Friendship

There is but one stage more in life's long way,
O widowed women! Sadly upon your path
Hath evening, bringing change of scenes and friends,
Descended, since the morn of hope shone fair;
And lonely age is yours, whose tears have fallen
Upon a husband's grave, - with whom, long since,
Amid the quietude of village scenes,
We walked, and saw your little children grow
Like lovely plants beside you, or adorned
Your lowly garden-plot with summer flowers;
And heard the bells, upon the Sabbath morn,
Chime to the village church, when he you loved
Walked by your side to prayer. These images
Of days long passed, of love and village life,
You never can forget; and many a plant
Green growing at the windows of your home,
And one pale primrose, in small earthen vase,
And ...

What gods or heroes, whose brave deeds none can dispute,
Will you record, O Clio, on the harp and flute?
What lofty names shall sportive Echo grant a place
On Pindus' crown or Helicon's cool, shadowy space?

Sing not, my Orpheus, sweeping oft the tuneful strings,
Of gliding streams and nimble winds and such poor things;
But lend your measures to a theme of noble thought,
And crown with laurel these great heroes, as you ought.

Now steps Ryanus forth at call of furious Mars,
And from his oaken staff the sphere speeds to the stars;
And now he gains the tertiary goal, and turns,
While whiskered balls play round the timid staff of Burns.

Lo! from the tribunes on the bleachers comes a shout,
Beseeching bold Ansonius to line 'em out;
And as Apollo's flying cha...

        I strolled last eve across the lonely down;
    One solitary picture struck my eye:
    A distant ploughboy stood against the sky -
        How far he seemed above the noisy town!

        Upon the bosom of a cloud the sod
    Laid its bruised cheek as he moved slowly by,
    And, watching him, I asked myself if I
        In very truth stood half as near to God.

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

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

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

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

    A youthful bandit
    this forest -
    faltering eyelids in mud troughs
    & puddles like
    brisk lies
    woven thru deception.

    Stealing autumn into
    its colours,
    leaves in birchbark rustle
    a full mauraud stealth
    across every breeze.

    Thief, thief
    elf with a key,
    a thousand rasping angels
    their throaty javelins
    hurled from branch's edge,
    brief pageant robbing
    summer's pantry.

    Offal of the fall,
    the lake a sequined glove
    tossed from a careless hand;
    a rowboat as a buckle
    chromatic foam
    for a finger's fan.

I thought this heart enkindled lay
    On Cupid's burning shrine:
I thought he stole thy heart away,
    And placed it near to mine.

I saw thy heart begin to melt,
    Like ice before the sun;
Till both a glow congenial felt,
    And mingled into one!

WRITTEN IN COVE CHURCH-YARD; AND OCCASIONED BY OBSERVING MY OWN SHADOW THROWN ACROSS A GRAVE.


    "Tell me, thou grassy mound,
        What dost thou cover?
    In thy folds hast thou bound
        Soldier or lover?
Time o'er the turf no memorial is keeping
Who in this lone grave forgotten is sleeping?"--

    "The sun's westward ray
        A dark shadow has thrown
    On this dwelling of clay,
        And the shade is thine own!
From dust and oblivion this stern lesson borrow--
Thou art living to-day and forgotten to-morrow!"

Two mules were bearing on their backs,
One, oats; the other, silver of the tax.[1]
The latter glorying in his load,
March'd proudly forward on the road;
And, from the jingle of his bell,
'Twas plain he liked his burden well.
But in a wild-wood glen
A band of robber men
Rush'd forth upon the twain.
Well with the silver pleased,
They by the bridle seized
The treasure-mule so vain.
Poor mule! in struggling to repel
His ruthless foes, he fell
Stabb'd through; and with a bitter sighing,
He cried, 'Is this the lot they promised me?
My humble friend from danger free,
While, weltering in my gore, I'm dying?'
'My friend,' his fellow-mule replied,
'It is not well to have one's work too high.
If thou hadst been a miller's drudge, as I,

Under the snow in the dark and the cold,
    A pale little sprout was humming;
Sweetly it sang, 'neath the frozen mold,
    Of the beautiful days that were coming.

"How foolish your songs," said a lump of clay,
    "What is there, I ask, to prove them?
Just look at the walls between you and the day,
    Now, have you the strength to move them?"

But under the ice and under the snow
    The pale little sprout kept singing,
"I cannot tell how, but I know, I know,
    I know what the days are bringing."

"Birds, and blossoms, and buzzing bees,
    Blue, blue skies above me,
Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees,
    And the great glad sun to love me."

A pebble spoke next: "You are quite absurd."
    It said, "with your song's insis...

A Memory Of A Sister



The fire advances along the log
Of the tree we felled,
Which bloomed and bore striped apples by the peck
Till its last hour of bearing knelled.

The fork that first my hand would reach
And then my foot
In climbings upward inch by inch, lies now
Sawn, sapless, darkening with soot.

