Poems and verses by Mary Mapes Dodge :: :: University of Virginia Library

POEMS AND VERSES.

TO W. F. C.

ENFOLDINGS.

The snowflake that softly, all night, is whitening treetop and pathway;
The avalanche suddenly rushing with darkness and death to the hamlet.

The ray stealing in through the lattice, to waken the day-loving baby;
The pitiless horror of light in the sun-smitten reach of the desert.

The seed with its wondrous surprise of welcome young leaflet and blossom;
The despair of the wilderness tangle, and grim, taunting forest unending.

The happy west wind as it startles some noon-laden flower from its dreaming;
The hurricane crashing its way through the homes and the life of the valley.

The play of the jetlets of flame where the children laugh out on the hearthstone;
The town and the prairie enswirled in the glare of the red devastation.

The glide of a wave on the sands with its myriad sparkle in breaking;
The roar and the fury of ocean, a limitless maelstrom of ruin.

The leaping of heart unto heart with bliss that can never be spoken;
The passion that maddens, and blights the God-given love that enshrines us.

For this do I tremble and start when the rose on the vine taps my shoulder;
For this when the storm beats me down, my soul groweth bolder and bolder.

INVERTED.

Youth has its griefs, its disappointments keen,
Its baffled longings and its memories;
Its anguish in a joy that once hath been;
Its languid settling in a sinful ease.

And age has pleasures, rosy, fresh and warm,
And glad beguilements and expectancies;
Its heart of boldness for a threatened storm;
Its eager launching upon sunny seas.

Youth has its losses, sad and desolate;
Its wreck of precious freight where all was sent;
Its blight of trust, its helpless heart of fate,
Its dreary knowledge of illusion spent.

For life is but a day; and, dawn or eve,
The shadows must be long when suns are low.
Old age may be surprised and loth to leave;
And youth may weary wait and long to go.

THE STARS.

They wait all day unseen by us, unfelt;
Patient they bide behind the noon's full glare;
And we who watched the dawn when they were there,
Thought we had seen them in the daylight melt,
While the slow sun upon the earth-line knelt.
Because the teeming sky seemed void and bare,
When we explored it through the dazzled air,
We had no thought that there all day they dwelt.

Yet were they over us, alive and true,
In the vast shades far up above the blue,—
The brooding shades beyond our daylight ken—
Serene and patient till, with conscious light,
They shine, resplendent, for our joy again,—
The eternal jewels of the short-lived night!

THE TWO MYSTERIES.

“In the middle of the room, near the coffin, sat Walt Whitman, holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of death, and then inquiringly into the face of the aged poet. ‘You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?’ said he, and added, ‘We don't, either.’”

We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still;
The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill;
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call;
The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all.

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain;
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again;

We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go,
Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know.

But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day—
Should come and ask us “What is life?” not one of us could say.
Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be;
Yet oh, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see!

Then might they say—these vanished ones—and blessèd is the thought:
“So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may show you naught;
We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death—
Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath.”

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent,
So all who enter death must go as little children sent.
Nothing is known. But, nearing God, what hath the soul to dread?
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead.

SHADOW-EVIDENCE.

I.

Swift o'er the sunny grass,
I saw a shadow pass
With subtle charm;
So quick, so full of life,
With thrilling joy so rife,
I started lest, unknown,
My step—ere it was flown—
Had done it harm.

II.

Why look up to the blue?
The bird was gone, I knew,
Far out of sight.
Steady and keen of wing,
The slight, impassioned thing,

Intent on a goal unknown,
Had held its course alone
In silent flight.

III.

Dear little bird, and fleet.
Flinging down at my feet
Shadow for song:
More sure am I of thee—
Unseen, unheard by me—
Than of some things felt and known,
And guarded as my own,
All my life long.

BY THE LAKE.

I listen to the plashing of the lake,—
The tideless tide that silvers all its edge,
And stirs, yet rouses not, the sleepy sedge,—
While the glad, busy sky is wide awake,
And pools along the shore its fleeting shadows take.

