I have been wandering where the daisies grow,Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I sawThem bend reluctantly, and seem to drawAway in pride when the fresh breeze would blowFrom timothy and yellow buttercup,So by their fearless beauty lifted up.Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will,Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweepOr, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creepOver the meadows and adown the hill.So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow,Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.So beautiful is it to live, so sweetTo hear the ripple of the bobolink,To smell the clover blossoms white and pink,To feel oneself far from the dusty street,From dusty souls, from all the flare and fretOf living, and the fever of regret.I have grown younger; I can scarce believeIt is the same sad woman full of dreamsOf seven short weeks ago, for now it seemsI am a child again, and can deceiveMy soul with daisies, plucking one by oneThe petals dazzling in the noonday sun.Almost with old-time eagerness I tryMy fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup,"Then, lower, "passionément, pas du tout;"Quick the white petals fall, and lovinglyI pluck the last, and drop with tender touchThe knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."I can remember how, in childish days,I deemed that he who held my heart in thrallMust love me "passionately" or "not at all."Poor little wilful ignorant heart that praysIt knows not what, and heedlessly demandsThe best that life can give with out-stretched hands!Now I am wiser, and have learned to prizePeace above passion, and the summer lifeHere with the flowers above the ceaseless strifeOf armed ambitions. They alone are wiseWho know the daisy-secrets, and can holdFast in their eager hands her heart of gold.
I have been wandering where the daisies grow,Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I sawThem bend reluctantly, and seem to drawAway in pride when the fresh breeze would blowFrom timothy and yellow buttercup,So by their fearless beauty lifted up.
Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will,Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweepOr, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creepOver the meadows and adown the hill.So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow,Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.
So beautiful is it to live, so sweetTo hear the ripple of the bobolink,To smell the clover blossoms white and pink,To feel oneself far from the dusty street,From dusty souls, from all the flare and fretOf living, and the fever of regret.
I have grown younger; I can scarce believeIt is the same sad woman full of dreamsOf seven short weeks ago, for now it seemsI am a child again, and can deceiveMy soul with daisies, plucking one by oneThe petals dazzling in the noonday sun.
Almost with old-time eagerness I tryMy fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup,"Then, lower, "passionément, pas du tout;"Quick the white petals fall, and lovinglyI pluck the last, and drop with tender touchThe knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."
I can remember how, in childish days,I deemed that he who held my heart in thrallMust love me "passionately" or "not at all."Poor little wilful ignorant heart that praysIt knows not what, and heedlessly demandsThe best that life can give with out-stretched hands!
Now I am wiser, and have learned to prizePeace above passion, and the summer lifeHere with the flowers above the ceaseless strifeOf armed ambitions. They alone are wiseWho know the daisy-secrets, and can holdFast in their eager hands her heart of gold.
A dash of spray,A weed-browned way,—My ship's in the bay,In the glad blue bay,—The wind's from the westAnd the waves have a crest,But my bird's in the nestAnd my ship's in the bay!At dawn to standSoft hand to hand,Bare feet on the sand,—On the hard brown sand,—To wait, dew-crowned,For the tarrying soundOf a keel that will groundOn the scraping sand.A glad surpriseIn the wind-swept skiesOf my wee one's eyes,—Those wondering eyes.He will come, my sweet,And will haste to meetThose hurrying feetAnd those sea-blue eyes.I know the dayMust weary away,And my ship's in the bay,—In the clear, blue bay,—Ah! there's wind in the west,For the waves have a crest,But my bird's in the nestAnd my ship's in the bay!
A dash of spray,A weed-browned way,—My ship's in the bay,In the glad blue bay,—The wind's from the westAnd the waves have a crest,But my bird's in the nestAnd my ship's in the bay!
At dawn to standSoft hand to hand,Bare feet on the sand,—On the hard brown sand,—To wait, dew-crowned,For the tarrying soundOf a keel that will groundOn the scraping sand.
A glad surpriseIn the wind-swept skiesOf my wee one's eyes,—Those wondering eyes.He will come, my sweet,And will haste to meetThose hurrying feetAnd those sea-blue eyes.
I know the dayMust weary away,And my ship's in the bay,—In the clear, blue bay,—Ah! there's wind in the west,For the waves have a crest,But my bird's in the nestAnd my ship's in the bay!
