Moon — The Moon – Read by Y

THE MOON

My soul was like the sea.

Before the moon was made, Moaning in vague immensity, Of its own strength afraid, Unresful and unstaid.

Through every rift it foamed in vain, About its earthly prison, Seeking some unknown thing in pain, And sinking restless back again, For yet no moon had risen: Its only voice a vast dumb moan, Of utterless anguish speaking, It lay unhopefully alone, And lived but in an aimless seeking.

So was my soul; but when 'twas full Of unrest to o'erloading, A voice of something beautiful Whispered a dim foreboding, And yet so soft, so sweet, so low, It had not more of joy than woe;

And, as the sea doth oft lie still, Making its waters meet, As if by an unconscious will, For the moon's silver feet, So lay my soul within mine eyes When thou, its guardian moon, didst rise.

And now, howe'er its waves above May toss and seem uneaseful, One strong, eternal law of Love, With guidance sure and peaceful, As calm and natural as breath, Moves its great deeps through life and death.

REMEMBERED MUSIC

A FRAGMENT

Thick-rushing, like an ocean vast Of bisons the far prairie shaking, The notes crowd heavily and fast As surfs, one plunging while the last Draws seaward from its foamy breaking.

Or in low murmurs they began, Rising and rising momently, As o'er a harp Æolian A fitful breeze, until they ran Up to a sudden ecstasy.

And then, like minute-drops of rain Ringing in water silvery, They lingering dropped and dropped again, Till it was almost like a pain To listen when the next would be.

SONG

TO M.

L.

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, A lily-bud not opened quite, That hourly grew more pure and white, By morning, and noontide, and evening nursed: In all of nature thou hadst thy share;

Thou wast waited on By the wind and sun;

The rain and the dew for thee took care;

It seemed thou never couldst be more fair.

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first, A lily-bud; but oh, how strange, How full of wonder was the change, When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full bloom burst!

How did the tears to my glad eyes start, When the woman-flower Reached its blossoming hour, And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden heart!

Glad death may pluck thee, but never before The gold dust of thy bloom divine Hath dropped from thy heart into mine, To quicken its faint germs of heavenly lore;

For no breeze comes nigh thee but carries away Some impulses bright Of fragrance and light, Which fall upon souls that are lone and astray, To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day.

ALLEGRA

I would more natures were like thine, That never casts a glance before, Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine So lavishly to all dost pour, That we who drink forget to pine, And can but dream of bliss in store.

Thou canst not see a shade in life;

With sunward instinct thou dost rise, And, leaving clouds below at strife, Gazest undazzled at the skies, With all their blazing splendors rife, A songful lark with eagle's eyes.

Thou wast some foundling whom the Hours Nursed, laughing, with the milk of Mirth;

Some influence more gay than ours Hath ruled thy nature from its birth, As if thy natal stars were flowers That shook their seeds round thee on earth.

And thou, to lull thine infant rest, Wast cradled like an Indian child;

All pleasant winds from south and west With lullabies thine ears beguiled, Rocking thee in thine oriole's nest, Till Nature looked at thee and smiled.

Thine every fancy seems to borrow A sunlight from thy childish years, Making a golden cloud of sorrow, A hope-lit rainbow out of tears,-- Thy heart is certain of to-morrow, Though 'yond to-day it never peers.

I would more natures were like thine, So innocently wild and free, Whose sad thoughts, even, leap and shine, Like sunny wavelets in the sea, Making us mindless of the brine, In gazing on the brilliancy.

THE FOUNTAIN

Into the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing From morn till night;

Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow;

Into the starlight Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day;

Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best, Upward or downward.

Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine Thy element;

Glorious fountain.

Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, Upward, like thee!

ODE

I

In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was rife;

He saw the mysteries which circle under The outward shell and skin of daily life.

Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, His soul was led by the eternal law;

There was in him no hope of fame, no passion, But with calm, godlike eyes he only saw.

He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried, Chief-mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, 10 Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had ferried Alone were fitting themes of epic verse: He could believe the promise of to-morrow, And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day;

He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow Than the world's seeming loss could take away.

To know the heart of all things was his duty, All things did sing to him to make him wise, And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty, The soul of all looked grandly from his eyes.

20 He gazed on all within him and without him, He watched the flowing of Time's steady tide, And shapes of glory floated all about him And whispered to him, and he prophesied.

