At dawn, when the jubilant morning broke,And its glory flooded the mountain side,I said, “’Tis eleven years to-day,Eleven years since my darling died!”And then I turned to my household ways,To my daily tasks, without, within,As happily busy all the dayAs if my darling had never been!—As if she had never lived, or died!Yet when they buried her out of my sightI thought the sun had gone down at noon,And the day could never again be bright.Ah, well! As the swift years come and go,It will not be long ere I shall lieSomewhere under a bit of turf,With my pale hands folded quietly.And then someone who has loved me well—Perhaps the one who has loved me best—Will say of me as I said of her,“She has been just so many years at rest”—Then turn to the living loves again,To the busy life, without, within,And the day will go on from dawn to dusk,Even as if I had never been!Dear hearts! dear hearts! It must still be so!The roses will bloom, and the stars will shine,And the soft green grass creep still and slow,Sometime over a grave of mine—And over the grave in your hearts as well!Ye cannot hinder it if ye would;And I—ah! I shall be wiser then—I would not hinder it if I could!
At dawn, when the jubilant morning broke,And its glory flooded the mountain side,I said, “’Tis eleven years to-day,Eleven years since my darling died!”And then I turned to my household ways,To my daily tasks, without, within,As happily busy all the dayAs if my darling had never been!—As if she had never lived, or died!Yet when they buried her out of my sightI thought the sun had gone down at noon,And the day could never again be bright.Ah, well! As the swift years come and go,It will not be long ere I shall lieSomewhere under a bit of turf,With my pale hands folded quietly.And then someone who has loved me well—Perhaps the one who has loved me best—Will say of me as I said of her,“She has been just so many years at rest”—Then turn to the living loves again,To the busy life, without, within,And the day will go on from dawn to dusk,Even as if I had never been!Dear hearts! dear hearts! It must still be so!The roses will bloom, and the stars will shine,And the soft green grass creep still and slow,Sometime over a grave of mine—And over the grave in your hearts as well!Ye cannot hinder it if ye would;And I—ah! I shall be wiser then—I would not hinder it if I could!
At dawn, when the jubilant morning broke,And its glory flooded the mountain side,I said, “’Tis eleven years to-day,Eleven years since my darling died!”
And then I turned to my household ways,To my daily tasks, without, within,As happily busy all the dayAs if my darling had never been!—
As if she had never lived, or died!Yet when they buried her out of my sightI thought the sun had gone down at noon,And the day could never again be bright.
Ah, well! As the swift years come and go,It will not be long ere I shall lieSomewhere under a bit of turf,With my pale hands folded quietly.
And then someone who has loved me well—Perhaps the one who has loved me best—Will say of me as I said of her,“She has been just so many years at rest”—
Then turn to the living loves again,To the busy life, without, within,And the day will go on from dawn to dusk,Even as if I had never been!
Dear hearts! dear hearts! It must still be so!The roses will bloom, and the stars will shine,And the soft green grass creep still and slow,Sometime over a grave of mine—
And over the grave in your hearts as well!Ye cannot hinder it if ye would;And I—ah! I shall be wiser then—I would not hinder it if I could!
[Cyrus M. and Mary Ripley Fisher,lost on steamship Atlantic, April 1, 1873.]
Once, long ago, with trembling lips I sungOf one who, when the earliest flowers were seen,So sweet, so dear, so beautiful and young,Came home to sleep where kindred graves were green.Soft was the turf we raised to give her room;Clear were the rain-drops, shining as they fell;Sweet the arbutus, with its tender bloomBrightening the couch of her who loved it well.Yet, in our blindness, how we wept that day,When the earth fell upon her coffin-lid!O, ye beloved whom I singthisday,Could we but know where your dear forms lie hid!Could we but lay you down by her dear side,Wrapped in the garments of eternal rest,Where the still hours in slow succession glide,And not a dream may stir the pulseless breast—Where all day long the shadows come and go,And soft winds murmur and sweet song-birds sing—Where all night long the starlight’s tender glowFalls where the flowers you loved are blossoming—Then should the tempest of our grief grow calm;Then moaning gales should vex our souls no more;And the clear swelling of our thankful psalmShould drown the beat of surges on the shore.But the deep sea will not give up its dead.O, ye who know where your belovèd sleep,Bid heart’s-ease bloom on each love-guarded bed,And bless your God for graves whereon to weep!
