw too nigh. Oh, winds, be still! You shall not pain My heart with that long-hushed refrain As you sweep by.

The Dead have had their shining day— Why should they try To listen to the words we say— To breathe their blight upon our May— . . .Yet the winds sigh.

A SONG FOR ROSALYS.

ROSES lean from their slender stalks— Oh, but the summer is just begun! Through her garden Rosalys walks, And the world is warm with the sun.

Roses and maiden and year All blooming together; Heigho, it is good to be here, In the summer weather!

Love thrives well when the days are long, And hearts, like the summer, are young and gay. Words turn to music, and hope grows strong; But the best is what we can never say.

Oh, once, just once, to be glad once more, To listen to words that we heard of old, To steal again through Youth's open door And thrill to the story that then was told!

But never twice is a woman young, And never twice to the year comes June, And Age is the echo of songs once sung, With never again the time or the tune.

Roses and maiden and year All blooming together; Heigho, it is good to be here, In the summer weather!

THE GENTLE GHOST OF JOY.

A LITTLE while ago you knew not I was I— A little while ago I knew not you were you— Now the swift hours have run by, And all the world is new.

I hear the young birds sing In the rosy light of morn; Like them I could take wing, And sing as newly born.

A little while from now I shall be far away— A little while from now your face I shall not see— But within my heart a ray To light the dark will be.

Do you not know that pain So sad, so sweet, so coy, That comes, and comes again, The gentle ghost of Joy?

Ah, that shall dwell with me, When your face I do not see!

WHEN I WANDER AWAY WITH DEATH.

THIS Life is a fleeting breath, And whither and how shall I go, When I wander away with Death By a path that I do not know?

Shall I find the throne of the Moon, And kneel with her lovers there To pray for a cold, sweet boon From her beauty cold and fair?

Or shall I make haste to the Sun, And warm at his passionate fire My heart by sorrow undone, And sick with a vain desire?

Shall I steal into Twilight-Land, When the Sun and the Moon are low, And hark to the furtive band Of the winds that whispering go—

Telling and telling again, And crooning with scornful mirth, The secrets of women and men They overheard on the earth?

Will the dead birds sing once more, And the nightingale's note be sad With the passion and longing of yore, And the thrushes with joy go mad?

Nay, what though they carol again, And the flowers spring to life at my feet, Can they heal the sting of my pain, Or quicken a dead heart's beat?

What care I for Moon, or for stars, Or the Sun on his royal way? Only somewhere, beyond Earth's bars, Let me find Love's long-lost day.

HAS LAVISH SUMMER BROUGHT THE ROSE?

HAS lavish summer brought the rose? Why did my heart not know, When every gossip wind that blows Made haste to tell me so;

And all the birds went mad with glee, And sang from morn till night; And then the stars came out to see What made the world so bright?

But I missed something from the time, And so I did not guess The meaning of the summer's rhyme, Or the warm wind's caress.

Can gladness be where she is not? Can roses bud and blow? Does all the world but me forget What now we must forego?

I care not for the day's kind grace,—The magic of the night,— Since with them comes no more the face That was my heart's delight.

A LOST EDEN.

AH, it was a lonely place, Where I walked to-day—That old Garden of Delights, Where we used to stray.

She is far, whose hand I held In that bygone time—Where the summer roses laughed Clings the winter's rime.

Helen, stately, Helen fair, Where are you to-night? Do you gather brighter blooms, Tranced in new delight?

I remember how you stood—You who wrought my woe— Wiling me with strange, sweet smile, When the sun was low;

And I lingered by your side Till the stars arose And looked down with curious eyes On that Garden Close.

Now you wander, who knows where, Helen, fair and glad, Deaf to whispers from the past— Why should I be sad?

THE MOOD OF A MAN.

THROUGH the silence come to mock me Ancient questions and replies; A remembered glory blinds me, From the shining of her eyes.

Though this Southern sun is glowing, And this alien sky is fair, Still between me and the sunshine Waves the pale gold of her hair.

In these unfamiliar places Her familiar face I see,— Scornful in its mocking beauty, Always pitiless for me.

But her scorn no longer moves me— Reft of hope is free from fear—So her very coldness warms me, Her remoteness brings me near.

JUNE'S DAUGHTER.