There are some things, dear Friend, are easier farTo say in written words than when we sitEye answering eye, or hand to hand close knit.Not that there is between us any barOf shyness or reserve; the day is pastFor that, and utter trust has come at last.Only, when shut alone and safe insideThese four white walls,—hearing no sound exceptOur own heart-beatings, silences have creptStealthily round us,—as the incoming tideQuiet and unperceived creeps ever onTill mound and pebble, rock and reef are gone.Or out on the green hillside, even thereThere is a hush, and words and thoughts are still.For the trees speak, and myriad voices fillWith wondrous echoes all the waiting air.We listen, and in listening must forgetOur own hearts' murmur, and our spirits' fret;Even our joys,—thou knowest;—when the airIs full to overflowing with the senseOf hope fulfilled and passion's vehemence.There is no place for words; we do not dareTo break Love's stillness, even though the powerWere ours by speech to lengthen out the hour.But here in quietness I can recallAll I would tell thee, how thou art to meImpulse and inspiration, and with theeI can but smile though all my idols fall.I wait my meed as others who have knownPatience till to their utmost stature grown.As when the heavens are draped in gloomy grayAnd earth is tremulous with a vague unrestA glory fills the tender, troubled WestThat glads the closing of November's day,So breaks in sun-smiles my beclouded skyWhen day is over and I know thee nigh.Thou art so much, all this and more, to me,And what am I to thee? Can I repayThese many gifts? Is there no royal wayOf recompense, so I may proudly seeThe man my heart delights to praise renownedFor wealth and honor, and with rapture crowned?Ah! though there is no recompense in loveYet have I paid thee, given these gifts to thee,Joy, riches, worship. Thou hast joy in me,Is it not so, Beloved? Who shall proveNo worship of thee by my soul confessed?And riches? Ah! a wealth of love is best.
There are some things, dear Friend, are easier farTo say in written words than when we sitEye answering eye, or hand to hand close knit.Not that there is between us any barOf shyness or reserve; the day is pastFor that, and utter trust has come at last.
Only, when shut alone and safe insideThese four white walls,—hearing no sound exceptOur own heart-beatings, silences have creptStealthily round us,—as the incoming tideQuiet and unperceived creeps ever onTill mound and pebble, rock and reef are gone.
Or out on the green hillside, even thereThere is a hush, and words and thoughts are still.For the trees speak, and myriad voices fillWith wondrous echoes all the waiting air.We listen, and in listening must forgetOur own hearts' murmur, and our spirits' fret;
Even our joys,—thou knowest;—when the airIs full to overflowing with the senseOf hope fulfilled and passion's vehemence.There is no place for words; we do not dareTo break Love's stillness, even though the powerWere ours by speech to lengthen out the hour.
But here in quietness I can recallAll I would tell thee, how thou art to meImpulse and inspiration, and with theeI can but smile though all my idols fall.I wait my meed as others who have knownPatience till to their utmost stature grown.
As when the heavens are draped in gloomy grayAnd earth is tremulous with a vague unrestA glory fills the tender, troubled WestThat glads the closing of November's day,So breaks in sun-smiles my beclouded skyWhen day is over and I know thee nigh.
Thou art so much, all this and more, to me,And what am I to thee? Can I repayThese many gifts? Is there no royal wayOf recompense, so I may proudly seeThe man my heart delights to praise renownedFor wealth and honor, and with rapture crowned?
Ah! though there is no recompense in loveYet have I paid thee, given these gifts to thee,Joy, riches, worship. Thou hast joy in me,Is it not so, Beloved? Who shall proveNo worship of thee by my soul confessed?And riches? Ah! a wealth of love is best.
I have known a thousand pleasures,—Love is best—Ocean's songs and forest treasures,Work and rest,Jewelled joys of dear existence,Triumph over Fate's resistance,But to prove, through Time's wide distance,Love is best.
I have known a thousand pleasures,—Love is best—Ocean's songs and forest treasures,Work and rest,Jewelled joys of dear existence,Triumph over Fate's resistance,But to prove, through Time's wide distance,Love is best.
I stood upon a hill, and watched the deathOf the day's turmoil. Still the glory spreadCloud-top to cloud-top, and each rearing headTrembled to crimson. So a mighty breathFrom some wild Titan in a rising ireMight kindle flame in voicing his desire.Soft stirred the evening air; the pine-crowned hillsGlowed in an answering rapture where the flushGrew to a blood-drop, and the vesper hushMoved in my soul, while from my life all illsFaded and passed away. God's voice was thereAnd in my heart the silence was a prayer.There was a day when to my fearfulnessWas born a joy, when doubt was swept afarA shadow and a memory, and a starGleamed in my sky more bright for the distress.The stillness breathed thanksgiving, and the airWafted, methought, the incense of a prayer.Heaven sets no bounds of bead-roll or appeal;And when the fiery heart with mute embraceBends, tremblingly, but for a moment's spaceIt needs no words that cry, no limbs that kneel.As meteors flash, so, in a moment's light,Life, darting forth, touches the Infinite.All my prayers wordless? Nay, I can recallA night not so long past but that each thoughtLives at this hour, and throbs again unsoughtWhen Silence broods, and Night's chill shadows fall;Then Darkness' thousand pulses thrilled and stirredWith the dear grace of a remembered word;And I was still, thy voice enshrouding me.Like the strong sweep of ocean-breath the powerOf one resistless thought transformed my hourOf love-dreams to a fear. All hopelesslyI knew love's impotence, and my despairStretched soul-hands forth, and quivered to a prayer.My passionate heart cried out: "If his dear lifeThrough stress of keen temptation merits aughtOf penance or requital, be it wroughtUponmylife. If only through the strifeIs won the peace, through drudgery the gain,Give him the issue, and to me the pain!"Some day, in our soul's course o'er trackless lands,Swayed oft by adverse winds, or swept alongIn Fate's wild current with the fluttering throngTowards Sin's engulfing maelstrom, spirit handsWill brace our trembling wings, and through the nightPoint and upbear in our last trembling flight.