I listen to the plashing, clear and faint;
Now sharp against the stones that slide it back,
Now soft and nestling in a mossy track,
Or rocking in an eager, homeless plaint,
Or stifled in the ooze, whose yielding is restraint.

Nature's deep lessons come in silences,
Or sounds that fall like silence on our sense;
And so this plashing seeks my soul's pretense,
And bids it say what its fulfillment is,
And bares to searching light its fond alliances.

I cannot fathom all my soul doth hide,
Nor sound the centres that the waves conceal;
Yet in a dim, half-yearning way I feel
The urging of the low, insistent tide,—
Till the plashing seems like sobbing, and the sky grows cold and wide.

HEART-ORACLES.

By the motes do we know where the sunbeam is slanting;
Through the hindering stones speaks the soul of the brook;
Past the rustle of leaves we press in to the stillness;
Through darkness and void to the Pleiads we look;
The silence of dawn with the night-shadows o'er us,
Begins all the morning's munificent chorus.

Through sorrow come glimpses of infinite gladness;
Through grand discontent mounts the spirit of youth;
Loneliness foldeth a wonderful loving;
The breakers of Doubt lead the great tide of Truth;
And dread and grief-haunted the shadowy portal
That shuts from our vision the splendor immortal.

THERE'S A WEDDING IN THE ORCHARD.

There's a wedding in the orchard,
I know it by the flowers;
They 're wreathed on every bough and branch,
Or falling down in showers.

The air is in a mist, I think,
And scarce knows which to be—
Whether all fragrance, clinging close,
Or bird-song, wild and free.

And countless wedding-jewels shine,
And golden gifts of grace;
I never saw such wealth of sun
In any shady place.

It seemed I heard the fluttering robes
Of maidens clad in white,

The clasping of a thousand hands
In tenderest delight;

While whispers ran among the boughs
Of promises and praise;
And playful, loving messages
Sped through the leaf-lit ways.

Then were there swayings to and fro;
The weeds a-tiptoe rose;
And sang the breeze a sudden song
That sank to sudden close;

And just beyond the wreathèd aisles
That end against the blue,
The raiment of the silent choir
And priest came shining through.

And though I saw no wedding-guest,
Nor groom, nor gentle bride,
I know that holy things were said,
And holy love replied.

Soon will the lengthening shadows move
Unwillingly away,
Like friends who linger with adieux
Yet are not bid to stay.

I follow with the vesper bird,
And hear its soft “good-night,”
Still thinking of the wedding-scene
And aisles of flowery light.

TRUST.

Though tangled hard life's knot may be,
And wearily we rue it,
The silent touch of Father Time
Some day will sure undo it.
Then hope and wait;
Nothing is late
In the light that shines forever.

We faint at heart, a friend is gone;
We chafe at the world's harsh drilling;
We tremble at sorrows on every side,
At the myriad ways of killing.
Yet, say we all,
If a sparrow fall,
The Lord keepeth count forever.

He keepeth count. We come, we go,
We speculate, toil and falter:
But the measure to each of weal or woe,
God only can give or alter.

He sendeth light,
He sendeth night,
And change goes on forever.

Why not take life with cheerful trust,
With faith in the strength of weakness?
The slenderest daisy rears its head
With courage, yet with meekness.
A sunny face
Hath holy grace,
To woo the sun forever.

Forever and ever God's law prevails,
Goodness and love are undying;
Only the troubles and cares of earth
Are winged from the first for flying.
Our way we plow
In the furrow “now”;
But after the tilling and growing, the sheaf;
Soil for the root, but the sun for the leaf,—
And God keepeth watch forever.

THE HUMAN TIE.

“As if life were not sacred, too.”—
George Eliot.

Speak tenderly! For he is dead,” we say;
“With gracious hand smooth all his roughened past,
And fullest measure of reward forecast,
Forgetting naught that gloried his brief day.”
Yet of the brother, who, along our way,
Prone with his burdens, heart-worn in the strife,
Totters before us—how we search his life,
Censure, and sternly punish, while we may.
Oh, weary are the paths of Earth, and hard!
And living hearts alone are ours to guard.
At least, begrudge not to the sore distraught
The reverent silence of our pitying thought.
Life, too, is sacred; and he best forgives
Who says: “He errs, but—tenderly! He lives.”