Than all men he more fearless was and freer, And all his brethren cried with one accord,-- 'Behold the holy man!

Behold the Seer!

Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!'

He to his heart with large embrace had taken The universal sorrow of mankind, 30 And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind.

He could interpret well the wondrous voices Which to the calm and silent spirit come;

He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices In the star's anthem than the insect's hum.

He in his heart was ever meek and humble.

And yet with kingly pomp his numbers ran, As he foresaw how all things false should crumble Before the free, uplifted soul of man; 40 And, when he was made full to overflowing With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, Out rushed his song, like molten iron glowing, To show God sitting by the humblest hearth.

With calmest courage he was ever ready To teach that action was the truth of thought, And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady, An anchor for the drifting world he wrought.

So did he make the meanest man partaker Of all his brother-gods unto him gave; 50 All souls did reverence him and name him Maker, And when he died heaped temples on his grave.

And still his deathless words of light are swimming Serene throughout the great deep infinite Of human soul, unwaning and undimming, To cheer and guide the mariner at night.

II

But now the Poet is an empty rhymer Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, To all men's prides and fancies as they pass.

60 Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, Chimes with the music of the eternal stars, Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars.

Maker no more,--oh no!

unmaker rather, For he unmakes who doth not all put forth The power given freely by our loving Father To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth.

Awake!

great spirit of the ages olden!

Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, 70 And let man's soul be yet again beholden To thee for wings to soar to her desire.

Oh, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, Be no more shamefaced to speak out for Truth, Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth!

Oh, prophesy no more the Maker's coming, Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear In the dim void, like to the awful humming Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere!

80 Oh, prophesy no more, but be the Poet!

This longing was but granted unto thee That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it, That beauty in its highest thou shouldst be.

O thou who moanest tost with sealike longings, Who dimly hearest voices call on thee, Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings Of love, and fear, and glorious agony.

Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed, 90 In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, The old free nature is not chained or dead, Arouse!

let thy soul break in music-thunder, Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder, And tell the age what all its signs have meant.

Where'er thy wildered crowd of brethren jostles, Where'er there lingers but a shadow of wrong, There still is need of martyrs and apostles, There still are texts for never-dying song: 100 From age to age man's still aspiring spirit Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes, And thou in larger measure dost inherit What made thy great forerunners free and wise.

Sit thou enthronèd where the Poet's mountain Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain, They all may drink and find the rest they seek.

Sing!

there shall silence grow in earth and heaven, A silence of deep awe and wondering; 110 For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even, To hear a mortal like an angel sing.

III

Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking For who shall bring the Maker's name to light, To be the voice of that almighty speaking Which every age demands to do it right.

Proprieties our silken bards environ;

He who would be the tongue of this wide land Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron And strike it with a toil-imbrownèd hand; 120 One who hath dwelt with Nature well attended, Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books, Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended, So that all beauty awes us in his looks: Who not with body's waste his soul hath pampered, Who as the clear northwestern wind is free, Who walks with Form's observances unhampered, And follows the One Will obediently;

Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit, Control a lovely prospect every way; 130 Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet, And find a bottom still of worthless clay;

Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working, Knowing that one sure wind blows on above, And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking, One God-built shrine of reverence and love;

Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches Around the centre fixed of Destiny, Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches The moving globe of being like a sky; 140 Who feels that God and Heaven's great deeps are nearer Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom dearer Than that of all his brethren, low or high;

Who to the Right can feel himself the truer For being gently patient with the wrong, Who sees a brother in the evildoer, And finds in Love the heart's-blood of his song;-- This, this is he for whom the world is waiting To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, 150 Too long hath it been patient with the grating Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed Art.

To him the smiling soul of man shall listen, Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside, And once again in every eye shall glisten The glory of a nature satisfied.

His verse shall have a great commanding motion, Heaving and swelling with a melody Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean, And all the pure, majestic things that be.

160 Awake, then, thou!

we pine for thy great presence To make us feel the soul once more sublime, We are of far too infinite an essence To rest contented with the lies of Time.

Speak out!

and lo!

a hush of deepest wonder Shall sink o'er all this many-voicèd scene, As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder Shatters the blueness of a sky serene.

THE FATHERLAND

Where is the true man's fatherland?

Is it where he by chance is born?

Doth not the yearning spirit scorn In such scant borders to be spanned?

Oh yes!

his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is, Where God is God and man is man?

Doth he not claim a broader span For the soul's love of home than this?