FAIR Lady June, proud Queen of all the year, With blossom-sceptre in thy royal hand—Vaunt not thyself: though long thy days and dear. Thy days and thee Time's sway cannot withstand.

Thy splendid sun may kindle the proud morn; And the high noon may glow with love of thee: Sunset shall laugh thy longest day to scorn, And mocking stars its overthrow shall see.

Roses shall wither, though their lavish praise The nightingales have chanted all night long: Their fragrant ghosts shall throng the silent ways Those swift-winged laureates once thrilled with song.

And thou, fair Maid, bright daughter of the June, Dost thou not know thy youth, like hers, is brief?— For thee the glad day, and the bird's glad tune; And then the waning year, the wind-blown leaf.

The rising stars shall mock thy setting sun, And watch with curious eyes thy fallen state: Glad month! glad maid!—for both the swift sands run— And not for month or maid shall Autumn wait.

A SUMMER WOOING.

THE wind went wooing the rose, For the rose was fair. How the rough wind won her, who knows? But he left her there. Far away from her grave he blows: Does the free wind care?

I HAVE CALLED THEE MANY A NIGHT.

I HAVE called thee many a night, While the rest were sleeping; Thou wert deaf to all I said, Heedless of my weeping.

Wilt thou never hear again, Howsoe'er I pray thee? Then must I go forth to seek, On thy way waylay thee.

Shall I find, beyond the sun, Some Celestial Garden? Shall I kneel there at thy feet, Clamor for thy pardon?

Nay; how can I wait so long? Wilt thou not draw near me? Wingèd winds are steeds of thine—Let them hither bear thee.

Long my ear waits for thy words. How can I forego thee? Ah! for one brief hour come back, Let me see and know thee.

A WHISPER TO THE MOON.

BEND low, O Moon, for I fain would tell My secret to thee, who can keep it well, And not to the stars that laugh from the sky, And mock at my pain as they pass me by.

Bend low, pale Moon! Her face is like thine— Like thine from afar I can see it shine, Now hid in a cloud, in a halo now—She is thy kindred; and fickle art thou.

IN VENICE ONCE.

IN Venice once they lived and loved— Fair women with their red-gold hair— Their twinkling feet to music moved, In Venice where they lived and loved, And all Philosophy disproved, While hope was young and life was fair, In Venice where they lived and loved.

MY QUEEN OF MAY.

THE laughing garlanded May-time is here; The glad laburnum whispers at the gate: "She comes! She comes! I hear her step draw near, My Queen of Beauty, Arbitress of Fate!"

The lilacs look at her—"She is more fair Than the white moon, more proud than the strong sun; Let him who seeks her royal grace beware, To be unworthy were to be undone."

One wild sweet rose, that dreams the May is June, Blooms for her; and for her a mateless bird Thrills the soft dusk with his entrancing tune, Content if by her only he is heard.

A curious star climbs the far heaven to see What She it is for whom the waiting night, To music set, trembles in melody; Then, by her beauty dazzled, flees from sight.

And I—what am I that my voice should reach The gracious ear to which it would aspire? She will not heed my faltering poor speech; I have no spell to win what all desire.

Yet will I serve my stately Queen of May; Yet will I hope, till Hope itself be spent. Better to strive, though steep and long the way, Than on some weaker heart to sink content.

WHERE THE NIGHT'S PALE ROSES BLOW.

AH, the place is wild and sweet Where my darling went:—If I chase her flying feet When the day is spent, Shall I find her, as I go Where the Night's pale roses blow?

AND YET.

LET me forget! Why should I seek to hold Thine image in the mirror of my mind? For him who can no way to please thee find To house such tenant were indeed too bold— Let me forget!

Do I not know the magic of that smile; The way that wayward color comes and goes, Fair Lady of the Lily and the Rose, What time the souls of men thou would'st beguile: Do I not know?

Thou shalt not reign, proud Queen, in this poor heart; No rash oath of allegiance will I swear—Though thou art beautiful beyond compare, Thine art is nature, and thy nature art— Thou shalt not reign!

And yet, and yet—how can I close my door? It may be thou art weary and acold:— Come in! Come in! To welcome thee is bold; But work thy will—I am thy slave once more— And yet! And yet!

I HEARD A CRY IN THE NIGHT.