FROM FLOWER TO LIGHT.

In sorrow I tended my garden,
As the colors, day by day,
Faded and changed in the heedless air,
And passed with the summer away.

While they gladdened my beautiful garden,
Where the dews and the sunlight abide,
And crept up the wall to my window,
Or hid, as the sweetest will hide;

While they lavished their splendor before me,
Not a flower had I heart to cull—
Till the heaven-lit flames of the latest
Went out, and my garden was dull.

O cruel the death of the blossoms,
And cruel the words that were said:
“Next Spring shall the earth be re-gladdened,
The living shall bloom from the dead.”

Not for me would the blooming be, ever,
For my love, O my love! could not stay.
Hand in hand we had bent o'er their brightness,
And now he was passing away.

The heart-breaking flowers of next summer,
They will look at me, dreary and wan,
Or mock me, and taunt me, and madden—
O God, that the years should roll on!

So I felt; and I would not look skyward,
Nor earthward, but only at him—
At him with his clear dying vision,
Who saw not the earth growing dim.

At him, till alone in the garden
I stood with the husks of the flowers;

Alone, and the pitiless Autumn
Sent dead leaves about me, in showers.

“Look up!” he had whispered in parting;
“Look up!” said a voice to me then,—
And lo! the lost hues of my garden
Above me were glowing again!

Near by, in the wide-spreading maples;
Far-off, in the mist of the wood;
Around and above me they gathered,
And lit all the place where I stood.

My purples, my rose-tints and yellows,
My crimsons that gladdened his sight,
My glorious hues of the garden
Were living in sunnier height!

Were living! were living! I knew it!
And the comfort that came to me so,
Endured when the forest was naked
And the grass covered over with snow.

For again I looked up and beheld them,
The souls of the flowers he had blest;
I saw them in glory transfigured
Far off in the wonderful West.

Contented, at last, I beheld them—
My colors immortal and bright—
Till the gates of the sunset, slow-folding,
Shut them out from my passionate sight.

OVER THE WORLD.

There is a time between our night and day,
A space between this world and the unknown,
Where none may enter as we stand alone
Save the one other single soul that may;
Then is all perfect if the two but stay.
It is the time when, the home-evening flown,
And “good-nights” sped in happy household tone,
We look out from the casement ere we pray.
Into the world of darkness deep and far
We gaze—each depth with its own deepest star,
That brightens as we turn, nor yet recedes
When we would search it with our sorest needs,—
O holy living-ground from heaven won!
O time beyond the night when day is done!

EMERSON.

We took it to the woods, we two,
The book well worn and brown,
To read his words where stirring leaves
Rained their soft shadows down.

Yet as we sat and breathed the scene,
We opened not a page;
Enough that he was with us there,
Our silent, friendly sage!

His fresh “Rhodora” bloomed again;
His “Humble-bee” buzzed near;
And oh, the “Wood-notes” beautiful
He taught our souls to hear!

So our unopened book was read;
And so, in restful mood,
We and our poet, well content,
Went sauntering through the wood.

ONCE BEFORE.

Once before, this self-same air
Passed me, though I know not where.
Strange! how very like it came!
Touch and fragrance were the same,
Sound of mingled voices, too,
With a light laugh ringing through;
Some one moving—here or there—
Some one passing up the stair,
Some one calling from without,
Or a far-off childish shout;
Simple, home-like, nothing more,—
Yet it all hath been before!

Not to-day, nor yesterday,
Nor any day. But far away—
So long ago, so very far,
It might have been on other star.

How was it spent? and where? and when?
This life that went, yet comes again?
Was sleep its world, or death its shore?
I still the silent Past implore.
Ah! never dream had power to show
Such vexing glimpse of Long Ago.
Never a death could follow death
With love between, and home, and breath.

