University of Virginia Library

SONNETS

THE SONNET

AT REST

“‘When Greek meets Greek,’ you know,” he sadly said,
“‘Then comes the tug of war.’ I deem him great,
And own him wise and good. Yet adverse fate
Hath made us enemies. If I were dead,
And buried deep with grave-mould on my head,
I still believe that, came he soon or late
Where I was lying in my last estate,
My dust would quiver at his lightest tread!”
The slow years passed; and one fair summer night,
When the low sun was reddening all the west,
I saw two grave-mounds, where the grass was bright,
Lying so near each other that the crest
Of the same wave touched each with amber light.
But, ah, dear hearts! how undisturbed their rest!

TOO WIDE!

O mighty Earth, thou art too wide, to wide!
Too vast thy continents, too broad thy seas,
Too far thy prairies stretching fair as these
Now reddening in the sunset's crimson tide!
Sundered by thee how have thy children cried
Each to some other, until every breeze
Has borne a burden of fond messages
That all unheard in thy lone wastes have died!
Draw closer, O dear Earth, thy hills that soar
Up to blue skies such countless leagues apart!
Bid thou thine awful spaces smaller grow!
Compass thy billows with a narrower shore,
That yearning lips may meet, heart beat to heart,
And parted souls forget their lonely woe!

MERCÉDÈS

(June 27, 1878)

O fair young queen, who liest dead to-day
In thy proud palace o'er the moaning sea,
With still, white hands that never more may be
Lifted to pluck life's roses bright with May—
Little is it to you that, far away,
Where skies you knew not bend above the free,
Hearts touched with tender pity turn to thee,
And for thy sake a shadow dims the day!
But youth and love and womanhood are one,
Though across sundering seas their signals fly;
Young Love's pure kiss, the joy but just begun,
The hope of motherhood, thy people's cry—
O thou fair child! was it not hard to die
And leave so much beneath the summer sun?

GRASS-GROWN

Grass grows at last above all graves, you say?
Why, therein lies the sharpest sting of all!
To think that stars will rise and dews will fall,
Hills flush with purple splendor, soft winds play
Where roses bloom and violets of May,
Robin to robin in the tree-tops call,
And all sweet sights and sounds the senses thrall,
Just as they did before that strange, sad day!
Does that bring comfort? Are we glad to know
That our eyes sometime must forget to weep,
Even as June forgets December's snow?
Over the graves where our belovèd sleep,
We charge thee, Time, let not the green grass grow,
Nor your relentless mosses coldly creep!

TO ZÜLMA

SLEEP

Who calls thee “gentle Sleep?” O! rare coquette,
Who comest crowned with poppies, thou shouldst wear
Nettles instead, or thistles, in thine hair;
For thou 'rt the veriest elf that ever yet
Made weary mortals sigh and toss and fret!
Thou dost float softly through the drowsy air
Hovering as if to kiss my lips and share
My restless pillow; but ere I can set
My arms to clasp thee, without sign or speech,
Save one swift, mocking smile thou 'rt out of reach!
Yet, sometime, thou, or one as like to thee
As sister is to sister, shalt draw near
With such soft lullabies for my dull ear,
That neither life nor love shall waken me!

IN KING'S CHAPEL

(Boston, November 3, 1878)

O, Lord of Hosts, how sacred is this place,
Where, though the tides of time resistless flow,
And the long generations come and go,
Thou still abidest! In this holy space
The very airs are hushed before Thy face,
And wait in reverent calm, as voices low
Blend in the prayers and chantings, soft and slow,
And the gray twilight stealeth on apace.
Hark! There are whispers from the time-worn walls;
The mighty dead glide up the shadowy aisle;
And there are rustlings as of angels' wings
While from the choir the heavenly music falls!
Well may we bow in grateful praise the while—
In the King's Chapel reigns the King of Kings!

TO-DAY

What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day,
That comest o'er the mountains with swift feet?
All the young birds make haste thy steps to greet,
And all the dewy roses of the May
Turn red and white with joy. The breezes play
On their soft harps a welcome low and sweet;
All nature hails thee, glad thy face to meet,
And owns thy presence in a brighter ray.
But my poor soul distrusts thee! One as fair
As thou art, O To-day, drew near to me,
Serene and smiling, yet she bade me wear
The sudden sackcloth of a great despair!
O, pitiless! that through the wandering air
Sent no kind warning of the ill to be!

