[Poems by Cary in] The Poetical Works Of Alice and Phoebe Cary

And I think, though his face looks hushed and mild,
And his slumber seems so deep,
He will sob in his grave, as a little child
Keeps sobbing on in its sleep.

A WOMAN'S CONCLUSIONS.

I said, if I might go back again
To the very hour and place of my birth;
Might have my life whatever I chose,
And live it in any part of the earth;

Put perfect sunshine into my sky,
Banish the shadow of sorrow and doubt;
Have all my happiness multiplied,
And all my suffering stricken out;

If I could have known in the years now gone,
The best that a woman comes to know;
Could have had whatever will make her blest,
Or whatever she thinks will make her so;

Have found the highest and purest bliss
That the bridal-wreath and ring inclose;
And gained the one out of all the world,
That my heart as well as my reason chose;

And if this had been, and I stood to-night
By my children, lying asleep in their beds
And could count in my prayers, for a rosary,
The shining row of their golden heads;

Yea! I said, if a miracle such as this
Could be wrought for me, at my bidding, still
I would choose to have my past as it is,
And to let my future come as it will!

I would not make the path I have trod
More pleasant or even, more straight or wide;
Nor change my course the breadth of a hair,
This way or that way, to either side.

My past is mine, and I take it all;
Its weakness—its folly, if you please;
Nay, even my sins, if you come to that,
May have been my helps, not hindrances!

If I saved my body from the flames
Because that once I had burned my hand;
Or kept myself from a greater sin
By doing a less—you will understand;

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It was better I suffered a little pain,
Better I sinned for a little time,
If the smarting warned me back from death,
And the sting of sin withheld from crime.

Who knows his strength, by trial, will know
What strength must be set against a sin;
And how temptation is overcome
He has learned, who has felt its power within!

And who knows how a life at the last may show?
Why, look at the moon from where we stand!
Opaque, uneven, you say; yet it shines,
A luminous sphere, complete and grand!

So let my past stand, just as it stands,
And let me now, as I may, grow old;
I am what I am, and my life for me
Is the best—or it had not been, I hold.

ANSWERED.

I thought to find some healing clime
For her I loved; she found that shore,
That city, whose inhabitants
Are sick and sorrowful no more.

I asked for human love for her;
The Loving knew how best to still
The infinite yearning of a heart,
Which but infinity could fill.

Such sweet communion had been ours
I prayed that it might never end;
My prayer is more than answered; now
I have an angel for my friend.

I wished for perfect peace, to soothe
The troubled anguish of her breast;
And, numbered with the loved and called,
She entered on untroubled rest.

Life was so fair a thing to her,
I wept and pleaded for its stay.
My wish was granted me, for lo!
She hath eternal life to-day.

DISENCHANTED.

The time has come, as I knew it must,
She said, when we should part,
But I ceased to love when I ceased to trust,
And you cannot break my heart.

Nay, I know not even if I am sad,
And it must be for the best,
Since you only take what I thought I had,
And leave to me the rest.

Not all the stars of my hope are set,
Though one is in eclipse;
And I know there is truth in the wide world yet
If it be not on your lips.

And though I have loved you, who can tell
If you ever had been so dear,
But that my heart was prodigal
Of its wealth, and you were near.

I brought each rich and beautiful thing
From my love's great treasury;
And I thought in myself to make a king
With the robes of royalty.

But you lightly laid my honors down,
And you taught me thus to know,
Not every head can wear the crown
That the hands of love bestow.

So, take whatever you can from me,
And leave me as you will;
The dear romance and the poesy
Were mine, and I have them still.

I have them still; and even now,
When my fancy has her way,
She can make a king of such as thou,
Or a god of common clay.

ALAS!

Since, if you stood by my side to-day,
Only our hands could meet,
What matter that half the weary world
Lies out between our feet;

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That I am here by the lonesome sea,
You by the pleasant Rhine?—
Our hearts were just as far apart
If I held your hand in mine!

Therefore, with never a backward glance,
I leave the past behind;
And standing here by the sea alone,
I give it to the wind.

I give it all to the cruel wind,
And I have no word to say;
Yet, alas! to be as we have been,
And to be as we are to-day!

MOTHER AND SON.

Brightly for him the future smiled,
The world was all untried;
He had been a boy, almost a child,
In your household till he died.

And you saw him, young and strong and fair,
But yesterday depart;
And you now know he is lying there
Shot to death through the heart!