The spell has passed. What spendthrifts we,
Of simple, household certainty!
What golden grain we trample low
Searching for flowers that never grow!
For home is real, and love is real;
Nor false our honest high ideal.
Life, it is bounding, warm and strong,
And all my heart resounds with song.
It must be true, whate'er befall,
This, and the world to come are all.
And yet it puzzles me—alack!
When life that could not be, comes back!

WHIP-POOR-WILL.

The Western sky blazed through the trees,
And in the East the dove-light shone;
Low fields of clover to the breeze
Gave out a fragrant monotone;
While sharp-voiced, whirring things beyond
Sent a faint treble through the air,
And discords of the hidden pond
Pulsed like an anthem, deep and rare.
Yet all the twilight range seemed still,
The tumult was so subtle-sweet;
When forth it burst,—clear, slow, complete,
The evening call of
“Whip-poor-will!”

The yarrow, crowding by the hedge,
Stirred not its specked, uncertain white;
The locust on the upland's edge
Stood tranced against the blaze of light;
For now the throbbing air was mute,
Since that wild note had pierced it through,—
That call so clear, so resolute,
So tender, dominant and true.
When suddenly, across the hill,—
Long, low and sweet, with dreamy fall,
Yet true and mellow, call for call,
Elate, and with a human thrill,—
Came the far answer:
“Whip-poor-will!”

LONG AGO.

Still the rock is in the forest,
With the branches overhead,
And the linden-tree, low-bending
By the sumac, flaming red.
In and out among the shadows
Glides the self-same woodland stream;
Still the bright-eyed squirrels listen,
And the beetles idly dream.

Do the squirrels hear a foot-fall,
Or the beetles flash their green
For a hand that parts the branches,
Letting sun-light in between?
Does the brook, with rippling lightness,
Catch two shadows—his and mine—
Give them to its circling eddies
With a murmuring divine?

Do the lichens, gray and clinging,
Hear a promise whispered there,
While the ferns look up and listen,
Laughing through the maiden-hair?
Do the birds that fill the distance,
Or the glints of summer blue,
Try to sing and shine love's gladness
As of old they used to do?

Ah, for comfort of all rovers,
Such as I, in stranger clime;
Sure as sunlight, new-made lovers
Roam to-day the summer's prime.
Heaven spare the fields their brightness!
Spare the brook its sparkling flow!
Light the woods with holy shadows
As it lit them long ago!

THE CHILD AND THE SEA.

One Summer day, when birds flew high,
I saw a child step into the sea;
It glowed, and sparkled at her touch,
And softly plashed about her knee.
It held her lightly with its strength,
It kissed and kissed her silken hair;
It swayed with tenderness to know
A little child was in its care.

She, gleeful, dipped her pretty arms,
And caught the sparkles in her hands;
I heard her laughter, as she soon
Came skipping up the sunny sands.
“Is this the cruel sea?” I thought,
“The merciless, the awful sea?”—
Now hear the answer soft and true,
That rippled over the beach to me:

“Shall not the sea, in the sun, be glad
When a child doth come to play?
Had it been in the storm-time, what could I,
The sea, but bear her away—
Bear her away on my foaming crest,
Toss her and hurry her to her rest?

“Be it life or death, God ruleth me;
And He loveth every soul;
I've an earthly shore and a heavenly shore,
And toward them both I roll;
Shining and beautiful, both, are they,—
And a little child will go God's way.”

THE COMPACT.

It was a little boy who lived in Philadelphia town,
And a very kind old gentleman, whose name was Mr. Brown.
It happened that the self-same day they visited the Fair,
And, hand in hand, they walked about, a happy, friendly pair.

The little boy looked right and left with eager, wondering eyes,
The other gazed more steadily, for he was old and wise;
But soon he caught the small boy's way of feeling glad and bright;
And the boy no longer aimlessly looked to the left and right.

“I like you, Mr. Brown,” he said. “You make me understand.”
“I like you, too,” thought Mr. Brown, and pressed the little hand.
And so they walked together, and saw the mighty show,
While music, light, and brilliant hues set all the crowd aglow.