F. A. F.

When upon eyes long dim, to whom the light
Of sun and stars had unfamiliar grown—
Eyes that so long in deepening shades had known
The mystic visions of the inner sight—
Day broke, at last, after the weary night,
I cannot think its sudden glory shone
In pitiless brightness, dazzling, clear, and white—
A piercing splendor on the darkness thrown!
Softly as moonlight steals upon the skies,
Slowly as shadows creep at set of sun,
Gently as falls a mother's tender kiss,
So softly stole the light upon his eyes;
So slowly passed the shadows one by one;
So gently dawned the morning of his bliss!

DAY AND NIGHT

THY NAME

What matters it what men may call Thee, Thou,
The Eternal One, who reign'st supreme, alone,
The boundless universe Thy mighty throne?
When souls before Thee reverently bow,
Oh, carest Thou what name the lips breathe low
Jove, or Osiris, or the God Unknown
To whom the Athenians raised their altar stone,
Or Thine, O Holiest, unto whom we vow?
The sun hath many names in many lands;
Yet upon all its golden splendors fall,
Where'er, from age to age entreating still,
The adoring earth uplifts its waiting hands.
Love knows all names and answereth to all—
Who worships Thee may call Thee what he will!

RESURGAMUS

What though we sleep a thousand leagues apart,
I by my mountains, you beside your sea?
What though our moss-grown graves divided be
By the wide reaches of a continent's heart?
When from long slumber we at length shall start
Wakened to stronger life, exultant, free,
This mortal clothed in immortality,
Where shall I find my heaven save where thou art?
Straight as a bird that hasteth to its nest,
Glad as an eagle soaring to the light,
Swift as the thought that bears my soul to thine
When yon lone star hangs trembling in the west,
So straight, so glad, so swift to thee my flight,
Led on through farthest space by love divine!

AT THE TOMB

O Soul! rememberest thou how Mary went
In the gray dawn to weep beside the tomb
Where one she loved lay buried? Through the gloom,
Pallid with pain, and with long anguish spent,
Still pressed she on with solemn, high intent,
Bearing her costly gifts of rare perfume
And spices odorous with eastern bloom,
Unto the Master's sepulchre! But rent
Was the great stone from its low door away;
And when she stooped to peer with startled eyes
Into the dark where slept the pallid clay,
Lo, it was gone! And there in heavenly guise,
So grandly calm, so fair in morn's first ray,
She found an angel from the upper skies!

THREE DAYS

DARKNESS

Come, blessed Darkness, come, and bring thy balm
For eyes grown weary of the garish Day!
Come with thy soft, slow steps, thy garments gray,
Thy veiling shadows, bearing in thy palm
The poppy-seeds of slumber, deep and calm!
Come with thy patient stars, whose far-off ray
Steals the hot fever of the soul away,
Thy stillness, sweeter than a chanted psalm!
O blessed Darkness, Day indeed is fair,
And Light is dear when summer days are long,
And one by one the harvesters go by;
But so is rest sweet, and surcease from care,
And folded palms, and hush of evensong,
And all the unfathomed silence of the sky!

SILENCE

O golden Silence, bid our souls be still,
And on the foolish fretting of our care
Lay thy soft touch of healing unaware!
Once, for a half hour, even in heaven the thrill
Of the clear harpings ceased the air to fill
With soft reverberations. Thou wert there,
And all the shining seraphs owned thee fair—
A white, hushed Presence on the heavenly hill.
Bring us thy peace, O Silence! Song is sweet;
Tuneful is baby laughter, and the low
Murmur of dying winds among the trees,
And dear the music of Love's hurrying feet;
Yet only he who knows thee learns to know
The secret soul of loftiest harmonies.