Alas, for the step so proud and true
That struck on the war-path's track;
Alas, to go, as he went from you,
And to come, as they brought him back!

One shining curl from that bright young head,
Held sacred in your home,
Is all you will have to keep in his stead
In the years that are to come.

You may claim of his beauty and his youth
Only this little part—
It is not much with which to stanch
The wound in a mother's heart!

It is not much with which to dry
The bitter tears that flow;
Not much in your empty hands to lie
As the seasons come and go.

Yet he has not lived and died in vain,
For proudly you may say,
He has left a name, with never a stain
For your tears to wash away.

And evermore shall your life be blest,
Though your treasures now are few,
Since you gave for your country's good the best
God ever gave to you!

THEODORA.

By that name you will not know her,
But if words of mine can show her
In such way that you may see
How she doth appear to me;
If, attending you shall find
The fair picture in my mind,
You will think this title meetest,
Gift of God, the best and sweetest.

All her free, impulsive acting,
Is so charming, so distracting,
Lovers think her made, I know,
Only for a play-fellow.
Coral lips, concealing pearls,
Hath she, 'twixt dark rows of curls;
And her words, dropt soft and slowly,
Seem half ravishing, half holy.

She is for a saint too human,
Yet too saintly for a woman;
Something childish in her face
Blended with maturer grace,
Shows a nature pure and good,
Perfected by motherhood;—
Eyes Madonna-like, love-laden,
Holier than befit a maiden.

Simple in her faith unshrinking,
Wise as sages in her thinking;
Showing in her artless speech
All she of herself can teach;
Hiding love and thought profound,
In such depths as none may sound;
One, though known and comprehended,
Yet with wondrous mystery blended.

Sitting meekly and serenely,
Sitting in a state most queenly;
Knowing, though dethroned, discrowned,
That her kingdom shall be found;
That her Father's child must be
Heir of immortality:
This is still her highest merit,
That she ruleth her own spirit.

Thou to whom is given this treasure,
Guard it, love it without measure;

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If forgotten it should lie
In a weak hand carelessly,
Thou mayst wake to miss and weep,
That which thou didst fail to keep;
Crying, when the gift is taken,
“I am desolate, forsaken!”

UP AND DOWN.

The sun of a sweet summer morning
Smiled joyously down from the sky,
As we climbed up the mountain together,—
My charming companion and I;
The wild birds that live in the bushes
Sang love, without fear or disguise,
And the flowers, with soft, blushing faces,
Looked love from their wide-open eyes.

In and out, through the sunshine and shadow,
We went where the odors are sweet;
And the pathway that led from the valley
Was pleasant and soft to our feet:
And while we were hopefully talking—
For our hearts and our thoughts seemed in tune—
Unaware, we had climbed to the summit,
And the sun of the morning, to noon.

For my genial and pleasant companion
Was so kind and so helpful the while,
That I felt how the path of a life-time
Might be brightened and cheered by his smile;
And how blest, with his care and his guidance.
Some true, loving woman might be,—
Of course never hoping or wishing
Such fortune would happen to me!

We spoke of life, death, truth, and friendship.—
Things hoped for, below and above,
And then sitting down at the summit,
We talked about loving, and love;
And he told me the years of his lifetime
Till now had been barren and drear,
In tones that were touching and tender
As exquisite music to hear.

And I saw in the eyes looking on me,
A meaning that could not be hid,
Till I blushed—oh, it makes me so angry,
Even now, to remember I did!—
As, taking my hand, he drew nearer,
And said, in his tenderest tone,
'T was like the dear hand that so often
Had lovingly lain in his own.

And that, 't was not flattery only,
But honest and merited praise,
To say I resembled his sweetheart
Sometimes in my words and my ways.
That I had the same womanly feelings,
My thoughts were as noble and high;
But that she was a trifle, say, fairer,
And a year or two younger than I.

Then he told me my welfare was dearer
To him than I might understand,
And he wished he knew any one worthy
To claim such a prize as my hand;
And his darling, I surely must love her,
Because she was charming and good,
And because she had made him so happy;
And I said I was sure that I should—

That nothing could make me so happy
As seeing him happy; but then
I was wretchedly tired and stupid,
And wished myself back in the glen.
That the sun, so delightful at morning,
Burned now with a merciless flame;
And I dreaded again to go over
The long, weary way that we came.