Then, suddenly, a shadow fell upon the old man's face;
He fixed his eyes right wistfully upon the wondrous place.
“Ah, me! ah, me!” he muttered, as to himself, nor smiled
At the merry look of questioning that came upon the child.

“My boy, a hundred years from now, another mighty Fair
Will crown the new Centennial; but we shall not be there.

Not one of all this eager crowd” (and here he drew a sigh)
“Will be living on the earth that day—not even you and I.

“The years will bring discoveries, inventions, manners new,
And nations yet unborn may shame the things that here we view.
I own I 'd like to see it all, the next Centennial Fair,
With the Stars and Stripes that day, as now, flung gayly to the air.

“I 'd like to see the world grown wiser, better, too, my lad
(Though I'm not one of those who think this world is wholly bad).
I 'd like to see the country shine with nobler, holier grace,
And the Church of Christ triumphant in the manners of a race.

“It 's useless to regret, I know; our life is but a span.
We'll all be gone before that day; yes, all, my little man.”
Then Brown, he wiped his spectacles, and gave a quiet cough;
But the little boy said: “Never mind, it 's such a long way off.”

“Yes, long for you, perhaps, my boy; but my life 's nearly spent.
Yet, if I knew just how the world would grow, I 'd be content.”
The little boy stopped short, with: “Here are benches, let 's sit down.
I'll tell you what I'll do for you, with pleasure, Mr. Brown.

“When I get big, I'll notice sharp just what the people do,
And how they live, how good they are—I'll watch them just for you.

And then I'll tell some little boy (not born yet) he must keep
A sharp lookout, and, don't you see? in time he'll learn a heap.

“Well, when I'm old, I'll say to him what you have said to-day:
‘My boy, my time is nearly spent; I'll soon be going away;
I can't see the Centennial that 's coming soon, I know;
But you will see it, certainly, before you have to go.

“‘Now, I'm going,’ I'll say, ‘to Heaven; and when you come there, too,
You can tell me all about the show, and what you saw there new,
And how the people looked and did in Philadelphia town,
For I want to tell a friend of mine up there, named Mr. Brown.’”

He ceased. The old man stared, then smiled and stroked the sunny head.
“Thank you, my boy, I'll count on you.” And that was all they said.
Then, quite content and glad again, the mighty show they scanned,—
The old man and the little boy,—still walking hand in hand.

DEATH IN LIFE.

She sitteth there a mourner,
With her dead before her eyes;
Flushed with the hues of life is he
And quick are his replies.
Often his warm hand touches hers;
Brightly his glances fall;
And yet, in this wide world, is she
The loneliest of all.

Some mourners feel their dead return
In dreams, or thoughts at even;
Ah, well for them their best-beloved
Are faithful still in heaven!
But woe to her whose best-beloved,
Though dead, still lingers near;
So far away when by her side,
He cannot see nor hear.

With heart intent, he comes, he goes
In busy ways of life.
His gains and chances fill his thoughts;
His hours with joy are rife.
Careless he greets her day by day,
Nor thinks of words once said.—
Oh, would that love could live again,
Or her heart give up its dead!

BY MOONLIGHT.

Out of the depths above shone forth
The beautiful, radiant orb of light;
Paling the stars near by, she rose,
Queen of the spheres and the limitless night.

Four of us glided along in the boat,—
Rhoda and Etta, Harry and I,—
Cheerily watching the glory that streamed
Across the sea from the bending sky.

Etta spoke first, and her voice seemed far:
“The sparkling line, however we turn,
Comes straight to me!” But I claimed it, too,
I at the bow, and she at the stern.

We laughed, insisting; then Rhoda, between:—
“Absurd! for it comes to me, not you—
A beautiful, silvery ribbon of light,
Crinkling and shining across the blue.”

Then Harry, the rower: “By all that 's bright
It flashes its course direct to me!”
Thus merry, intent and apart we sat,
Claiming the splendor that crossed the sea

Till Rhoda, the fairy, proposed a plan
(A friskier sailor was never afloat);
And then, with many a laugh and start,
We all changed seats in the rocking boat.