I stood upon a hill, and watched the deathOf the day's turmoil. Still the glory spreadCloud-top to cloud-top, and each rearing headTrembled to crimson. So a mighty breathFrom some wild Titan in a rising ireMight kindle flame in voicing his desire.
Soft stirred the evening air; the pine-crowned hillsGlowed in an answering rapture where the flushGrew to a blood-drop, and the vesper hushMoved in my soul, while from my life all illsFaded and passed away. God's voice was thereAnd in my heart the silence was a prayer.
There was a day when to my fearfulnessWas born a joy, when doubt was swept afarA shadow and a memory, and a starGleamed in my sky more bright for the distress.The stillness breathed thanksgiving, and the airWafted, methought, the incense of a prayer.
Heaven sets no bounds of bead-roll or appeal;And when the fiery heart with mute embraceBends, tremblingly, but for a moment's spaceIt needs no words that cry, no limbs that kneel.As meteors flash, so, in a moment's light,Life, darting forth, touches the Infinite.
All my prayers wordless? Nay, I can recallA night not so long past but that each thoughtLives at this hour, and throbs again unsoughtWhen Silence broods, and Night's chill shadows fall;Then Darkness' thousand pulses thrilled and stirredWith the dear grace of a remembered word;
And I was still, thy voice enshrouding me.Like the strong sweep of ocean-breath the powerOf one resistless thought transformed my hourOf love-dreams to a fear. All hopelesslyI knew love's impotence, and my despairStretched soul-hands forth, and quivered to a prayer.
My passionate heart cried out: "If his dear lifeThrough stress of keen temptation merits aughtOf penance or requital, be it wroughtUponmylife. If only through the strifeIs won the peace, through drudgery the gain,Give him the issue, and to me the pain!"
Some day, in our soul's course o'er trackless lands,Swayed oft by adverse winds, or swept alongIn Fate's wild current with the fluttering throngTowards Sin's engulfing maelstrom, spirit handsWill brace our trembling wings, and through the nightPoint and upbear in our last trembling flight.
Red gleams the mountain ridge,Slow the stream creepsUnder the old bent bridge,And labor sleeps.There are no restless birds,No leaves that stir,Dusk her gray mantle girds,Night's harbinger.The storm-soul's change and startPause, lull, and cease;In my unquiet heartIs born a peace.
Red gleams the mountain ridge,Slow the stream creepsUnder the old bent bridge,And labor sleeps.
There are no restless birds,No leaves that stir,Dusk her gray mantle girds,Night's harbinger.
The storm-soul's change and startPause, lull, and cease;In my unquiet heartIs born a peace.
Dear, I am lonely, for the bay is stillAs any hill-girt lake; the long brown beachLies bare and wet. As far as eye can reachThere is no motion. Even on the hillWhere the breeze loves to wander I can seeNo stir of leaves, nor any waving tree.There is a great red cliff that fronts my viewA bare, unsightly thing; it angers meWith its unswerving-grim monotony.The mackerel weir, with branching boughs askewStands like a fire-swept forest, while the seaLaps it, with soothing sighs, continually.There are no tempests in this sheltered bay,The stillness frets me, and I long to beWhere winds sweep strong and blow tempestuously,To stand upon some hill-top far awayAnd face a gathering gale, and let the stressOf Nature's mood subdue my restlessness.An impulse seizes me, a mad desireTo tear away that red-browed cliff, to sweepIts crest of trees and huts into the deep;To force a gap by axe, or storm, or fire,And let rush in with motion glad and freeThe rolling waves of the wild wondrous sea.Sometimes I wonder if I am the childOf calm, law-loving parents, or a strayFrom some wild gypsy camp. I cannot stayQuiet among my fellows; when this wildLonging for freedom takes me I must flyTo my dear woods and know my liberty.It is this cringing to a social lawThat I despise, these changing, senseless formsOf fashion! And until a thousand stormsOf God's impatience shall reveal the flawIn man's pet system, he will weave the spellAbout his heart and dream that all is well.Ah! Life is hard, Dear Heart, for I am leftTo battle with my old-time fears aloneI must live calmly on, and make no moanThough of my hoped-for happiness bereft.Thou wilt not come, and still the red cliff liesHiding my ocean from these longing eyes.