SANCTIFIED

A holy presence hath been here, and, lo,
The place is sanctified! From off thy feet
Put thou thy shoes, my soul! The air is sweet
Even yet with heavenly odors, and I know
If thou dost listen, thou wilt hear the flow
Of most celestial music, and the beat
Of rhythmic pinions. It is then most meet
That thou shouldst watch and wait, lest to and fro
Should pass the heavenly messengers and thou,
Haply, shouldst miss their coming. O my soul,
Count this fair room a temple from whose shrine,
Led by an angel, though we know not how,
Thy friend and lover dropped the cup of dole,
And passed from thy love to the Love Divine!

A MESSAGE

I bid thee sing the song I would have sung—
The high, pure strain that since my soul was born,
Clearer and sweeter than the bells of morn,
Through all its chambers hath divinely rung!
In thee let my whole being find a tongue;
Pluck thou the rose where I have plucked the thorn,
Nor leave the perfect flower to fade forlorn.
Youth holds the world in fee—and thou art young!
O my glad singer of the tuneful voice,
Where my wing falters be thou strong to soar,
Striking the deep, clear notes beyond my reach,
Beyond the plummet of a woman's speech.
Sing my songs for me, and from some far shore
My happy soul shall hear thee and rejoice!

WHEN LESSER LOVES

When lesser loves by the relentless flow
Of mighty currents from my arms were torn
And swept, unheeding, to that silent bourn
Whose mystic shades no living man may know,
By night, by day, I sang my songs; and so,
Out of the sackcloth that my soul had worn,
Weaving my purple, I forgot to mourn,
Pouring my grief out in melodious woe!
Now am I dumb, dear heart. My lips are mute.
Yet if from yonder blue height thou dost lean
Earthward, remembering love's last wordless kiss,
Know thou no trembling thrills of harp or lute,
Dying soft wails and tender songs between,
Were half so voiceful as this silence is!

GEORGE ELIOT

Pass on, O world, and leave her to her rest!
Brothers, be silent while the drifting snow
Weaves its white pall above her, lying low
With empty hands crossed idly on her breast.
O sisters, let her sleep! while unrepressed
Your pitying tears fall silently and slow,
Washing her spotless, in their crystal flow,
Of that one stain whereof she stands confessed.
Are we so pure that we should scoff at her,
Or mock her now, low lying in her tomb?
God knows how sharp the thorn her roses wore,
Even what time their petals were astir
In the warm sunshine, odorous with perfume.
Leave her to Him who weighed the cross she bore!

KNOWING

One summer day, to a young child I said,
“Write to thy mother, boy.” With earnest face,
And laboring fingers all unused to trace
The mystic characters, he bent his head
(That should have danced amid the flowers instead)
Over the blurred page for a half-hour's space;
Then with a sigh that burdened all the place
Cried, “Mamma knows!” and out to sunshine sped.
O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long,
And life so crowds thee with its stress and strain
That thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray,
Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong!
God knows! What though the lips be dumb with pain,
Or the pen drops? He knows what thou wouldst say.

A THOUGHT

(SUGGESTED BY READING “A MIRACLE IN STONE”)

Oh, thou supreme, all-wise, eternal One,
Thou who art Lord of lords, and King of kings,
In whose high praise each flaming seraph sings;
Thou at whose word the morning stars begun
With song and shout their glorious course to run;
Thou unto whom the great sea lifts its wings,
And earth, with laden hands, rich tribute brings
From every shore that smiles beneath the sun;
Thou who didst write thy name upon the hills
And bid the mountains speak for thee alway,
Yet gave sweet messages to murmuring rills,
And to each flower that breathes its life away—
Oh! dost thou smile, or frown, when man's conceit
Seeks in this pile of stone the impress of thy feet?

TO-MORROW

“O EARTH! ART THOU NOT WEARY?”

O Earth! art thou not weary of thy graves?
Dear, patient mother Earth, upon thy breast
How are they heaped from farthest east to west!
From the dim north, where the wild storm-wind raves
O'er the cold surge that chills the shore it laves,
To sunlit isles by softest seas caressed,
Where roses bloom alway and song-birds nest,
How thick they lie—like flecks upon the waves!
There is no mountain-top so far and high,
No desert so remote, no vale so deep,
No spot by man so long untenanted,
But the pale moon, slow marching up the sky,
Sees over some lone grave the shadows creep!
O Earth! art thou not weary of thy dead?