O human vision, how blind it is!
'T was plain, at last, that our partial sight
Had made the glory that shone for all
To each seem a narrow pathway bright.

Shining, arose on the breast of the sea,
A lesson in love, a thought of grace:

Learn thou to look for the Heavenly light
Not alone from thine own, but thy neighbor's place.

Four of us glided home in the boat,
Rhoda and Etta, Harry and I,
Thoughtfully watching the glory that streamed
Over the sea from the silent sky.

THE MASTER HAND.

Life is a picture, warm and grand,
Of varied colors made;
Each touch is by the Master's hand,
And His the light and shade.

These tints so strong and fresh and bright—
Ah, here the foreground glows!
Some souls are brave and gladly right,
And God, the Master, knows.

What though He wills my lines must be
Obscure and gray and drear?
His picture was in need of me,
And He hath set me here.

My shadow may bring out, intent,
The brightness of a soul
That must be free and prominent
To make the perfect whole.

Or, it may be, a sadder lot,
A colder dash of gray,
Falls somewhere near, and mine is not
The very darkest way.

We cannot change us by a tint,
Nor guide our lines alone;
But we may catch His subtlest hint,
And hold it as our own.

To learn and heed the Master's will,
And rightly do our part,
To bow before Almighty skill,
And reverence His art—

Content and blest one touch to be—
This is enough, O Soul!
When God, for all Eternity,
His picture shall unroll.

ELBERON.

(1881.)

I. JULY.

We watched the little children by the sea
Tempting the wave with mimic forts of sand;
Hillock and pit they modeled in their glee,
Laughing to see them leveled on the strand.
Deep was the music of the breakers' roar,
And bright the spray they tossed upon the shore;
Fresh gales of joy blew landward, but in vain:
The Nation's heart was heavy with its pain.

II. AUGUST.

The little children skipping by the sea,
Bare-limbed and merry, challenge its advance;
Holding the sunlight in their hair, they flee
The prone wave's tumult while they shout and dance:
But he who suffers far away grows faint
With longing for the seaside cheer and plaint;—

Ah, bright the tide, and blue the bending sky,
While stately ships, intent, go sailing by!

III. SEPTEMBER.

What power was this? No tumult on the deep!
The conscious waves crept whispering to the sand;
The very children, awed and eager, keep
The spell of silence holding sea and land.
White wings of healing filled the summer sky,
And prayerful thousands stood expectant by,
While, borne on bed of hope, content and wan,
The Nation's Man came into Elberon.

“'T is well!” the news sped gladly, day by day,—
“Old Ocean sends its strengthening breeze apace!”
Grandly, above the sparkling wavelets' play,
Our country's banner floated in its grace—
When, suddenly, grim shadows gathered near
To overwhelm us with a nameless fear;

Till all along Atlantic's sobbing sands—
Far as it rims our own and other lands,
Across the world, what spot the sun shines on—
Sounded the tidings dread:
The President is dead!
A Nation's grief broods over Elberon.

BLOOM.

The sudden sun shone through the pane
And lighted both their faces—
A prettier sight just after rain
Ne'er fell in pleasant places:

Two girls. One held a graceful glass,
And one a bulb unsightly,
Ragged and soiled. And this the lass
Upon the vase laid lightly.

“What lovely flowers we'll have,” said they,
“After it starts a-growing!”
The sun, delighted, slipped away
And down the west went glowing.

SNOW-FLAKES.

Whenever a snow-flake leaves the sky,
It turns and turns to say “Good-bye!
Good-bye, dear cloud, so cool and gray!”
Then lightly travels on its way.

And when a snow-flake finds a tree,
“Good-day!” it says—“Good-day to thee!
Thou art so bare and lonely, dear,
I'll rest, and call my comrades here.”

But when a snow-flake, brave and meek,
Lights on a rosy maiden's cheek,
It starts—“How warm and soft the day!
'T is summer!”—and it melts away.

THE TROUBLED MAID.