Oh yes!

his fatherland must be As the blue heaven wide and free!

Where'er a human heart doth wear Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves, Where'er a human spirit strives After a life more true and fair, There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland!

Where'er a single slave doth pine, Where'er one man may help another,-- Thank God for such a birthright, brother,-- That spot of earth is thine and mine!

There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland!

THE FORLORN

The night is dark, the stinging sleet, Swept by the bitter gusts of air, Drives whistling down the lonely street, And glazes on the pavement bare.

The street-lamps flare and struggle dim Through the gray sleet-clouds as they pass, Or, governed by a boisterous whim, Drop down and rustle on the glass.

One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl Faces the east-wind's searching flaws, And, as about her heart they whirl, Her tattered cloak more tightly draws.

The flat brick walls look cold and bleak, Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze;

Yet dares she not a shelter seek, Though faint with hunger and disease.

The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, And, piercing through her garments thin, Beats on her shrunken breast, and there Makes colder the cold heart within.

She lingers where a ruddy glow Streams outward through an open shutter, Adding more bitterness to woe, More loneliness to desertion utter.

One half the cold she had not felt Until she saw this gush of light Spread warmly forth, and seem to melt Its slow way through the deadening night.

She hears a woman's voice within, Singing sweet words her childhood knew, And years of misery and sin Furl off, and leave her heaven blue.

Her freezing heart, like one who sinks Outwearied in the drifting snow.

Drowses to deadly sleep and thinks No longer of its hopeless woe;

Old fields, and clear blue summer days, Old meadows, green with grass, and trees That shimmer through the trembling haze And whiten in the western breeze.

Old faces, all the friendly past Rises within her heart again, And sunshine from her childhood cast Makes summer of the icy rain.

Enhaloed by a mild, warm glow, From man's humanity apart, She hears old footsteps wandering slow Through the lone chambers of the heart.

Outside the porch before the door, Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone, She lies, no longer foul and poor, No longer dreary and alone.

Next morning something heavily Against the opening door did weigh, And there, from sin and sorrow free, A woman on the threshold lay.

A smile upon the wan lips told That she had found a calm release, And that, from out the want and cold, The song had borne her soul in peace.

For, whom the heart of man shuts out, Sometimes the heart of God takes in, And fences them all round about With silence mid the world's loud din;

And one of his great charities Is Music, and it doth not scorn To close the lids upon the eyes Of the polluted and forlorn;

Far was she from her childhood's home, Farther in guilt had wandered thence, Yet thither it had bid her come To die in maiden innocence.

MIDNIGHT

The moon shines white and silent On the mist, which, like a tide Of some enchanted ocean, O'er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost-like billows Silently far and wide.

A vague and starry magic Makes all things mysteries, And lures the earth's dumb spirit Up to the longing skies: I seem to hear dim whispers, And tremulous replies.

The fireflies o'er the meadow In pulses come and go;

The elm-trees' heavy shadow Weighs on the grass below;

And faintly from the distance The dreaming cock doth crow.

All things look strange and mystic, The very bushes swell And take wild shapes and motions, As if beneath a spell;

They seem not the same lilacs From childhood known so well.

The snow of deepest silence O'er everything doth fall, So beautiful and quiet, And yet so like a pall;

As if all life were ended, And rest were come to all.

O wild and wondrous midnight, There is a might in thee To make the charmèd body Almost like spirit be, And give it some faint glimpses Of immortality!

A PRAYER

God!

do not let my loved one die, But rather wait until the time That I am grown in purity Enough to enter thy pure clime, Then take me, I will gladly go, So that my love remain below!

Oh, let her stay!

She is by birth What I through death must learn to be;

We need her more on our poor earth Than thou canst need in heaven with thee: She hath her wings already, I Must burst this earth-shell ere I fly.

Then, God, take me!

We shall be near, More near than ever, each to each: Her angel ears will find more clear My heavenly than my earthly speech;

And still, as I draw nigh to thee, Her soul and mine shall closer be.

THE HERITAGE

The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old;

A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn;

A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare;

With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy-chair;

A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art;

A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings;

A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door;

A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son!

there is a toil That with all others level stands: Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white hands: This is the best crop from thy lands, A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son!

scorn not thy state;

There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine, And make rest fragrant and benign;

A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last;

Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past;

A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

THE ROSE: A BALLAD

I

In his tower sat the poet Gazing on the roaring sea, 'Take this rose,' he sighed, 'and throw it Where there's none that loveth me.