Where the bark chars is where, one year,
It was pruned, and bled -
Then overgrew the wound. But now, at last,
Its growings all have stagnated.

My fellow-climber rises dim
From her chilly grave -
Just as she was, her foot near mine on the bending limb,
Laughing, her young brown hand awave.

December 1915.

"Delicta juventutis et ignorantius ejus, quoesumus ne memineris, Domine."



I left, to earth, a little maiden fair,
With locks of gold, and eyes that shamed the light;
I prayed that God might have her in His care
And sight.

Earth's love was false; her voice, a siren's song;
(Sweet mother-earth was but a lying name)
The path she showed was but the path of wrong
And shame.

"Cast her not out!" I cry. God's kind words come,
"Her future is with Me, as was her past;
It shall be My good will to bring her home
At last."

Here where LOVE lies perishèd,
Look not in upon the dead;
Lest the shadowy curtains, shaken
In my Heart's dark chamber, waken
Ghosts, beneath whose garb of sorrow
Whilom gladness bows his head:
When you come at morn to-morrow,
Look not in upon the dead,
Here where LOVE lies perishèd.

Here where LOVE lies cold interred,
Let no syllable be heard;
Lest the hollow echoes, housing
In my Soul's deep tomb, arousing
Wake a voice of woe, once laughter
Claimed and clothed in joy's own word:
When you come at dusk or after,
Let no syllable be heard,
Here where LOVE lies cold interred.

Said sly Fox to the Crow with the cheese,
"Let me hear your sweet voice, now do please!"
And this Crow, being weak,
Cawed the bit from her beak--
"Music charms," said the Fox, "and here's cheese!"

Beware Of Flatterers

Behavior--fresh, native, copious, each one for himself or herself,
Nature and the Soul expressed--America and freedom expressed--In it the finest art,
In it pride, cleanliness, sympathy, to have their chance,
In it physique, intellect, faith--in it just as much as to manage an army or a city, or to write a book--perhaps more,
The youth, the laboring person, the poor person, rivalling all the rest--perhaps outdoing the rest,
The effects of the universe no greater than its;
For there is nothing in the whole universe that can be more effective
than a man's or woman's daily behavior can be,
In any position, in any one of These States.

All the golden air is full of balm and bloom
Where the hawthorns line the shelving dyke with flowers.
Joyous children born of April's happiest hours,
High and low they laugh and lighten, knowing their doom
Bright as brief, to bless and cheer they know not whom,
Heed not how, but washed and warmed with suns and showers
Smile, and bid the sweet soft gradual banks and bowers
Thrill with love of sunlit fire or starry gloom.
All our moors and lawns all round rejoice; but here
All the rapturous resurrection of the year
Finds the radiant utterance perfect, sees the word
Spoken, hears the light that speaks it. Far and near,
All the world is heaven: and man and flower and bird
Here are one at heart with all things seen and heard.

The day's sharp strife is ended now,
Our work is done, God knoweth how!
As on the thronged, unrestful town
The patience of the moon looks down,
I wait to hear, beside the wire,
The voices of its tongues of fire.
Slow, doubtful, faint,they seem at first:
Be strong, my heart, to know the worst!
Hark! there the Alleghanies spoke;
That sound from lake and prairie broke,
That sunset-gun of triumph rent
The silence of a continent!
That signal from Nebraska sprung,
This, from Nevada's mountain tongue!
Is that thy answer, strong and free,
O loyal heart of Tennessee?
What strange, glad voice is that which calls
From Wagner's grave and Sumter's walls?
From Mississippi's fountain-head
A sound as of the hisoh's tread!
There rustled freedom's Charter Oa...

Maggie, I ken that ye are happ'd in glory
    And nane can gar ye greet;
The joys o' Heaven are evermair afore ye,
    It's licht about yer feet.

I ken nae waefu' thochts can e'er be near ye
    Nor sorrow fash yer mind,
In yon braw place they winna let ye weary
    For him ye left behind.

Thae nichts an' days when dule seems mair nor double
    I'll need to dae my best,
For aye ye took the half o' ilka trouble,
    And noo I'd hae ye rest.

Yer he'rt'll be the same he'rt since yer flittin',
    Gin auld love doesna tire,
Sae dinna look an' see yer lad that's sittin'
    His lane aside the fire.

The sky is keen wi' dancin' stars in plenty,
    The New Year frost is strang;
But, O my lass! because the Auld Year kent ye
    ...

How sad a welcome! To each voyager
Some ragged child holds up for sale a store
Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore
Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir,
Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer.
Yet is yon neat trim church a grateful speck
Of novelty amid the sacred wreck
Strewn far and wide. Think, proud Philosopher!
Fallen though she be, this Glory of the west,
Still on her sons, the beams of mercy shine;
And "hopes, perhaps more heavenly bright than thine,
A grace by thee unsought and unpossest,
A faith more fixed, a rapture more divine,
Shall gild their passage to eternal rest."