Dear, I am lonely, for the bay is stillAs any hill-girt lake; the long brown beachLies bare and wet. As far as eye can reachThere is no motion. Even on the hillWhere the breeze loves to wander I can seeNo stir of leaves, nor any waving tree.
There is a great red cliff that fronts my viewA bare, unsightly thing; it angers meWith its unswerving-grim monotony.The mackerel weir, with branching boughs askewStands like a fire-swept forest, while the seaLaps it, with soothing sighs, continually.
There are no tempests in this sheltered bay,The stillness frets me, and I long to beWhere winds sweep strong and blow tempestuously,To stand upon some hill-top far awayAnd face a gathering gale, and let the stressOf Nature's mood subdue my restlessness.
An impulse seizes me, a mad desireTo tear away that red-browed cliff, to sweepIts crest of trees and huts into the deep;To force a gap by axe, or storm, or fire,And let rush in with motion glad and freeThe rolling waves of the wild wondrous sea.
Sometimes I wonder if I am the childOf calm, law-loving parents, or a strayFrom some wild gypsy camp. I cannot stayQuiet among my fellows; when this wildLonging for freedom takes me I must flyTo my dear woods and know my liberty.
It is this cringing to a social lawThat I despise, these changing, senseless formsOf fashion! And until a thousand stormsOf God's impatience shall reveal the flawIn man's pet system, he will weave the spellAbout his heart and dream that all is well.
Ah! Life is hard, Dear Heart, for I am leftTo battle with my old-time fears aloneI must live calmly on, and make no moanThough of my hoped-for happiness bereft.Thou wilt not come, and still the red cliff liesHiding my ocean from these longing eyes.
It sings to me, it sings to me,The shore-blown voice of the blithesome sea!Of its world of gladness all untold,Of its heart of green, and its mines of gold,And desires that leap and flee.It moans to me, it moans to me!The storm-stirred voice of the restive sea!Of the vain dismay and the yearning painFor hopes that will never be born againFrom the womb of the wavering sea.It calls to me, it calls to me,The luring voice of the rebel sea!And I long with a love that is born of tearsFor the wild fresh life, and the glorying fears,For the quest and the mystery.It wails to me, it wails to me,Of the deep dark graves in the yawning sea;And I hear the voice of a boy that is gone.But the lad sleeps sound till the judgment-dawnIn the heart of the wind-swept sea.
It sings to me, it sings to me,The shore-blown voice of the blithesome sea!Of its world of gladness all untold,Of its heart of green, and its mines of gold,And desires that leap and flee.
It moans to me, it moans to me!The storm-stirred voice of the restive sea!Of the vain dismay and the yearning painFor hopes that will never be born againFrom the womb of the wavering sea.
It calls to me, it calls to me,The luring voice of the rebel sea!And I long with a love that is born of tearsFor the wild fresh life, and the glorying fears,For the quest and the mystery.
It wails to me, it wails to me,Of the deep dark graves in the yawning sea;And I hear the voice of a boy that is gone.But the lad sleeps sound till the judgment-dawnIn the heart of the wind-swept sea.
Since first I met thee, Dear, and long beforeI knew myself beloved, save by the senseAll women have, a shadowy confidenceHalf-fear, thatfeelsits bliss nor asks for more,I have learned new desires, known Love's distressSounded the deepest depths of loneliness.I was a child at heart, and lived alone,Dreaming my dreams, as children may, at whiles,Between their hours of play, and Earth's broad smilesAllured my heart, and ocean's marvellous toneWoke no strange echoes, and the woods' complainMade chants sonorous, stirred no thoughts of pain.And if, sometimes, dear Nature spoke to meIn tones mysterious, I had learned so muchDwelling beside her daily, that her touchMade me discerning. Though I might not seeHer purpose nor her meaning, I had partIn the proud throbbing of that mighty heart.But now the earth has put a tiring-clothAbout her face; even in the mountains' cheerThere is a lack, and in the sea a fear,The glad, rash sea, whose every mood, if wrothOr soothing mild, is dear to me as areJoy's new-born kisses on the lips of Care.Since I have known thee, Dear, all life has grownAn expectation. As the swelling grainTrembles to harvesting, and earth in painTravails till Spring is born, so felt aloneIs the dumb reaching out of things unborn,The night's gray promise of the amber morn.I long to taste my pleasures through thy lips,To sail with thee o'er foaming waves and feelOur spirits rise together with the reelOf waters and the wavering land's eclipse;To see thy fair hair damp with salt sea-sprayAnd in thine eyes the wildness of the way.I long to share my woods with thee, to flyTo some black-hearted forest where the trailOf mortals lingers not,—to hear the gale.Sweep round us with a shuddering ecstasy,To feel, night's tumult passed, the cool soft handOf the untroubled dawn move o'er the land.To swim with thee far out into the bay,A trembling glitter on the waves, the shoreGlowing with noontide fervor, nevermoreTo fear the treacherous depths, though long the way.Sweet beyond words the sighs that breathe and blow,The moist salt kisses, and the glad warm glow.And when the unrest, the vague desires that rushOver our lives and may not be denied,—Gone in the tasting,—lure us where the tideOf men sweeps on, let us forget the hushTogether, and in city madness drainOur cup of pleasure to its dregs of pain.Ever I need thee. Incomplete and poorThis life of mine. Yet never dream my soulCraves the old peace. Till I may have the wholeMy joy is my abiding, and what moreOf dreams and waking bliss the Fates allowComes as a gift of Love's great overflow.