Once, long ago, with trembling lips I sungOf one who, when the earliest flowers were seen,So sweet, so dear, so beautiful and young,Came home to sleep where kindred graves were green.Soft was the turf we raised to give her room;Clear were the rain-drops, shining as they fell;Sweet the arbutus, with its tender bloomBrightening the couch of her who loved it well.Yet, in our blindness, how we wept that day,When the earth fell upon her coffin-lid!O, ye beloved whom I singthisday,Could we but know where your dear forms lie hid!Could we but lay you down by her dear side,Wrapped in the garments of eternal rest,Where the still hours in slow succession glide,And not a dream may stir the pulseless breast—Where all day long the shadows come and go,And soft winds murmur and sweet song-birds sing—Where all night long the starlight’s tender glowFalls where the flowers you loved are blossoming—Then should the tempest of our grief grow calm;Then moaning gales should vex our souls no more;And the clear swelling of our thankful psalmShould drown the beat of surges on the shore.But the deep sea will not give up its dead.O, ye who know where your belovèd sleep,Bid heart’s-ease bloom on each love-guarded bed,And bless your God for graves whereon to weep!
Once, long ago, with trembling lips I sungOf one who, when the earliest flowers were seen,So sweet, so dear, so beautiful and young,Came home to sleep where kindred graves were green.
Soft was the turf we raised to give her room;Clear were the rain-drops, shining as they fell;Sweet the arbutus, with its tender bloomBrightening the couch of her who loved it well.
Yet, in our blindness, how we wept that day,When the earth fell upon her coffin-lid!O, ye beloved whom I singthisday,Could we but know where your dear forms lie hid!
Could we but lay you down by her dear side,Wrapped in the garments of eternal rest,Where the still hours in slow succession glide,And not a dream may stir the pulseless breast—
Where all day long the shadows come and go,And soft winds murmur and sweet song-birds sing—Where all night long the starlight’s tender glowFalls where the flowers you loved are blossoming—
Then should the tempest of our grief grow calm;Then moaning gales should vex our souls no more;And the clear swelling of our thankful psalmShould drown the beat of surges on the shore.
But the deep sea will not give up its dead.O, ye who know where your belovèd sleep,Bid heart’s-ease bloom on each love-guarded bed,And bless your God for graves whereon to weep!
“This morn I will weave my web,” she said,As she stood by her loom in the rosy light,And her young eyes, hopefully glad and clear,Followed afar the swallow’s flight.“As soon as the day’s first tasks are done,While yet I am fresh and strong,” said she,“I will hasten to weave the beautiful webWhose pattern is known to none but me!I will weave it fine, I will weave it fair,And ah! how the colors will glow!” she said;“So fadeless and strong will I weave my webThat perhaps it will live after I am dead.”But the morning hours sped on apace;The air grew sweet with the breath of June;And young Love hid by the waiting loom,Tangling the threads as he hummed a tune.“Ah, life is so rich and full!” she cried,“And morn is short though the days are long!This noon I will weave my beautiful web,I will weave it carefully, fine and strong.”But the sun rode high in the cloudless sky;The burden and heat of the day she boreAnd hither and thither she came and went,While the loom stood still as it stood before.“Ah! life is too busy at noon,” she said;“My web must wait till the eventide,Till the common work of the day is done,And my heart grows calm in the silence wide.”So, one by one, the hours passed onTill the creeping shadows had longer grown;Till the house was still, and the breezes slept,And her singing birds to their nests had flown.“And now I will weave my web,” she said,As she turned to her loom ere set of sun,And laid her hand on the shining threadsTo set them in order one by one.But hand was tired, and heart was weak:“I am not as strong as I was,” sighed she,“And the pattern is blurred, and the colors rareAre not so bright, or so fair to see!I must wait, I think, till another morn;I must go to my rest with my work undone;It is growing too dark to weave!” she cried,As lower and lower sank the sun.She dropped the shuttle; the loom stood still;The weaver slept in the twilight gray.Dear heart! Will she weave her beautiful webIn the golden light of a longer day?