So we started to go down the mountain;
But the wild birds, the poor silly things,
Had finished their season of courting,
And put their heads under their wings;
And the flowers that opened at morning,
All blushing with joy and surprise,
Had turned from the sun's burning glances,
And sleepily shut up their eyes.

Everything I had thought so delightful
Was gone, leaving scarcely a trace;
And even my charming companion
Grew stupid and quite commonplace.

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He was not the same man that I thought him—
I can't divine why; but at once,
The fellow, who had been so charming
Was changed from a dear to a dunce.

But if any young man needs advising,
Let me whisper a word in his ear:—
Don't talk of the lady that 's absent
Too much to the lady that 's near.
My kindness is disinterested;
So in speaking to me never mind;
But the course I advise you to follow
Is safe, as a rule, you will find.

You may talk about love in the abstract,
Say the ladies are charming and dear;
But you need not select an example,
Nor say she is there, or is here.
When it comes to that last application,
Just leave it entirely out,
And give to the lady that 's present
The benefit still of the doubt!

BEYOND.

When you would have sweet flowers to smell and hold,
You do not seek them underneath the cold
Close-knitted sod, that hides away the mould;
Where in the spring-time past
The precious seed was cast.

Not down, but up, you turn your eager eyes;
You find in summer the fair flowery prize
On the green stalk, that reaches towards the skies,
And, bending down its top,
Gather the fragrant crop.

If you would find the goal of some pure rill,
That, following her unrestrainèd will,
Runs laughing down the bright slope of the hill.
Or, with a serious mien,
Walks through the valley green,

You do not seek the spot where she was born,
The cavernous mountain chamber, dim, forlorn,
That never saw the fair face of the morn,
Where she, with wailing sound,
First started from the ground;

But rather will you track her windings free,
To where at last she rushes eagerly
Into the white arms of her love, the sea,
And hides in his embrace
The rapture on her face!

If, from the branches of a neighboring tree,
A bird some morn were missing suddenly,
That all the summer sang for ecstasy,
And made your season seem
Like a melodious dream,

You would not search about the leafless dell,
In places where the nestling used to dwell,
To find the white walls of her broken shell,
Thinking your child of air,
Your wingèd joy, was there!

But rather, hurrying from the autumn gale,
Your feet would follow summer's flowery trail
To find her spicy grove, and odorous vale;
Knowing that birds and song
To pleasant climes belong.

Then wherefore, when you see a soul set free
From this poor seed of its mortality,
And know you sow not that which is to be,
Watch you about the tomb,
For the immortal bloom?

Search for your flowers in the celestial grove,
Look for your precious stream of human love
In the unfathomable sea above;
Follow your missing bird,
Where songs are always heard!

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FAVORED.

Upon her cheek such color glows,
And in her eye such light appears,
As comes, and only comes to those,
Whose hearts are all untouched by years.

Yet half her wealth she doth not see,
Nor half the kindness Heaven hath shown,
She never felt the poverty
Of souls less favored than her own.

When all is hers that life can give,
How can she tell how drear it seems
To those, uncomforted, who live
In dreaming of their vanished dreams.

Supplied beyond her greatest need
With lavish hoard of love and trust,
How shall she pity such as feed
On hearts that years have turned to dust?

When sighs are smothered down, and lost
In tenderest kisses ere they start,
What knows she of the bitter cost
Of hiding sorrow in the heart?

While fondest care each wish supplies,
And heart-strings for her frowning break,
What can she know of one who dies
For love she scarcely deigns to take?

What should she know? No weak complaint,
No cry of pain should come to her,
If mine were all the woes I paint,
And she could be my comforter!

WOMEN.

'Tis a sad truth, yet 'tis a truth
That does not need the proving:
They give their hearts away, unasked,
And are not loved for loving.

Striving to win a little back,
For all they feel they hide it;
And lips that tremble with their love,
In trembling have denied it.

Sometimes they deem the kiss and smile
Is life and love's beginning;
While he who wins the heart away,
Is satisfied with winning.

Sometimes they think they have not found
The right one for their mating;
And go on till the hair is white,
And eyes are blind with waiting.

And if the mortal tarry still,
They fill their lamps, undying;
And till the midnight wait to hear
The “Heavenly Bridegroom” crying.

For while she lives, the best of them
Is less a saint than woman;
And when her lips ask love divine,
Her heart asks love that 's human!