Since first I met thee, Dear, and long beforeI knew myself beloved, save by the senseAll women have, a shadowy confidenceHalf-fear, thatfeelsits bliss nor asks for more,I have learned new desires, known Love's distressSounded the deepest depths of loneliness.
I was a child at heart, and lived alone,Dreaming my dreams, as children may, at whiles,Between their hours of play, and Earth's broad smilesAllured my heart, and ocean's marvellous toneWoke no strange echoes, and the woods' complainMade chants sonorous, stirred no thoughts of pain.
And if, sometimes, dear Nature spoke to meIn tones mysterious, I had learned so muchDwelling beside her daily, that her touchMade me discerning. Though I might not seeHer purpose nor her meaning, I had partIn the proud throbbing of that mighty heart.
But now the earth has put a tiring-clothAbout her face; even in the mountains' cheerThere is a lack, and in the sea a fear,The glad, rash sea, whose every mood, if wrothOr soothing mild, is dear to me as areJoy's new-born kisses on the lips of Care.
Since I have known thee, Dear, all life has grownAn expectation. As the swelling grainTrembles to harvesting, and earth in painTravails till Spring is born, so felt aloneIs the dumb reaching out of things unborn,The night's gray promise of the amber morn.
I long to taste my pleasures through thy lips,To sail with thee o'er foaming waves and feelOur spirits rise together with the reelOf waters and the wavering land's eclipse;To see thy fair hair damp with salt sea-sprayAnd in thine eyes the wildness of the way.
I long to share my woods with thee, to flyTo some black-hearted forest where the trailOf mortals lingers not,—to hear the gale.Sweep round us with a shuddering ecstasy,To feel, night's tumult passed, the cool soft handOf the untroubled dawn move o'er the land.
To swim with thee far out into the bay,A trembling glitter on the waves, the shoreGlowing with noontide fervor, nevermoreTo fear the treacherous depths, though long the way.Sweet beyond words the sighs that breathe and blow,The moist salt kisses, and the glad warm glow.
And when the unrest, the vague desires that rushOver our lives and may not be denied,—Gone in the tasting,—lure us where the tideOf men sweeps on, let us forget the hushTogether, and in city madness drainOur cup of pleasure to its dregs of pain.
Ever I need thee. Incomplete and poorThis life of mine. Yet never dream my soulCraves the old peace. Till I may have the wholeMy joy is my abiding, and what moreOf dreams and waking bliss the Fates allowComes as a gift of Love's great overflow.
Deep in the green bracken lying,Close by the welcoming sea,Dream I, and let all my dreamingDrift as it will, Love, to thee.Sated with splendid caressesShowered by the sun in his pride,Scorched by his passionate kissesLanguidly ebbs the tide.
Deep in the green bracken lying,Close by the welcoming sea,Dream I, and let all my dreamingDrift as it will, Love, to thee.
Sated with splendid caressesShowered by the sun in his pride,Scorched by his passionate kissesLanguidly ebbs the tide.
