 | Poems |  |
TO A. E. B.
WITH AN ALBUM.
Traced on the inkless whiteness of this book,
What, dearest Alice, would its giver see?
White thoughts, as stainless as itself, should be
All that on its pure leaves should meet your look.
What, dearest Alice, would its giver see?
White thoughts, as stainless as itself, should be
All that on its pure leaves should meet your look.
51
May loving pens give to each page a voice
Of counsel or consolement or delight,
Wise words to guide all wavering thoughts aright,
Sweet tongues your listening fancy to rejoice.
Of counsel or consolement or delight,
Wise words to guide all wavering thoughts aright,
Sweet tongues your listening fancy to rejoice.
Caged in these pages, here let poets bless
Your ears with songs that catch the music heard
Of angels, songs by which the heart is stirr'd
To truth and pity, good and gentleness.
Your ears with songs that catch the music heard
Of angels, songs by which the heart is stirr'd
To truth and pity, good and gentleness.
Yes, let the birds that all the seasons hear,
The sweet-tongued poets, here rejoicing sing
Songs that amid the roar of streets shall bring
Nature and all the glory of the year.
The sweet-tongued poets, here rejoicing sing
Songs that amid the roar of streets shall bring
Nature and all the glory of the year.
Here be their sunshine that is always bright,
Their woods, how green, even in the city's gloom,
Their noons that glow, hot through the wintriest room,
Their landscapes, ever stretch'd before our sight.
Their woods, how green, even in the city's gloom,
Their noons that glow, hot through the wintriest room,
Their landscapes, ever stretch'd before our sight.
A precious casket, Alice, be this book,
Of priceless memories, that you here may find
Dear tones, unheard, that you would call to mind,
And absent faces on which you would look.
Of priceless memories, that you here may find
Dear tones, unheard, that you would call to mind,
And absent faces on which you would look.
Swiftly we pass; it may be, some shall fill
The voiceless grave, yet in these pages live,
Speaking the love that they, alive, would give,
To guide, rejoice, perchance console you still.
The voiceless grave, yet in these pages live,
Speaking the love that they, alive, would give,
To guide, rejoice, perchance console you still.
Life has its griefs for all; if sorrow come
On your life's path, even this poor book may hold,
So stored, a holy wisdom, more than gold,
Nor, ask'd for comfort, to your grief be dumb.
On your life's path, even this poor book may hold,
So stored, a holy wisdom, more than gold,
Nor, ask'd for comfort, to your grief be dumb.
And may the beauty that your eyes here view,
The truth and gentleness that here you find,
Be written by it on your soul and mind,
And, loved of all, live evermore in you.
The truth and gentleness that here you find,
Be written by it on your soul and mind,
And, loved of all, live evermore in you.
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