THE ONLY ORNAMENT.

Even as a child too well she knew
Her lack of loveliness and grace;
So, like an unprized weed she grew,
Grudging the meanest flower its face.

Often with tears her sad eyes filled,
Watching the plainest birds that went
About her home to pair, and build
Their humble nests in sweet content.

No melody was in her words;
You thought her, as she passed along,
As brown and homely as the birds
She envied, but without their song.

She saw, and sighed to see how glad
Earth makes her fair and favored child;
While all the beauty that she had
Was in her smile, nor oft she smiled.

So seasons passed her and were gone,
She musing by herself apart;
Till the vague longing that is known
To woman came into her heart.

That feeling born when fancy teems
With all that makes this life a good,
Came to her, with its wondrous dreams,
That bless and trouble maidenhood.

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She would have deemed it joy to sit
In any home, or great or small,
Could she have hoped to brighten it
For one who thought of her at all.

At night, or in some secret place,
She used to think, with tender pain,
How infants love the mother's face,
And know not if 't is fair or plain.

She longed to feast her hungry eyes
On anything her own could please;
To sing soft, loving lullabies
To children lying on her knees.

And yet beyond the world she went,
Unmissed, as if she had not been,
Taking her only ornament,
A meek and quiet soul within.

None ever knew her heart was pained,
Or that she grieved to live unsought;
They deemed her cold and self-contained,
Contented in her realm of thought.

Her patient life, when it was o'er,
Was one that all the world approved;
Some marveled at, some pitied her,
But neither man nor woman loved.

Even little children felt the same;
Were shy of her, from awe or fear;—
I wonder if she knew they came,
And scattered roses on her bier!

EQUALITY.

Most favored lady in the land,
I well can bear your scorn or pride;
For in all truest wealth, to-day,
I stand an equal by your side!

No better parentage have you,—
One is our Father, one our Friend;
The same inheritance awaits
Our claiming, at the journey's end.

No broader flight your thought can take,—
Faith on no firmer basis rest;
Nor can the dreams of fancy wake
A sweeter tumult in your breast.

Life may to you bring every good,
Which from a Father's hand can fall;
But if true lips have said to me,
“I love you,” I have known it all!

EBB-TIDE.

With her white face full of agony,
Under her dripping locks,
I hear the wretched, restless sea,
Complaining to the rocks.

Helplessly in her great despair,
She shudders on the sand,
The bright weeds dropping from her hair,
And the pale shells from her hand.

'T is pitiful thus to see her lie,
With her beating, heaving breast,
Here, where she fell, when cast aside,
Sobbing herself to rest.

Alas, alas! for the foolish sea,
Why was there none to say:
The wave that strikes on the heartless stone
Must break and fall away?

Why could she not have known that this
Would be her fate at length;—
For the hand, unheld, must slip at last,
Though it cling with love's own strength?

HAPPY WOMEN.

Impatient women, as you wait
In cheerful homes to-night, to hear
The sound of steps that, soon or late,
Shall come as music to your ear;

Forget yourselves a little while,
And think in pity of the pain
Of women who will never smile
To hear a coming step again.

With babes that in their cradle sleep,
Or cling to you in perfect trust;
Think of the mothers left to weep,
Their babies lying in the dust.

And when the step you wait for comes,
And all your world is full of light,
O women, safe in happy homes,
Pray for all lonesome souls to-night!

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LOSS AND GAIN.

Life grows better every day,
If we live in deed and truth;
So I am not used to grieve
For the vanished joys of youth.

For though early hopes may die,
Early dreams be rudely crossed;
Of the past we still can keep
Treasures more than we have lost.

For if we but try to gain
Life's best good, and hold it fast,
We grow very rich in love
Ere our mortal days are past.

Rich in golden stores of thought,
Hopes that give us wealth untold;
Rich in all sweet memories,
That grow dearer, growing old.

For when we have lived and loved,
Tasted suffering and bliss,
All the common things of life
Have been sanctified by this.

What my eyes behold to-day
Of this good world is not all,
Earth and sky are crowded full
Of the beauties they recall.

When I watch the sunset now,
As its glories change and glow,
I can see the light of suns
That were faded long ago.

When I look up to the stars,
I find burning overhead
All the stars that ever shone
In the nights that now are dead.

And a loving, tender word,
Dropping from the lips of truth,
Brings each dear remembered tone
Echoing backward from my youth.