I have been pondering what our teachers callThe mystery of Pain; and lo! my thoughtAfter it's half-blind reaching out has caughtThis truth and held it fast. We may not fallBeyond our mounting; stung by life's annoy,Deeper we feel the mystery of Joy.Sometimes they steal across us like a breathOf Eastern perfume in a darkened room,These joys of ours; we grope on through the gloomSeeking some common thing, and from its sheathUnloose, unknowing, some bewildering scentOf spice-thronged memories of the Orient.Sometimes they dart across our turbid skyLike a quick flash after a heated day.A moment, where the sombrous shadows layWe see a glory. Though it passed us byNo earthly power can filch that dazzling glowFrom memory's eye, that instant's shine and show.Life is so full of joys. The alluring sea,This morning clear and placid, may, ere night,Toss like a petulant child, and when the lightOf a new morning dawns sweep grand and freeA mighty power. If fierce, or mild, or bright,With every tide flows in a fresh delight.I can remember well when first I knewThe fragrance of white clover. There I layOn the warm July grass and heard the playOf sun-browned insects, and the breezes blewTo my drowsed sense the scent the blossoms had;The subtle sweetness stayed, and I was glad.Nor passed the gladness. Though the years have gone(A many years, Beloved, since that day,)Whenever by the roadside or awayIn radiant summer fields, wandering aloneOr with glad children, to my restless sightShows that pale head, comes back the old delight.Oh! the dark water, and the filling sail!The scudding like a sea-mew, with the handFirm on the tiller! See, the red-shored landReceding, as we brave the hastening gale!White gleam the wave-tops, and the breakers' roarSounds thunderingly on the far distant shore.This mad hair flying in the breeze blows wildAcross my face. See, there, the gathering squall,That dark line to the eastward, watch it crawlStealthily towards us o'er the snow-wreaths piledClose on each other! Ah! what joy to beDrunk with salt air, in battle with the sea!So many joys, and yet I have but toldOf simple things, the joys of air and sea!Not all these things are worth one hour with thee,One moment, when thy daring arms enfoldMy body, and all other, meaner joys,Fade from me like a child's forgotten toys.One thought is ever with me, glorying allLife's common aims. Surely will dawn a dayBright with an unknown rapture, when thy wayWill bemyjourney-road, and I can callThese joysourjoys, for thou wilt walk with meDown budding pathways to the abounding sea.
I have been pondering what our teachers callThe mystery of Pain; and lo! my thoughtAfter it's half-blind reaching out has caughtThis truth and held it fast. We may not fallBeyond our mounting; stung by life's annoy,Deeper we feel the mystery of Joy.
Sometimes they steal across us like a breathOf Eastern perfume in a darkened room,These joys of ours; we grope on through the gloomSeeking some common thing, and from its sheathUnloose, unknowing, some bewildering scentOf spice-thronged memories of the Orient.
Sometimes they dart across our turbid skyLike a quick flash after a heated day.A moment, where the sombrous shadows layWe see a glory. Though it passed us byNo earthly power can filch that dazzling glowFrom memory's eye, that instant's shine and show.
Life is so full of joys. The alluring sea,This morning clear and placid, may, ere night,Toss like a petulant child, and when the lightOf a new morning dawns sweep grand and freeA mighty power. If fierce, or mild, or bright,With every tide flows in a fresh delight.
I can remember well when first I knewThe fragrance of white clover. There I layOn the warm July grass and heard the playOf sun-browned insects, and the breezes blewTo my drowsed sense the scent the blossoms had;The subtle sweetness stayed, and I was glad.
Nor passed the gladness. Though the years have gone(A many years, Beloved, since that day,)Whenever by the roadside or awayIn radiant summer fields, wandering aloneOr with glad children, to my restless sightShows that pale head, comes back the old delight.
Oh! the dark water, and the filling sail!The scudding like a sea-mew, with the handFirm on the tiller! See, the red-shored landReceding, as we brave the hastening gale!White gleam the wave-tops, and the breakers' roarSounds thunderingly on the far distant shore.
This mad hair flying in the breeze blows wildAcross my face. See, there, the gathering squall,That dark line to the eastward, watch it crawlStealthily towards us o'er the snow-wreaths piledClose on each other! Ah! what joy to beDrunk with salt air, in battle with the sea!
So many joys, and yet I have but toldOf simple things, the joys of air and sea!Not all these things are worth one hour with thee,One moment, when thy daring arms enfoldMy body, and all other, meaner joys,Fade from me like a child's forgotten toys.
One thought is ever with me, glorying allLife's common aims. Surely will dawn a dayBright with an unknown rapture, when thy wayWill bemyjourney-road, and I can callThese joysourjoys, for thou wilt walk with meDown budding pathways to the abounding sea.
Low laughed the Columbine,Trembled her petals fineAs the breeze blew;In her dove-heart there stirredMurmurs the dull bee heard,And Love, Life's wild white bird,Straightway she knew.Resting her lilac cheekGently, in aspect meek,On the gray stone,The morning-glory, free,Welcomed the yellow bee,Heard the near-rolling seaMurmur and moan.Calm lay the tawny sandStretching a long wet handTo the far wave.Swift to her warm waiting breastLonging to be possessedLeaps 'neath his billowy crestHer Lover brave.
Low laughed the Columbine,Trembled her petals fineAs the breeze blew;In her dove-heart there stirredMurmurs the dull bee heard,And Love, Life's wild white bird,Straightway she knew.
Resting her lilac cheekGently, in aspect meek,On the gray stone,The morning-glory, free,Welcomed the yellow bee,Heard the near-rolling seaMurmur and moan.
Calm lay the tawny sandStretching a long wet handTo the far wave.Swift to her warm waiting breastLonging to be possessedLeaps 'neath his billowy crestHer Lover brave.