“This morn I will weave my web,” she said,As she stood by her loom in the rosy light,And her young eyes, hopefully glad and clear,Followed afar the swallow’s flight.“As soon as the day’s first tasks are done,While yet I am fresh and strong,” said she,“I will hasten to weave the beautiful webWhose pattern is known to none but me!I will weave it fine, I will weave it fair,And ah! how the colors will glow!” she said;“So fadeless and strong will I weave my webThat perhaps it will live after I am dead.”But the morning hours sped on apace;The air grew sweet with the breath of June;And young Love hid by the waiting loom,Tangling the threads as he hummed a tune.“Ah, life is so rich and full!” she cried,“And morn is short though the days are long!This noon I will weave my beautiful web,I will weave it carefully, fine and strong.”But the sun rode high in the cloudless sky;The burden and heat of the day she boreAnd hither and thither she came and went,While the loom stood still as it stood before.“Ah! life is too busy at noon,” she said;“My web must wait till the eventide,Till the common work of the day is done,And my heart grows calm in the silence wide.”So, one by one, the hours passed onTill the creeping shadows had longer grown;Till the house was still, and the breezes slept,And her singing birds to their nests had flown.“And now I will weave my web,” she said,As she turned to her loom ere set of sun,And laid her hand on the shining threadsTo set them in order one by one.But hand was tired, and heart was weak:“I am not as strong as I was,” sighed she,“And the pattern is blurred, and the colors rareAre not so bright, or so fair to see!I must wait, I think, till another morn;I must go to my rest with my work undone;It is growing too dark to weave!” she cried,As lower and lower sank the sun.She dropped the shuttle; the loom stood still;The weaver slept in the twilight gray.Dear heart! Will she weave her beautiful webIn the golden light of a longer day?
“This morn I will weave my web,” she said,As she stood by her loom in the rosy light,And her young eyes, hopefully glad and clear,Followed afar the swallow’s flight.“As soon as the day’s first tasks are done,While yet I am fresh and strong,” said she,“I will hasten to weave the beautiful webWhose pattern is known to none but me!
I will weave it fine, I will weave it fair,And ah! how the colors will glow!” she said;“So fadeless and strong will I weave my webThat perhaps it will live after I am dead.”But the morning hours sped on apace;The air grew sweet with the breath of June;And young Love hid by the waiting loom,Tangling the threads as he hummed a tune.
“Ah, life is so rich and full!” she cried,“And morn is short though the days are long!This noon I will weave my beautiful web,I will weave it carefully, fine and strong.”But the sun rode high in the cloudless sky;The burden and heat of the day she boreAnd hither and thither she came and went,While the loom stood still as it stood before.
“Ah! life is too busy at noon,” she said;“My web must wait till the eventide,Till the common work of the day is done,And my heart grows calm in the silence wide.”So, one by one, the hours passed onTill the creeping shadows had longer grown;Till the house was still, and the breezes slept,And her singing birds to their nests had flown.
“And now I will weave my web,” she said,As she turned to her loom ere set of sun,And laid her hand on the shining threadsTo set them in order one by one.But hand was tired, and heart was weak:“I am not as strong as I was,” sighed she,“And the pattern is blurred, and the colors rareAre not so bright, or so fair to see!
I must wait, I think, till another morn;I must go to my rest with my work undone;It is growing too dark to weave!” she cried,As lower and lower sank the sun.She dropped the shuttle; the loom stood still;The weaver slept in the twilight gray.Dear heart! Will she weave her beautiful webIn the golden light of a longer day?