When I meet a human face,
Lit for me with light divine,
I recall all loving eyes
That have ever answered mine.

Therefore, they who were my friends
Never can be changed or old;
For the beauty of their youth
Fond remembrance well can hold.

And even they whose feet here crossed
O'er the noiseless, calm abyss,
To the better shore which seemed
Once so far away from this;

Are to me as dwelling now
Just across a pleasant stream,
Over which they come and go,
As we journey in a dream.

A PRAYER.

I ask not wealth, but power to take
And use the things I have aright,
Not years, but wisdom that shall make
My life a profit and delight.

I ask not, that for me, the plan
Of good and ill be set aside;
But that the common lot of man
Be nobly borne, and glorified.

I know I may not always keep
My steps in places green and sweet,
Nor find the pathway of the deep
A path of safety for my feet;

But pray, that when the tempest's breath
Shall fiercely sweep my way about,
I make not shipwreck of my faith
In the unbottomed sea of doubt;

And that, though it be mine to know
How hard the stoniest pillow seems,
Good angels still may come and go,
About the places of my dreams.

I do not ask for love below,
That friends shall never be estranged;
But for the power of loving, so
My heart may keep its youth unchanged.

Youth, joy, wealth—Fate I give thee these;
Leave faith and hope till life is past;
And leave my heart's best impulses
Fresh and unfailing to the last!

MEMORIAL.

Toiling early, and toiling late,
Though her name was never heard,

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To the least of her Saviour's little ones,
She meekly ministered,—

Publishing good news to the poor;
She came to their homes unsought,
And her feet on the hills were beautiful,
For the blessings which they brought.

Such a perfect life as hers, again,
In the world we may not see;
For her heart was full of love, and her hands
Were full of charity.

Oh woe for us! cried the weak and poor,
And the weary ones made moan;
And the mourners went about the streets,
When she went to her home alone.

And, seeing her go from the field of life,
From toiling, early and late,
We said, What good has she gained, to show
For a sacrifice so great?

We might have learned from the husbandman
To wait more patiently,
Since his seed of wheat lies under the snow,
Not quickened, except it die.

For when we raised our eyes again
From their sorrow's wintry night,
We saw how the deeds of good she hid
Were pushing up to the light.

And still the precious seed she showed,
In patient, sorrowing trust,
Though not for her mortal eyes to see,
Comes blossoming out of the dust.

THE HARMLESS LUXURY.

Her skies, of whom I sing, are hung
With sad clouds, dropping saddest tears;
Yet some white days, like pearls, are strung
Upon the dark thread of her years.

And as remembrance turns to slip
Through fingers fond the treasures rare,
Ever her thankful heart and lip
Run over into song and prayer.

With joys more exquisite and deep
Than hers, she knows this good world teems,
Yet only asks that she may keep
The harmless luxury of dreams.

Thankful that, though her life has lost
The best it hoped, the best it willed,
Her sweetest dream has not been crossed,
Or worse—but only half fulfilled.

And that beside her still, to wile
Her thought from sad and sober truth,
Are Hope and Fancy, all the while
Feeding her heart's eternal youth.

And who shall say that they who close
Their eyes to Hope and Fancy's beams,
Are living truer lives than those,
The dreamers, who believe their dreams

TRIED AND TRUE.

Our life is like a march, where some
Fall early from the ranks, and die;
And some, when times of conflict come,
Go over to the enemy.

And he who halts upon the way—
Wearied in spirit and in frame—
To call his roll of friends, will find
How few make answer to their name!

And those who share our youth and joy,
Not always keep our love and trust,
When days of awful anguish bow
Our heads with sorrow to the dust.

My friend! in such a fearful hour,
When heart and spirit sank dismayed,
From thee the words of comfort came—
From thee, the true and tender aid.

Therefore, though many another friend
With youth and youthful pleasure goes,

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Thou art of such as I would have
Walk with me till life's solemn close.

Yea, with me when earth's trials are done,—
If I be found, when these shall cease,
Worthy to stand with those who wear
White raiment on the hills of peace.

PEACE.

O Land, of every land the best—
O Land, whose glory shall increase;
Now in your whitest raiment drest
For the great festival of peace:

Take from your flag its fold of gloom,
And let it float undimmed above,
Till over all our vales shall bloom
The sacred colors that we love.

On mountain high, in valley low,
Set Freedom's living fires to burn;
Until the midnight sky shall show
A redder pathway than the morn.

Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride,
Your veterans from the war-path's track;
You gave your boys, untrained, untried;
You bring them men and heroes back!

And shed no tear, though think you must
With sorrow of the martyred band;
Not even for him whose hallowed dust
Has made our prairies holy land.

Though by the places where they fell,
The places that are sacred ground,
Death, like a sullen sentinel,
Paces his everlasting round.

Yet when they set their country free
And gave her traitors fitting doom,
They left their last great enemy,
Baffled, beside an empty tomb.

Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go
Where all the paths are sweet with flowers;
They fought to give us peace, and lo!
They gained a better peace than ours.

SUNSET.

Away in the dim and distant past
That little valley lies,
Where the clouds that dimmed life's morning hours
Were tinged with hope's sweet dyes.

That peaceful spot from which I looked
To the future—unaware
That the heat and burden of the day
Were meant for me to bear.

Alas, alas! I have borne the heat,
To the burden learned to bow;
For I stand on the top of the hill of life,
And I see the sunset now!

I stand on the top, but I look not back
To the way behind me spread;
Not to the path my feet have trod,
But the path they still must tread.

And straight and plain before my gaze
The certain future lies;
But my sun grows larger all the while
As he travels down the skies.

Yea, the sun of my hope grows large and grand;
For, with my childish years,
I have left the mist that dimmed my sight,
I have left my doubts and fears.

And I have gained in hope and trust,
Till the future looks so bright,
That, letting go of the hand of Faith,
I walk, at times, by sight.

For we only feel that faith is life,
And death is the fear of death,
When we suffer up to the solemn heights
Of a true and living faith.

When we do not say, the dead shall rise
At the resurrection's call;
But when we trust in the Lord, and know
That we cannot die at all!

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APOLOGY.

Nay, darling, darling, do not frown,
Nor call my words unkind:
For my speech was but an idle jest,
As idle as the wind.

And now that I see your tender heart,
By my thoughtlessness is grieved,
I suffer both for the pain I gave,
And the pain that you received.

For if ever I have a thought of you,
That cold or cruel seems.
I have murdered my peace, and robbed my sleep
Of the joy of its happy dreams.

And when I have brought a cloud of grief
To your sweet face unaware,
Its shadow covers all my sky
With the blackness of despair.

And if in your pillow I have set
But one sharp thorn, alone,
That cruel, careless deed, transplants
A thousand to my own.

I grieve with your grief, I die in your frown,
In your joy alone I live:
And the blow that it pained your heart to feel,
I would break my own to give!

THE SHADOW.

She was so good, we thought before she died
To see new glory on her path descend;
And could not tell, till she has gone inside,
Why there was darkness at her journey's end.

And then we saw that she had stood, of late,
So near the entrance to that holy place,
That, from the Eternal City's open gate,
The awful shadow fell across her face.

MORNING AND AFTERNOON.

Fair girl, the light of whose morning keeps
The flush of its dawning glow,
Do you ask why that faded woman weeps,
Whose sun is sinking low?

You look to the future, on, above,
She only looks to the past;
You are dreaming your first sweet dream of love,
And she has dreamed her last.

You watch for feet that are yet to tread
With yours, on a pleasant track;
She hears but the echoes dull and dread
Of feet that come not back.

You are passing up the flowery slope
She left so long ago;
Your rainbows shine through the drops of hope,
And hers through the drops of woe.

Your night in its visions glides away
And at morn you live them o'er;
From her dreams by night and dreams by day
She has waked to dream no more.

You are reaching forth with spirit glad
To hopes that are still untried;
She is burying the hopes she had,
That have slipped from her arms and died.

You think of the good, for you in store,
Which the future yet will send;
While she, she knows it were well for her
If she made a peaceful end!

LIVING BY FAITH.

When the way we should tread runs evenly on,
And light as of noonday is over it all,
'T is strange how our feet will turn aside
To paths where we needs must grope and fall;

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How we suffer, knowing it all the while,
Some phantom between ourselves and the light,
That shuts in disastrous, strange eclipse,
The very powers of sense and sight.

Yet we live so, all of us, I think,
Hiding whatever of truth we choose,
And deceiving ourselves with a subtilty
That never a soul but our own could use.

We see the love in another's eyes,
Where our own, reflected, is backward sent;
Or we hear a tone, that is not in a tone,
And find a meaning that is not meant.