There is a long thin line of fading goldIn the far West, and the transfigured leavesOn some slight, topmost bough that sways and heavesHang limp and tremulous. Nor warm, nor coldThe pungent air, and, 'neath the yellow haze,Show flushed and glad the wild, October ways.There is a soft enchantment in the air,A mystery the Summer knows not, norThe sturdy, frost-crowned Winter. Nature woreHer blandest smile to-day, as here and thereI wandered, elf-beset, through wood and fieldAnd gleaned the glories of the autumn yield.A bunch of purple aster, golden-rodDarkened by the first frost, a drooping sprayOf scarlet barberry, and tall and grayThe silk-cored cotton with its bursting pod,Some tarnished maple-boughs, and, like a flashOf sudden flame, a branch of mountain ash.She smiled, but it was not the welcoming smileOf frank surrender. As a witching maidIn gorgeous garments cunningly arrayedMight smile and draw them closer, hers the guileTo let men hope, pray, labor in love's stressEre they her hidden beauties may possess.Deep in the heart of earth where the springs rise,Down with the sweet linnæa and the moss,In the brown thrush's throat, where the pines tossIn Winter's harrying storms her secret lies.Ours the chill night-dews and the waiting painEre we her fairy wealth may hope to gain.'Tis so with knowledge. Eagerly we turnGreat Wisdom's page, and when our clear eyes growDim in the dusk of years, and heads bend lowWeary at last, the truth we strove to learnIs ours forever. But its joy of sightIs dearly bought, methinks, with Youth's delight.Fate, too, with chaffering voice and beckoning handDoles out our happiness; we snatch at wealthAnd pay with anxious care and fading health.We call for Love, and dream that we shall standOn ground enchanted, but, though sweet the way,The rocks are sharp, and grief comes with the Day.Even in love, Dear Heart, there is exchangeOf gifts and griefs, and so I render theeVows for thy vows, and pay unfalteringlyWhat love demands, nor ever deem it strange.And when the snow drifts fast, and north-winds stingI make no murmur, but await the Spring.
There is a long thin line of fading goldIn the far West, and the transfigured leavesOn some slight, topmost bough that sways and heavesHang limp and tremulous. Nor warm, nor coldThe pungent air, and, 'neath the yellow haze,Show flushed and glad the wild, October ways.
There is a soft enchantment in the air,A mystery the Summer knows not, norThe sturdy, frost-crowned Winter. Nature woreHer blandest smile to-day, as here and thereI wandered, elf-beset, through wood and fieldAnd gleaned the glories of the autumn yield.
A bunch of purple aster, golden-rodDarkened by the first frost, a drooping sprayOf scarlet barberry, and tall and grayThe silk-cored cotton with its bursting pod,Some tarnished maple-boughs, and, like a flashOf sudden flame, a branch of mountain ash.
She smiled, but it was not the welcoming smileOf frank surrender. As a witching maidIn gorgeous garments cunningly arrayedMight smile and draw them closer, hers the guileTo let men hope, pray, labor in love's stressEre they her hidden beauties may possess.
Deep in the heart of earth where the springs rise,Down with the sweet linnæa and the moss,In the brown thrush's throat, where the pines tossIn Winter's harrying storms her secret lies.Ours the chill night-dews and the waiting painEre we her fairy wealth may hope to gain.
'Tis so with knowledge. Eagerly we turnGreat Wisdom's page, and when our clear eyes growDim in the dusk of years, and heads bend lowWeary at last, the truth we strove to learnIs ours forever. But its joy of sightIs dearly bought, methinks, with Youth's delight.
Fate, too, with chaffering voice and beckoning handDoles out our happiness; we snatch at wealthAnd pay with anxious care and fading health.We call for Love, and dream that we shall standOn ground enchanted, but, though sweet the way,The rocks are sharp, and grief comes with the Day.
Even in love, Dear Heart, there is exchangeOf gifts and griefs, and so I render theeVows for thy vows, and pay unfalteringlyWhat love demands, nor ever deem it strange.And when the snow drifts fast, and north-winds stingI make no murmur, but await the Spring.
Joy came in youth as a humming-bird,(Sing hey! for the honey and bloom of life!)And it made a home in my summer bowerWith the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower.(Sing hey! for the blossoms and sweets of life!)Joy came as a lark when the years had gone,(Ah! hush, hush still, for the dream is short!)And I gazed far up to the melting blueWhere the rare song dropped like a golden dew.(Ah! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short!)Joy hovers now in a far-off mist,(The night draws on and the air breathes snow!)And I reach, sometimes, with a trembling handTo the red-tipped cloud of the joy-bird's land.(Alas! for the days of the storm and the snow!)
Joy came in youth as a humming-bird,(Sing hey! for the honey and bloom of life!)And it made a home in my summer bowerWith the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower.(Sing hey! for the blossoms and sweets of life!)