How does life seem to thee? I long to lookInto thine inmost soul, and see if thouArt even as other men! Oh, set apartAnd consecrate so long to purpose high,Canst thou take up again our common lot,And live as we live? Canst thou buy and sell,Stoop to small needs, and petty ministries,Work and get gain, eat, drink, and soundly sleep,Sin and repent, as these thy brethren do?Unto what name less sacred answerest thouWho hast been called the Christ of Nazareth?Thou who hast worn the awful crown of thorns,Hanging like Him upon the dreadful Tree,Canst thou, uncrowned, forget thy royalty?
How does life seem to thee? I long to lookInto thine inmost soul, and see if thouArt even as other men! Oh, set apartAnd consecrate so long to purpose high,Canst thou take up again our common lot,And live as we live? Canst thou buy and sell,Stoop to small needs, and petty ministries,Work and get gain, eat, drink, and soundly sleep,Sin and repent, as these thy brethren do?Unto what name less sacred answerest thouWho hast been called the Christ of Nazareth?Thou who hast worn the awful crown of thorns,Hanging like Him upon the dreadful Tree,Canst thou, uncrowned, forget thy royalty?
How does life seem to thee? I long to lookInto thine inmost soul, and see if thouArt even as other men! Oh, set apartAnd consecrate so long to purpose high,Canst thou take up again our common lot,And live as we live? Canst thou buy and sell,Stoop to small needs, and petty ministries,Work and get gain, eat, drink, and soundly sleep,Sin and repent, as these thy brethren do?Unto what name less sacred answerest thouWho hast been called the Christ of Nazareth?Thou who hast worn the awful crown of thorns,Hanging like Him upon the dreadful Tree,Canst thou, uncrowned, forget thy royalty?
Rabbi Benaiah at the close of day,When the low sun athwart the level sandsShot his long arrows, from far Eastern landsHomeward across the desert bent his way.Behind him trailed the lengthening caravan—The slow, weird camels, with monotonous pace;Before him, lifted in the clear, far space,From east to west the towers of his city ran!Impatiently he scanned the darkening sky;Then girding in hot haste, “What ho!” cried he,“Bring the swift steed Abdallah unto me!As rode his Bedouin master, so will I!”Soon like a bird across the waste he flew,Nor drew his rein till at the massive gateThat guards the citadel’s supremest stateHe paused a moment, slowly entering through.Then down the shadowy, moonlit streets he sped;The city slept; but like a burning star,Where his own turret-chamber rose afar,A clear, strong light its steady radiance shed!Into his court he rode with sudden clang.The startled slaves bowed low, but spake no word;By no quick tumult was the midnight stirred,No shouts of welcome on the night air rang!But with slow footsteps down the turret-stairs,With trembling lips that hardly breathed his name,And sad, averted eyes, his fair wife came—The lady Judith—wan with tears and prayers.Then swift he cried out, less in wrath than fear,“Now, by my beard! is this the way ye keepMy welcome home? Go! wake my sons from sleep,And let their glad tongues break the silence here!”“Not so, my dear lord! Let them rest,” she said.“Young eyes need slumber. But come thou with me.I have a trouble to make known to theeEre I before thee can lift up my head.”Into an inner chamber led she him,And with her own hands brought him meat and wine,A purple robe, and linen pure and fine.He half forgot that her sweet eyes were dim!“Now for thy trouble!” cried he, laughing loud.“Hast torn thy kirtle? Are thy pearls astray?What! Tears? My camels o’er yon desert wayBring treasures that had made Queen Esther proud!”Slowly she spake, nor in his face looked she.“My lord, long years ago a friend of mineLeft with me jewels, costly, rare, and fine,Bidding me guard them carefully till heAgain should call for them. The other dayHe sent his messenger. But I have learnedTo prize them as my own! Have I not earnedA right to keep them? Speak, my lord, I pray!”“Strange sense of honor hath a woman’s heart!”The rabbi answered hotly. “Now, good lack!Where are the jewels? I will send them backEre yet the sun upon his course may start!Show me the jewels!” Up she rose as whiteAs any ghost, and mutely led the wayInto the turret-chamber whence the raySeen from afar had blessed the rabbi’s sight.Then with slow, trembling hands she drew asideThe silken curtain from before the bedWhereon, in snowy calm, their boys lay dead.“There are the jewels, O, my lord!” she cried.