ALEXANDER

There was a man whom all men called The Great.
Low lying on his death-bed, we are told,
He bade his courtiers (when he should be cold,
Breathless, and silent in his last estate,
And they who were to bury him should wait
Outside the palace) that no cerecloth's fold
Or winding-sheet should round his hands be rolled:
Those helpless hands that once had ruled the state!
Thus spake he: “On the black pall let them lie,
Empty and lorn, that all the world may see
How of his riches there was nothing left
To Alexander when he came to die.”
Lord of two worlds, as treasureless was he
As any beggar of his crust bereft!

THE PLACE

TO A GODDESS

Lift up thy torch, O Goddess, grand and fair!
Let its light stream across the waiting seas
As banners float upon the yielding breeze
From the king's tent, his presence to declare.
And as his heralds haste to do their share,
Shouting his praise and sounding his decrees,
So let the waves in loftiest symphonies
Proclaim thy glory to the listening air!
Thou star-crowned one, the nations watch for thee,
For thee the patient earth has waited long—
To thee her toiling millions stretch their hands
From the far hills and o'er the rolling sea.
Lift up thy torch, O beautiful and strong,
A beacon-light to earth's remotest lands.

O. W. H.

(August 29, 1809.)

“How shall I crown this child?” fair Summer cried.
“May wasted all her violets long ago;
No longer on the hills June's roses glow,
Flushing with tender bloom the pastures wide.
My stately lilies one by one have died:
The clematis is but a ghost—and lo!
In the fair meadow-lands no daisies blow;
How shall I crown this Summer child?” she sighed.
Then quickly smiled. “For him, for him,” she said,
“On every hill my golden-rod shall flame,
Token of all my prescient soul foretells.
His shall be golden song and golden fame—
Long golden years with love and honor wed—
And crowns, at last, of silver immortelles!”

GIFTS FOR THE KING

(H. W. L., February 27th)

What good gifts can we bring to thee, O King,
O royal poet, on this day of days?
No golden crown, for thou art crowned with bays;
No jewelled sceptre, and no signet ring,
O'er distant realms far-flashing rays to fling;
For well we know thy beckoning finger sways
A mightier empire, and the world obeys.
No lute, for thou hast only need to sing;
No rare perfumes, for thy pure life makes sweet
The air about thee, even as when the rose
Swings its bright censer down the garden-path.
Love drops its fragrant lilies at thy feet;
Fame breathes thy name to each sweet wind that blows.
What can we bring to him who all things hath?

RECOGNITION

SHAKESPEARE

(April 23, 1664–1889)

Nay, Master, dare we speak? O mighty shade,
Sitting enthroned where awful splendors are,
Beyond the light of sun, or moon, or star,
How shall we breathe thy high name undismayed?
Poet, in royal majesty arrayed,
Walking with mute gods through the realms afar—
Seer, whose wide vision time nor death can bar,
We would but kiss thy feet, abashed, afraid!
But yet we love thee, and great love is bold.
Love, O our master, with his heart of flame
And eye of fire, dares even to look on thee,
For whom the ages lift their gates of gold;
And his glad tongue shall syllable thy name
Till time is lost in God's unsounded sea!

TO E. C. S.

WITH A ROSE FROM CONWAY CASTLE

On hoary Conway's battlemented height,
O poet-heart, I pluck for thee a rose!
Through arch and court the sweet wind wandering goes;
Round each high tower the rooks, in airy flight,
Circle and wheel, all bathed in amber light;
Low at my feet the winding river flows;
Valley and town, entranced in deep repose,
War doth no more appall, nor foes affright!
Thou knowest how softly on the castle walls,
Where mosses creep, and ivys far and free
Fling forth their pennants to the freshening breeze,
Like God's own benizon this sunshine falls.
Therefore, O friend, across the sundering seas
Fair Conway sends this sweet wild rose to thee!