A village maiden lightly trod
Her lonely way to the house of God.
And there the words that met her ear
Were bitter words for a maid to hear.
For they said the world was bad to the core,
And the heart of the maiden grew faint and sore.

As homeward then she went her way,
Her path through a lovely woodland lay;
And stooping to pluck a rose, she caught
Only the thorns. Alas! she thought,
Dear Lord in heaven, must this be so?
Do thorns forever with roses grow?
In all this beautiful world and dear
Must sin and woe lurk hidden near?

Then, tenderly pressing the flower to her face,
Breathing its sweetness and holy with grace,
She said as she bent her fair head down:
“With roses and thorns we must weave our crown;
God is our Father, and he is good.”
And her way grew bright through the lonely wood.

FAITH.

The wind drove the moon
To a sky-built cave,
And closed it up
As it were her grave.
The cave threw wide
A silver portal—
And forth she came,
Serene, immortal!

He piled black clouds
In angry might,
Till lost in gloom
Was all her light.
The clouds a moment
Held her under;
Then, glorified,
They burst asunder!

The wind, that night,
Bemoaned and whistled
Till all the forest
Stirred and bristled;
While moonbeams stole
To tear-wet pillows,
And found their way
Through grave-yard willows.

THE EASTER MORN.

Between rude March and the bright May weather—
The bluster and dearth and the willow's green feather—
Tipped with jewels and warm with Spring,
Raindrop, and blossom, and song a-wing,

Full of promise and tender cheer,
Glowing aloft and lighting a-near
Day when a deathless hope was born—
Dawneth the radiant Easter morn!

After the watching, and fasting, and sadness,
Cometh peace and the answering gladness,
Whispering unto the weary soul:
“Past be all conflict, doubting, and dole.”

Ah, for the joy that hath promise to live!
Ah, for the yearning to help and forgive!
This is the Easter we long for and choose!
This is the Easter we turn from and lose!

“THOUGHTS ARE THINGS.”

If times be hard and dollars few
When Christmas-tide draws near,
And hearty kindliness—ah, me!—
Knows it must empty-handed be,
Still are there needs that wait for you:
Some cloud to rift with sunny blue,
Some life that halts with hindering fear,
Lacking the simple gift of cheer.

Thoughts are our riches, bounteous, free;
We need not empty-handed be!
Obey the oracle divine
That makes our inmost self its shrine.
Harken:
“Give vexing care swift wings,
And to your soul hold near

Only the thought that softly sings,
That brings you hope, and light, and cheer;
For thoughts are things.
Know that mere gifts of compliment
Wax poor ere Christmas lights are spent.
Remember,—and no longer sigh,—
The rarest gifts that gold can buy
Have little worth, however fair,
If strain of purse or anxious care
Hath robbed them of their true intent.”

From friend to friend, the choicest gift
That ever love can give
Is that which comes the heart to lift
Or help the soul to live.
Of all fair bounties ever bought,
Of gems or jewels rare,
What treasure like a loving thought,
Or love's far-reaching prayer!

Courage, and trust, and peace of mind,
Faith in the good in humankind,

These—ah, believe it!—if love brings
At Christmas-tide, are love's own best;
Yea, gifts more real than all the rest:
For thoughts are things.

IN THE NAME OF THE KING.

(Written for the Album of the Children's Building, Columbian Exposition, Chicago, 1893.)

Every day of every year is the New World discovered
By one, by two, by many who gain a wondrous land.
At first they cry, then laugh, then creep, and then, O joy! they stand;
Adventurous, with outstretched arm they straightway take command,
While subjects true kneel worshiping with bowed heads and uncovered.

TO MERODINE.

1895—October 26—1896.

Little builder of a year,—
With many a smile and scarce a tear,—
Ah, what wonders thou hast wrought
In the realms of love and thought!
Thine the rounding of the sphere—
Little builder of a year!

THE NIGHTLY REST.

A folding darkness hangs before the dawn,
Twin curtain with our sleep;
And when they part, with mystic, dreamy sweep,
The Day smiles in our face, and we awake,
Ready once more life's noisy ways to take
Till by veiled Night the folds again are drawn.