Rabbi Benaiah at the close of day,When the low sun athwart the level sandsShot his long arrows, from far Eastern landsHomeward across the desert bent his way.Behind him trailed the lengthening caravan—The slow, weird camels, with monotonous pace;Before him, lifted in the clear, far space,From east to west the towers of his city ran!Impatiently he scanned the darkening sky;Then girding in hot haste, “What ho!” cried he,“Bring the swift steed Abdallah unto me!As rode his Bedouin master, so will I!”Soon like a bird across the waste he flew,Nor drew his rein till at the massive gateThat guards the citadel’s supremest stateHe paused a moment, slowly entering through.Then down the shadowy, moonlit streets he sped;The city slept; but like a burning star,Where his own turret-chamber rose afar,A clear, strong light its steady radiance shed!Into his court he rode with sudden clang.The startled slaves bowed low, but spake no word;By no quick tumult was the midnight stirred,No shouts of welcome on the night air rang!But with slow footsteps down the turret-stairs,With trembling lips that hardly breathed his name,And sad, averted eyes, his fair wife came—The lady Judith—wan with tears and prayers.Then swift he cried out, less in wrath than fear,“Now, by my beard! is this the way ye keepMy welcome home? Go! wake my sons from sleep,And let their glad tongues break the silence here!”“Not so, my dear lord! Let them rest,” she said.“Young eyes need slumber. But come thou with me.I have a trouble to make known to theeEre I before thee can lift up my head.”Into an inner chamber led she him,And with her own hands brought him meat and wine,A purple robe, and linen pure and fine.He half forgot that her sweet eyes were dim!“Now for thy trouble!” cried he, laughing loud.“Hast torn thy kirtle? Are thy pearls astray?What! Tears? My camels o’er yon desert wayBring treasures that had made Queen Esther proud!”Slowly she spake, nor in his face looked she.“My lord, long years ago a friend of mineLeft with me jewels, costly, rare, and fine,Bidding me guard them carefully till heAgain should call for them. The other dayHe sent his messenger. But I have learnedTo prize them as my own! Have I not earnedA right to keep them? Speak, my lord, I pray!”“Strange sense of honor hath a woman’s heart!”The rabbi answered hotly. “Now, good lack!Where are the jewels? I will send them backEre yet the sun upon his course may start!Show me the jewels!” Up she rose as whiteAs any ghost, and mutely led the wayInto the turret-chamber whence the raySeen from afar had blessed the rabbi’s sight.Then with slow, trembling hands she drew asideThe silken curtain from before the bedWhereon, in snowy calm, their boys lay dead.“There are the jewels, O, my lord!” she cried.
Rabbi Benaiah at the close of day,When the low sun athwart the level sandsShot his long arrows, from far Eastern landsHomeward across the desert bent his way.
Behind him trailed the lengthening caravan—The slow, weird camels, with monotonous pace;Before him, lifted in the clear, far space,From east to west the towers of his city ran!
Impatiently he scanned the darkening sky;Then girding in hot haste, “What ho!” cried he,“Bring the swift steed Abdallah unto me!As rode his Bedouin master, so will I!”
Soon like a bird across the waste he flew,Nor drew his rein till at the massive gateThat guards the citadel’s supremest stateHe paused a moment, slowly entering through.
Then down the shadowy, moonlit streets he sped;The city slept; but like a burning star,Where his own turret-chamber rose afar,A clear, strong light its steady radiance shed!
Into his court he rode with sudden clang.The startled slaves bowed low, but spake no word;By no quick tumult was the midnight stirred,No shouts of welcome on the night air rang!
But with slow footsteps down the turret-stairs,With trembling lips that hardly breathed his name,And sad, averted eyes, his fair wife came—The lady Judith—wan with tears and prayers.