I HEARD a cry in the night, And swift I stole from my bed, To find her, my heart's delight, Once more in the lonesome night, As before they called her dead.

I pulled the curtains away, I bent my lips to her cheek: She had fled from the glare of day, Afar on her lonesome way; Night came, and I heard her speak.

Again I harked to the call Of the one little voice so dear; No matter what might befall, I had found her, my darling, my all, And I held her warm and near.

I laid me down by her side: I cooed like a mother dove. Ah, was it her lips that replied, Or only the wind that sighed, And not my dainty, my love?

For cruel the morning came, And mocking the blue sky smiled, And the sun arose like a flame, And vainly I called her name, And I wept in vain for my child.

THE NAME ON A DOOR.

IT is only the name on a door—Why should there be tears in my eyes? But I never shall knock there more; And sorrow is not overwise.

I used to go up the stair When the day was wearing late, And come on her unaware As she sat and dreamed by the grate.

And then, like a sudden flame, My welcome flashed from her eyes, And her lips grew warm with my name, And we saw Love's star arise.

Sometimes I but held her hand, And never a word said we— We could always understand With never a word, you see.

Sometimes she chattered like mad, And laughed—I can hear her now. Shall I ever again be glad? I think I 've forgotten how.

It is only the name on a door, Where I used to come and go; But never to knock there more— Why, the world seems dead, you know!

VAIN WAITING.

THE western sky has begun to darken, The sun has set, and the wind is low; And waiting alone I sit and hearken As I used to hearken, ages ago,

For a voice that now the winds know only— The winds, and the stars, and the vacant night— A presence that vanished and left me lonely, Reft of all that was heart's delight.

I wait and listen—no step draws nigh me; Full your world is—empty is mine; Only the mocking wind sweeps by me, And flings me never a word or a sign.

A WISH.

I WISH thee length of days Filled full of all that's best—Long years to earn thy bays, Then twilight time for rest.

I wish thee love and joy— Love that is strong and sweet— Gladness without alloy; A heart with thine to beat.

And then, when Earth has given Her best and most to thee, At last I wish thee Heaven— Then come again to me!

THE COSTLIEST GIFT.

I GIVE you a day of my life— Treasure no gold could buy— For peasant and peer are at one When the time comes to die; And all that the monarch has, His koh-i-noor or his crown, He would give for one more day Ere he lay his dear life down.

They are winged, like the viewless wind— These days that come and go— And we count them, and think of the end, But the end we cannot know: The whole world darkens with pain When a sunset fades in the west — . . . I give you a day of my life, My uttermost gift and my best.

TO HER WHO KNOWS.

BECAUSE your eyes are blue, your lips are red, And the soft hair is golden on your head, And your sweet smiling can make glad the day, And on your cheeks pink roses have their way, Should I adore you?

Since other maids have shining golden hair, And other cheeks the June's pink roses wear, And other eyes can set the day alight, And other lips can smile with youth's delight, Why bow before you?

But if the eyes are blue for me alone, And if for only me the rose has blown, And but for me the lips their sweet smile wear, Then shall you mesh me in your golden hair— I will adore you.

And as my saint, my soul's one shining star, That lights my darkness from its throne afar, As lights the summer moon the waiting sea, With all I am, and all I strive to be, I'll bow before you.

IN THE OFFING.

A GHOSTLY ship sails on a ghostly sea, And bears afar an anxious company, Whose dreams, whose hopes, whose constant longings yearn For some fair port from which no ships return—Some quiet haven, undisturbed by strife Of vexing surges from our storm-vext life—Wind-driven surges from our wind-swept life.

My longing heart sails with them as they go, Anxious as they, and heavy with their woe; Where is the peaceful shore we long to find— The waves are stormy, and the path is blind— The distant sky shuts in the distant sea— What star of promise holds the dark for me? What star of promise holds the dark for thee?

WITH A BOOK.

YOU fain would know the story of my life? Nay, then you shall divine it from my song— The weariness of ever-baffled strife; The Joy that fled, the Grief that lingers long;

The barren shore, laved by the bitter tide; The vanity of all beneath the sun; The longing, that Fate's mockery denied; The triumph unachieved; the goal unwon;

The fleeting moments, vague and sweet and dear As violets upon a grave that grow:— Is not the whole vain story written here? Then turn these leaves, and you my soul shall know.