On the rock the billow bursteth And sinks back into the seas, But in vain my spirit thirsteth So to burst and be at ease.

Take, O sea!

the tender blossom That hath lain against my breast;

On thy black and angry bosom It will find a surer rest.

Life is vain, and love is hollow, Ugly death stands there behind, Hate and scorn and hunger follow Him that toileth for his kind.'

Forth into the night he hurled it, And with bitter smile did mark How the surly tempest whirled it Swift into the hungry dark.

Foam and spray drive back to leeward, And the gale, with dreary moan, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, Through the breakers all alone.

II

Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Musing by the wave-beat strand, Half in hope and half in sorrow, Tracing words upon the sand: 'Shall I ever then behold him Who hath been my life so long, Ever to this sick heart told him, Be the spirit of his song?

Touch not, sea, the blessed letters I have traced upon thy shore, Spare his name whose spirit fetters Mine with love forevermore!'

Swells the tide and overflows it, But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet.

Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest.

'Love is thine, O heart!

and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone.'

III

In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim.

Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night.

Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare.

'Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind.

Hope is truth,--the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth Nearer God from day to day.'

Not a word the maiden uttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek.

SONG

Violet!

sweet violet!

Thine eyes are full of tears;

Are they wet Even yet With the thought of other years?

Or with gladness are they full, For the night so beautiful, And longing for those far-off spheres?

Loved one of my youth thou wast, Of my merry youth, And I see, Tearfully, All the fair and sunny past, All its openness and truth, Ever fresh and green in thee As the moss is in the sea.

Thy little heart, that hath with love Grown colored like the sky above, On which thou lookest ever,-- Can it know All the woe Of hope for what returneth never, All the sorrow and the longing To these hearts of ours belonging?

Out on it!

no foolish pining For the sky Dims thine eye, Or for the stars so calmly shining;

Like thee let this soul of mine Take hue from that wherefor I long, Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping--but divine.

Violet!

dear violet!

Thy blue eyes are only wet With joy and love of Him who sent thee, And for the fulfilling sense Of that glad obedience Which made thee all that Nature meant thee!

ROSALINE

Thou look'dst on me all yesternight, Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright As when we murmured our troth-plight Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline!

Thy hair was braided on thy head, As on the day we two were wed, Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead, But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline!

The death-watch ticked behind the wall, The blackness rustled like a pall, 10 The moaning wind did rise and fall Among the bleak pines, Rosaline!

My heart beat thickly in mine ears: The lids may shut out fleshly fears, But still the spirit sees and hears.

Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!

A wildness rushing suddenly, A knowing some ill shape is nigh, A wish for death, a fear to die, Is not this vengeance, Rosaline?

20 A loneliness that is not lone, A love quite withered up and gone, A strong soul ousted from its throne, What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?

'Tis drear such moonless nights as these, Strange sounds are out upon the breeze, And the leaves shiver in the trees, And then thou comest, Rosaline!

I seem to hear the mourners go, With long black garments trailing slow, 30 And plumes anodding to and fro, As once I heard them, Rosaline!

Thy shroud is all of snowy white, And, in the middle of the night, Thou standest moveless and upright, Gazing upon me, Rosaline!

There is no sorrow in thine eyes, But evermore that meek surprise,-- O God!

thy gentle spirit tries To deem me guiltless, Rosaline!

40 Above thy grave the robin sings, And swarms of bright and happy things Flit all about with sunlit wings, But I am cheerless, Rosaline!

The violets in the hillock toss, The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss;

For nature feels not any loss, But I am cheerless, Rosaline!

I did not know when thou wast dead;

A blackbird whistling overhead 50 Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled, But dared not leave thee, Rosaline!

The sun rolled down, and very soon, Like a great fire, the awful moon Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline!

The stars came out; and, one by one, Each angel from his silver throne Looked down and saw what I had done: I dared not hide me, Rosaline!

60 I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry Against me to God's silent sky, I thought I saw the blue lips try To utter something, Rosaline!

I waited with a maddened grin To hear that voice all icy thin Slide forth and tell my deadly sin To hell and heaven, Rosaline!

But no voice came, and then it seemed, That, if the very corpse had screamed, 70 The sound like sunshine glad had streamed Through that dark stillness, Rosaline!

And then, amid the silent night, I screamed with horrible delight, And in my brain an awful light Did seem to crackle, Rosaline!