Then swift he cried out, less in wrath than fear,“Now, by my beard! is this the way ye keepMy welcome home? Go! wake my sons from sleep,And let their glad tongues break the silence here!”
“Not so, my dear lord! Let them rest,” she said.“Young eyes need slumber. But come thou with me.I have a trouble to make known to theeEre I before thee can lift up my head.”
Into an inner chamber led she him,And with her own hands brought him meat and wine,A purple robe, and linen pure and fine.He half forgot that her sweet eyes were dim!
“Now for thy trouble!” cried he, laughing loud.“Hast torn thy kirtle? Are thy pearls astray?What! Tears? My camels o’er yon desert wayBring treasures that had made Queen Esther proud!”
Slowly she spake, nor in his face looked she.“My lord, long years ago a friend of mineLeft with me jewels, costly, rare, and fine,Bidding me guard them carefully till he
Again should call for them. The other dayHe sent his messenger. But I have learnedTo prize them as my own! Have I not earnedA right to keep them? Speak, my lord, I pray!”
“Strange sense of honor hath a woman’s heart!”The rabbi answered hotly. “Now, good lack!Where are the jewels? I will send them backEre yet the sun upon his course may start!
Show me the jewels!” Up she rose as whiteAs any ghost, and mutely led the wayInto the turret-chamber whence the raySeen from afar had blessed the rabbi’s sight.
Then with slow, trembling hands she drew asideThe silken curtain from before the bedWhereon, in snowy calm, their boys lay dead.“There are the jewels, O, my lord!” she cried.
Softly fell the twilight;In the glowing westPurple splendors faded;Birds had gone to rest;All the winds were sleeping;One lone whip-poor-willMade the silence deeper,Calling from the hill.Silently, serenely,From his mother’s knee,In the gathering darkness,Still as still could be,A young child watched the shadows;Saw the stars come out;Saw the weird bats flittingStealthily about;Saw across the riverHow the furnace glow,Like a fiery pennant,Wavered to and fro;Saw the tall trees standingBlack against the sky,And the moon’s pale crescentSwinging far and high.Deeper grew the darkness;Darker grew his eyesAs he gazed around him,In a still surprise.Then intently listening,“What is this I hearAll the time, dear mother,Sounding in my ear?”“I hear nothing,” said she,“Earth is hushed and still.”But he hearkened, hearkened,With an eager will,Till at length a quick smileO’er the child-face broke,And a kindling lustreIn his dark eyes woke.“Listen, listen, mother!For I hear the soundOf the wheels, the great wheelsThat move the world around!”Oh, ears earth has dulled not!In your purer sphere,Strains from ours withholdenAre you wise to hear?
Softly fell the twilight;In the glowing westPurple splendors faded;Birds had gone to rest;All the winds were sleeping;One lone whip-poor-willMade the silence deeper,Calling from the hill.Silently, serenely,From his mother’s knee,In the gathering darkness,Still as still could be,A young child watched the shadows;Saw the stars come out;Saw the weird bats flittingStealthily about;Saw across the riverHow the furnace glow,Like a fiery pennant,Wavered to and fro;Saw the tall trees standingBlack against the sky,And the moon’s pale crescentSwinging far and high.Deeper grew the darkness;Darker grew his eyesAs he gazed around him,In a still surprise.Then intently listening,“What is this I hearAll the time, dear mother,Sounding in my ear?”“I hear nothing,” said she,“Earth is hushed and still.”But he hearkened, hearkened,With an eager will,Till at length a quick smileO’er the child-face broke,And a kindling lustreIn his dark eyes woke.“Listen, listen, mother!For I hear the soundOf the wheels, the great wheelsThat move the world around!”Oh, ears earth has dulled not!In your purer sphere,Strains from ours withholdenAre you wise to hear?
Softly fell the twilight;In the glowing westPurple splendors faded;Birds had gone to rest;All the winds were sleeping;One lone whip-poor-willMade the silence deeper,Calling from the hill.