We put our faith in the help of those
Who never have been a help at all;
And lean on an object that all the while
We know we are holding back from its fall!

When words seem thoughtless, or deed unkind,
We are soothed with the kind intent instead;
And we say of the absent, silent one:
He is faithful—but he is sick, or dead!

We have loved some dear familiar step,
That once in its fall was firm and clear;
And that household music's sweetest sound
Came fainter every day to our ear;

And then we have talked of the faraway—
Of the springs to come and the years to be,
When the rose should bloom in our dear one's cheek,
And her feet should tread in the meadows free!

We have turned from death, to speak of life,
When we knew that earthly hope was past;
Yet thinking that somehow, God would work
A miracle for us, to the last.

We have seen the bed of a cherished friend
Pushing daily nearer and nearer, till
It stood at the very edge of the grave,
And we looked across and beyond it, still.

Aye, more than this—we have come and gazed
Down where that dear one's mortal part
Was lowered forever away from our sight;
And we did not die of a broken heart.

Are we blind! nay, we know the world unknown
Is all we would make the present seem;
That our Father keeps, till his own good time,
The things we dream of, and more than we dream.

For we shall not sleep; but we shall be changed;
And when that change at the last is made,
We shall bring realities face to face
With our souls, and we shall not be afraid.

MY LADY.

As violets, modest, tender-eyed,
The light of their beauty love to hide
In deepest solitudes;
Even thus, to dwell unseen, she chose,
My flower of womanhood, my rose,
My lady of the woods!

Full of the deepest, truest thought,
Doing the very things she ought,
Stooping to all good deeds:
Her eyes too pure to shrink from such,
And her hands too clean to fear the touch
Of the sinfulest in his needs.

There is no line of beauty or grace
That was not found in her pleasant face,
And no heart can ever stir,
With a sense of human wants and needs,

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With promptings unto the holiest deeds,
But had their birth in her.

With never a taint of the world's untruth,
She lived from infancy to youth,
From youth to womanhood:
Taking no soil in the ways she trod,
But pure as she came from the hand of God,
Before His face she stood.

My sweetest darling, my tenderest care!
The hardest thing that I have to bear
Is to know my work is past;
That nothing now I can say or do
Will bring any comfort or aid to you,—
I have said and done the last.

Yet I know I never was good enough,
That my tenderest efforts were all too rough
To help a soul so fine;
So the lovingest angel among them all,
Whose touches fell, with the softest fall,
Has pushed my hand from thine!

PASSING FEET.

All these hours she sits and counts,
As they pass her slow and sad,
Are the headsmen cutting off
Every flower of hope she had;

And the feet that come and go
In the darkness past her door,
If they trod upon her heart,
Could not pain it any more.

Friends hastening now to friends,
Faster as the night grows late;
Through all places men can go,
To all homes where women wait.

Some are pressing through the wood
Where the path is faint and new;
Some strike out a shorter way,
Across meadows wet with dew.

Some, along the highway's track,
Music to their footsteps keep;
Some are pushing into port,
From their exile on the deep.

But the hope she had at eve
From her wretched soul has fled;
For the lamp of love she lit
Has burned useless, and is dead.

So the feet that come and go,
In the darkness past her door,
If they trod upon her heart
Could not pain it any more!

MY RICHES.

There is no comfort in the world
But I, in thought, have known;
No bliss for any human heart,
I have not dreamed my own;
And fancied joys may sometimes be
More real than reality.

I have a house in which to live,
Pleasant, and fair, and good,
Its hearth is crowned with warmth and light,
Its board with daintiest food.
And I, when tired with care or doubt,
Go in and shut my sorrows out.

I have a father, one whose care
Goes with me where I roam;
A mother, waiting anxiously
To see her child come home;
And sisters, from whose tender eyes
The love in mine hath sweet replies.

I have a friend, who sees in me
What none beside can see,
Not faultless, but as firm and true,
And pure, as man may be;
A friend, whose love is never dim,
And I can never change to him.

My boys are very gentle boys,
And after they are grown,
They 're nobler, better, braver men
Than any I have known!
And all my girls are fair and good
From infancy to womanhood.

So with few blessings in the world
That men can see or name,
Home, love, and all that love can bring
My mind has power to claim;
And life can never cease to be
A good and pleasant thing to me.

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FIGS OF THISTLES.