It is my curse!

sweet memories fall From me like snow, and only all Of that one night, like cold worms, crawl My doomed heart over, Rosaline!

80 Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, Wherein such blessed memories, Such pitying forgiveness lies, Than hate more bitter, Rosaline!

Woe's me!

I know that love so high As thine, true soul, could never die, And with mean clay in churchyard lie,-- Would it might be so, Rosaline!

A REQUIEM

Ay, pale and silent maiden, Cold as thou liest there, Thine was the sunniest nature That ever drew the air;

The wildest and most wayward, And yet so gently kind, Thou seemedst but to body A breath of summer wind.

Into the eternal shadow That girds our life around, Into the infinite silence Wherewith Death's shore is bound, Thou hast gone forth, beloved!

And I were mean to weep, That thou hast left Life's shallows And dost possess the Deep.

Thou liest low and silent, Thy heart is cold and still.

Thine eyes are shut forever, And Death hath had his will;

He loved and would have taken;

I loved and would have kept.

We strove,--and he was stronger, And I have never wept.

Let him possess thy body, Thy soul is still with me, More sunny and more gladsome Than it was wont to be: Thy body was a fetter That bound me to the flesh, Thank God that it is broken, And now I live afresh!

Now I can see thee clearly;

The dusky cloud of clay, That hid thy starry spirit, Is rent and blown away: To earth I give thy body, Thy spirit to the sky, I saw its bright wings growing, And knew that thou must fly.

Now I can love thee truly, For nothing comes between The senses and the spirit, The seen and the unseen;

Lifts the eternal shadow, The silence bursts apart, And the soul's boundless future Is present in my heart.

A PARABLE

Worn and footsore was the Prophet, When he gained the holy hill;

'God has left the earth,' he murmured, 'Here his presence lingers still.

'God of all the olden prophets, Wilt thou speak with men no more?

Have I not as truly served thee As thy chosen ones of yore?

'Hear me, guider of my fathers, Lo!

a humble heart is mine;

By thy mercy I beseech thee Grant thy servant but a sign!'

Bowing then his head, he listened For an answer to his prayer;

No loud burst of thunder followed, Not a murmur stirred the air: But the tuft of moss before him Opened while he waited yet, And, from out the rock's hard bosom, Sprang a tender violet.

'God!

I thank thee,' said the Prophet;

'Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain For the gift of prophecy.

'Still thou speakest with thy children Freely as in eld sublime;

Humbleness, and love, and patience, Still give empire over time.

'Had I trusted in my nature, And had faith in lowly things, Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me.

And set free my spirit's wings.

'But I looked for signs and wonders, That o'er men should give me sway;

Thirsting to be more than mortal, I was even less than clay.

'Ere I entered on my journey, As I girt my loins to start, Ran to me my little daughter, The beloved of my heart;

'In her hand she held a flower, Like to this as like may be, Which, beside my very threshold, She had plucked and brought to me.'

SONG

O moonlight deep and tender, A year and more agone, Your mist of golden splendor Round my betrothal shone!

O elm-leaves dark and dewy, The very same ye seem, The low wind trembles through ye, Ye murmur in my dream!

O river, dim with distance, Flow thus forever by, A part of my existence Within your heart doth lie!

O stars, ye saw our meeting, Two beings and one soul, Two hearts so madly beating To mingle and be whole!

O happy night, deliver Her kisses back to me, Or keep them all, and give her A blisslul dream of me!

SONNETS

I TO A.

C. L.

Through suffering and sorrow thou hast passed To show us what a woman true may be: They have not taken sympathy from thee, Nor made thee any other than thou wast, Save as some tree, which, in a sudden blast, Sheddeth those blossoms, that are weakly grown, Upon the air, but keepeth every one Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last: So thou hast shed some blooms of gayety, But never one of steadfast cheerfulness;

Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity Robbed thee of any faith in happiness, But rather cleared thine inner eyes to see How many simple ways there are to bless.

II

What were I, Love, if I were stripped of thee, If thine eyes shut me out whereby I live.

Thou, who unto my calmer soul dost give Knowledge, and Truth, and holy Mystery, Wherein Truth mainly lies for those who see Beyond the earthly and the fugitive, Who in the grandeur of the soul believe, And only in the Infinite are free?

Without thee I were naked, bleak, and bare As yon dead cedar on the sea-cliff's brow;