Joy came as a lark when the years had gone,(Ah! hush, hush still, for the dream is short!)And I gazed far up to the melting blueWhere the rare song dropped like a golden dew.(Ah! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short!)
Joy hovers now in a far-off mist,(The night draws on and the air breathes snow!)And I reach, sometimes, with a trembling handTo the red-tipped cloud of the joy-bird's land.(Alas! for the days of the storm and the snow!)
But one short night between my Love and me!I watch the soft-shod dusk creep wistfullyThrough the slow-moving curtains, pausing byAnd shrouding with its spirit-fingers freeEach well-known chair. There is a growing graceOf tender magic in this little place.Comes through half-opened windows, soft and coolAs Spring's young breath, the vagrant evening air,My day-worn soul is hushed. I fain would bearNo burdens on my brain to-night, no ruleOf anxious thought; the world has had my tears,My thoughts, my hopes, my aims these many years;This is Thy hour, and I shall sink to sleepWith a glad weariness, to know that whenThe new day dawns I shall lay by my penNeeded no more. If I, perchance, should weepA few quick tears, so doing, who would guess'Twas the last throb of my soul's loneliness?Not even thou, Dear Heart, canst ever knowHow I have yearned these many months, these yearsFor love, for thee. As the calm boatman steersHis slender shallop where he fain would go,Tempests and rocks before, so through the darkTo this dim, far-off day has set my bark.To-morrow! I can hear the quick-closed door,The approaching steps, my pained heart's fluttering,Thy voice, then Thee! And all the storm and stingOf bygone griefs are passed forevermore,Swept from my life as the resistless windScatters the chaff, nor leaves a mote behind.As long-imprisoned captives reach the light,And gaze with greedy eyes on field and tree,Drinking the beauties of the sky and seaHalf fearful of their bliss; so from the nightOf dreams and shades, half doubting, we awakeAnd grasp the joy we almost fear to take.Thou hidest in thy warm ones my cold hand,Reading my soul in these unwavering eyes.Nay, thou hast known my hopes, my agoniesThrough written words, and thou canst understand.I have kept nothing back of all the streamsOf my heart-flowings—doubts, nor fears, nor dreams.So long my life has followed no controlBut mine own impulse; now, I pray thee, bendMy will to thine, and so, unhindered, tendMy soul's wild garden. I have laid the wholeBare to thy sowing; and life's precious wineIs of thy pouring, and thy way is mine.
But one short night between my Love and me!I watch the soft-shod dusk creep wistfullyThrough the slow-moving curtains, pausing byAnd shrouding with its spirit-fingers freeEach well-known chair. There is a growing graceOf tender magic in this little place.
Comes through half-opened windows, soft and coolAs Spring's young breath, the vagrant evening air,My day-worn soul is hushed. I fain would bearNo burdens on my brain to-night, no ruleOf anxious thought; the world has had my tears,My thoughts, my hopes, my aims these many years;
This is Thy hour, and I shall sink to sleepWith a glad weariness, to know that whenThe new day dawns I shall lay by my penNeeded no more. If I, perchance, should weepA few quick tears, so doing, who would guess'Twas the last throb of my soul's loneliness?
Not even thou, Dear Heart, canst ever knowHow I have yearned these many months, these yearsFor love, for thee. As the calm boatman steersHis slender shallop where he fain would go,Tempests and rocks before, so through the darkTo this dim, far-off day has set my bark.
To-morrow! I can hear the quick-closed door,The approaching steps, my pained heart's fluttering,Thy voice, then Thee! And all the storm and stingOf bygone griefs are passed forevermore,Swept from my life as the resistless windScatters the chaff, nor leaves a mote behind.
As long-imprisoned captives reach the light,And gaze with greedy eyes on field and tree,Drinking the beauties of the sky and seaHalf fearful of their bliss; so from the nightOf dreams and shades, half doubting, we awakeAnd grasp the joy we almost fear to take.
Thou hidest in thy warm ones my cold hand,Reading my soul in these unwavering eyes.Nay, thou hast known my hopes, my agoniesThrough written words, and thou canst understand.I have kept nothing back of all the streamsOf my heart-flowings—doubts, nor fears, nor dreams.
So long my life has followed no controlBut mine own impulse; now, I pray thee, bendMy will to thine, and so, unhindered, tendMy soul's wild garden. I have laid the wholeBare to thy sowing; and life's precious wineIs of thy pouring, and thy way is mine.
Where is the waiting-time?Where are the fears?Gone with the winter's rime,The bygone years.O'er life's plain, lone and vast,Slow treads the morn,Night shades have moved and passed,Joy's day is born.
Where is the waiting-time?Where are the fears?Gone with the winter's rime,The bygone years.
O'er life's plain, lone and vast,Slow treads the morn,Night shades have moved and passed,Joy's day is born.
THE END.