As laborers set in a vineyard
Are we set in life's field,
To plant and to garner the harvest
Our future shall yield.

And never since harvests were ripened,
Or laborers born.
Have men gathered figs of the thistle,
Or grapes of the thorn!

Even he who has faithfully scattered
Clean seed in the ground,
Has seen, where the green blade was growing,
Tares of evil abound.

Our labor ends not with the planting,
Sure watch must we keep,
For the enemy sows in the night-time
While husbandmen sleep.

And sins, all unsought and unbidden,
Take root in the mind;
As the weeds grow, to choke up the blossoms
Chance-sown by the wind.

But no good crop, our hands never planted,
Doth Providence send;
Nor doth that which we planted have increase
Till we water and tend.

By our fruits, whether good, whether evil,
At last are we shown;
And he who has nothing to gather,
By his lack shall be known.

And no useless creature escapeth
His righteous reward;
For the tree or the soul that is barren
Is cursed of the Lord!

IMPATIENCE.

Will the mocking daylight never be done:
Is the moon her hour forgetting?
O weary sun! O merciless sun!
You have grown so slow in setting!

And yet, if the days could come and go
As fast as I count them over,
They would seem to me like years, I know,
Till they brought me back my lover.

Down through the valleys, down to the south,
O west wind, go with fleetness,
Kiss, with your daintiest kisses, his mouth,
And bring to me all its sweetness.

Go when he lieth in slumber deep,
And put your arms about him,
And hear if he whisper my name in his sleep,
And tell him, I die without him.

O birds, that sail in the air like ships,
To me such discord bringing,
If you heard the sound of my lover's lips,
You would be ashamed of your singing!

O rose, from whose heart such a crimson rain
Up to your soft cheek gushes,
You never could show your face again,
If you saw my lover's blushes!

O hateful stars, in hateful skies,
Can you think your light is tender,
When you steal it all from my lover's eyes,
And shine with a borrowed splendor?

O sun, going over the western wall,
If you stay there none will heed you;
For why should you rise or shine at all
When he is not here to need you?

Will the mocking daylight never be done?
Is the moon her hour forgetting?
O weary sun! O merciless sun!
You have grown so slow in setting!

THOU AND I.

Strange, strange for thee and me,
Sadly afar;

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Thou safe beyond, above,
I 'neath the star;
Thou where flowers deathless spring,
I where they fade;
Thou in God's paradise,
I 'mid time's shade!

Thou where each gale breathes balm,
I tempest-tossed;
Thou where true joy is found,
I where 't is lost;
Thou counting ages thine,
I not the morrow;
Thou learning more of bliss,
I more of sorrow.

Thou in eternal peace,
I 'mid earth's strife;
Thou where care hath no name,
I where 't is life;
Thou without need of hope,
I where 't is vain;
Thou with wings dropping light,
I with time's chain.

Strange, strange for thee and me,
Loved, loving ever;
Thou by Life's deathless fount,
I near Death's river:
Thou winning Wisdom's love,
I strength to trust;
Thou 'mid the seraphim,
I in the dust!

NOBODY'S CHILD.

Only a newsboy, under the light
Of the lamp-post plying his trade in vain:
Men are too busy to stop to-night,
Hurrying home through the sleet and rain.
Never since dark a paper sold;
Where shall he sleep, or how be fed?
He thinks as he shivers there in the cold,
While happy children are safe abed.

Is it strange if he turns about
With angry words, then comes to blows,
When his little neighbor, just sold out,
Tossing his pennies, past him goes?
“Stop!”—some one looks at him, sweet and mild,
And the voice that speaks is a tender one:
“You should not strike such a little child,
And you should not use such words, my son!”

Is it his anger or his fears
That have hushed his voice and stopped his arm?
“Don't tremble,” these are the words he hears;
“Do you think that I would do you harm?”
“It is n't that,” and the hand drops down;
“I would n't care for kicks and blows;
But nobody ever called me son,
Because I 'm nobody's child, I s'pose.”

O men! as ye careless pass along,
Remember the love that has cared for you;
And blush for the awful shame and wrong
Of a world where such a thing could be true!
Think what the child at your knee had been
If thus on life's lonely billows tossed;
And who shall bear the weight of the sin,
If one of these “little ones” be lost!

University of Virginia Library

POEMS OF THOUGHT AND FEELING.

A WEARY HEART.

COMING HOME.

HIDDEN SORROW.