Silently, serenely,From his mother’s knee,In the gathering darkness,Still as still could be,A young child watched the shadows;Saw the stars come out;Saw the weird bats flittingStealthily about;
Saw across the riverHow the furnace glow,Like a fiery pennant,Wavered to and fro;Saw the tall trees standingBlack against the sky,And the moon’s pale crescentSwinging far and high.
Deeper grew the darkness;Darker grew his eyesAs he gazed around him,In a still surprise.Then intently listening,“What is this I hearAll the time, dear mother,Sounding in my ear?”
“I hear nothing,” said she,“Earth is hushed and still.”But he hearkened, hearkened,With an eager will,Till at length a quick smileO’er the child-face broke,And a kindling lustreIn his dark eyes woke.
“Listen, listen, mother!For I hear the soundOf the wheels, the great wheelsThat move the world around!”Oh, ears earth has dulled not!In your purer sphere,Strains from ours withholdenAre you wise to hear?
Wild and dark was the winter nightWhen the emigrant ship went down,But just outside of the harbor bar,In the sight of the startled town.The winds howled, and the sea roared,And never a soul could sleep,Save the little ones on their mothers’ breasts,Too young to watch and weep.No boat could live in the angry surf,No rope could reach the land:There were bold, brave hearts upon the shore,There was many a ready hand—Women who prayed, and men who stroveWhen prayers and work were vain;For the sun rose over the awful voidAnd the silence of the main.All day the watchers paced the sands,All day they scanned the deep,All night the booming minute-gunsEchoed from steep to steep.“Give up thy dead, O cruel sea!”They cried athwart the space;But only an infant’s fragile formEscaped from its stern embrace.Only one little child of allWho with the ship went downThat night when the happy babies sleptSo warm in the sheltered town.Wrapped in the glow of the morning light,It lay on the shifting sand,As fair as a sculptor’s marble dream,With a shell in its dimpled hand.There were none to tell of its race or kin.“God knoweth,” the pastor said,When the wondering children asked of himThe name of the baby dead.And so, when they laid it away at lastIn the church-yard’s hushed repose,They raised a stone at the baby’s head,With the carven words, “God knows.”
Wild and dark was the winter nightWhen the emigrant ship went down,But just outside of the harbor bar,In the sight of the startled town.The winds howled, and the sea roared,And never a soul could sleep,Save the little ones on their mothers’ breasts,Too young to watch and weep.No boat could live in the angry surf,No rope could reach the land:There were bold, brave hearts upon the shore,There was many a ready hand—Women who prayed, and men who stroveWhen prayers and work were vain;For the sun rose over the awful voidAnd the silence of the main.All day the watchers paced the sands,All day they scanned the deep,All night the booming minute-gunsEchoed from steep to steep.“Give up thy dead, O cruel sea!”They cried athwart the space;But only an infant’s fragile formEscaped from its stern embrace.Only one little child of allWho with the ship went downThat night when the happy babies sleptSo warm in the sheltered town.Wrapped in the glow of the morning light,It lay on the shifting sand,As fair as a sculptor’s marble dream,With a shell in its dimpled hand.There were none to tell of its race or kin.“God knoweth,” the pastor said,When the wondering children asked of himThe name of the baby dead.And so, when they laid it away at lastIn the church-yard’s hushed repose,They raised a stone at the baby’s head,With the carven words, “God knows.”
Wild and dark was the winter nightWhen the emigrant ship went down,But just outside of the harbor bar,In the sight of the startled town.The winds howled, and the sea roared,And never a soul could sleep,Save the little ones on their mothers’ breasts,Too young to watch and weep.
No boat could live in the angry surf,No rope could reach the land:There were bold, brave hearts upon the shore,There was many a ready hand—Women who prayed, and men who stroveWhen prayers and work were vain;For the sun rose over the awful voidAnd the silence of the main.