A CHRISTMAS SONNET

I wake at midnight from a slumber deep.
Hark! are the clear stars singing? Sweet and low,
As from far skies, floats music's liquid flow,
Waking earth's happy children from their sleep.
Now, from the bells a myriad voices leap,
And all the brazen lilies are aglow
With rapturous heart-beats, swinging to and fro
As the glad chimes their rhythmic pulsing keep.
O soul of mine, join thou the high refrain
That rings from shore to shore, from sea to sea,
Like song of birds that do but soar and sing!
O heart of mine, what room hast thou for pain?
With love and joy make holy symphony,
And keep to-day the birthday of thy King!

POVERTY

The city woke. Down the long market-place
Her sad eyes wandered, but no tears they shed.
In her bare home a little child lay dead;
Yet she was here, with white, impassive face,
And hands that had no beauty and no grace,
Selling her small wares for a bit of bread!
Since they who live must eat though sore bestead,
What time had she to weep—what breathing space?
Poor even in words, she had no fitting phrase
Wherein to tell the story of her dole,
But stood, like Niobe, a thing of stone,
Or mutely went on her accustomed ways,
Or counted her small gains, while her dumb soul,
Shut in with grief, could only make its moan!

SURPRISES

C. H. R.

(LOST OFF HAI-MUN IN THE CHINA SEA)

In what wide Wonderland, or near, or far,
Press on to-day thy swift adventurous feet—
Thou who wert wont the Orient skies to greet
With song and laughter, and to climb the bar
Of mountain ranges where the Cloud-gods are,
With brave, glad steps, as eager and as fleet
As a young lover's, who, on errand sweet,
Seeks the one face that is his guiding star?
The far blue seas engulfed thee, oh! my brother,
But could not quench thy spirit's lofty fire,
Nor daunt the soul that knew not how to quail.
Earth-quest thou didst but barter for another,
Where Alps on Alps before thee still aspire,
And where, in God's name, thou shalt yet prevail!

A NEW BEATITUDE

”A new beatitude I write for thee,
‘Blessed are they who are not sure of things,’
Nor strive to mount on feeble, finite wings
To heights where God's strong angels, soaring free,
Halt and are silent.” Ah, the mystery!
To-day, O friend, beyond earth's reckonings
Of time and space, beyond its jars and stings,
Thou enterest where the eternal secrets be!
Ay, thou art sure to-day! No more the bars
Of earth's poor limitations hold thee back,
Setting their bounds to thine advancing feet.
Soar, lofty soul, beyond the farthest stars,
Where hope nor yearning e'er shall suffer lack,
Nor knowledge fail to any that entreat!

COMPENSATION

QUESTIONINGS

Forth from earth's councils thou hast passed, O friend,
To those high circles where God's angels are,
Angels that need no light of sun or star!
No eye may follow thee as thou dost wend
Thy lofty way where heaven's pure heights ascend—
Above the reach of earthly fret or jar,
Where no rude touch the blissful peace can mar,
Where all harsh sounds in one soft concord blend.
What have ye seen, O beauty-loving eyes?
What have ye heard, O ears attuned to hear
And to interpret heaven's high harmonies?
What problems hast thou solved, thou who with clear
Undaunted gaze didst search the farthest skies?
And dost thou still love on, O heart most dear?

REMEMBRANCE

I do remind me how, when, by a bier,
I looked my last on an unanswering face
Serenely waiting for the grave's embrace,
One who would fain have comforted said: “Dear,
This is the worst. Life's bitterest drop is here.
Impartial fate has done you this one grace,
That till you go to your appointed place,
Or soon or late, there is no more to fear.”
It was not true, my soul! it was not true!
“Thou art not lost while I remember thee,
Lover and friend!” I cry, with bated breath.
What if the years, slow-creeping like the blue,
Resistless tide, should blot that face from me?
Not to remember would be worse than death!

IN THE HIGH TOWER

Safe in the high tower of thy love I wait,
Secure and still whatever winds may blow,
Although no more thy banners, bending low,
Salute me from afar, when, all elate,
I haste to meet thee at the postern-gate.
No more I hear thy trumpet's eager flow
Through the far, listening silence come and go
To greet me where I bide in lonely state.
Thy King hath sent thee on some high emprise,
Some lofty embassage, some noble quest,
To a strange land whence cometh sound nor sign.
Yet evermore I lift my tranquil eyes,
Knowing that Love but doeth Love's behest—
Afar or near, my dear lord still is mine!