All day the watchers paced the sands,All day they scanned the deep,All night the booming minute-gunsEchoed from steep to steep.“Give up thy dead, O cruel sea!”They cried athwart the space;But only an infant’s fragile formEscaped from its stern embrace.
Only one little child of allWho with the ship went downThat night when the happy babies sleptSo warm in the sheltered town.Wrapped in the glow of the morning light,It lay on the shifting sand,As fair as a sculptor’s marble dream,With a shell in its dimpled hand.
There were none to tell of its race or kin.“God knoweth,” the pastor said,When the wondering children asked of himThe name of the baby dead.And so, when they laid it away at lastIn the church-yard’s hushed repose,They raised a stone at the baby’s head,With the carven words, “God knows.”
Only a glimpse of mountain roadThat followed where a river flowed;Only a glimpse—then on we passedSkirting the forest dim and vast.I closed my eyes. On rushed the trainInto the dark, then out again,Startling the song-birds as it flewThe wild ravines and gorges through.But, heeding not the dangerous wayO’erhung by sheer cliffs, rough and gray,I only saw, as in a dream,The road beside the mountain stream.No smoke curled upward in the air,No meadow-lands stretched broad and fair;But towering peaks rose far and high,Piercing the clear, untroubled sky.Yet down the yellow, winding roadThat followed where the river flowed,I saw a long procession passAs shadows over bending grass.The young, the old, the sad, the gay,Whose feet had worn that narrow way,Since first within the dusky gladeSome Indian lover wooed his maid;Or silent crept from tree to tree—Spirit of stealthy vengeance, he!Or breathless crouched while through the brakeThe wild deer stole his thirst to slake.The barefoot school-boys rushing out,An eager, crowding, roisterous rout;The sturdy lads; the lassies gayAs bobolinks in merry May;The farmer whistling to his teamWhen first the dawn begins to gleam;The loaded wains that one by oneDrag slowly home at set of sun;Young lovers straying hand in handWithin a fair, enchanted land;And many a bride with lingering feet;And many a matron calm and sweet;And many an old man bent with pain;And many a solemn funeral train;And sometimes, red against the sky,An army’s banners waving high!All mysteries of life and deathTo which the spirit answereth,Are thine, O lonely mountain road,That followed where the river flowed!
Only a glimpse of mountain roadThat followed where a river flowed;Only a glimpse—then on we passedSkirting the forest dim and vast.I closed my eyes. On rushed the trainInto the dark, then out again,Startling the song-birds as it flewThe wild ravines and gorges through.But, heeding not the dangerous wayO’erhung by sheer cliffs, rough and gray,I only saw, as in a dream,The road beside the mountain stream.No smoke curled upward in the air,No meadow-lands stretched broad and fair;But towering peaks rose far and high,Piercing the clear, untroubled sky.Yet down the yellow, winding roadThat followed where the river flowed,I saw a long procession passAs shadows over bending grass.The young, the old, the sad, the gay,Whose feet had worn that narrow way,Since first within the dusky gladeSome Indian lover wooed his maid;Or silent crept from tree to tree—Spirit of stealthy vengeance, he!Or breathless crouched while through the brakeThe wild deer stole his thirst to slake.The barefoot school-boys rushing out,An eager, crowding, roisterous rout;The sturdy lads; the lassies gayAs bobolinks in merry May;The farmer whistling to his teamWhen first the dawn begins to gleam;The loaded wains that one by oneDrag slowly home at set of sun;Young lovers straying hand in handWithin a fair, enchanted land;And many a bride with lingering feet;And many a matron calm and sweet;And many an old man bent with pain;And many a solemn funeral train;And sometimes, red against the sky,An army’s banners waving high!All mysteries of life and deathTo which the spirit answereth,Are thine, O lonely mountain road,That followed where the river flowed!
Only a glimpse of mountain roadThat followed where a river flowed;Only a glimpse—then on we passedSkirting the forest dim and vast.
I closed my eyes. On rushed the trainInto the dark, then out again,Startling the song-birds as it flewThe wild ravines and gorges through.
But, heeding not the dangerous wayO’erhung by sheer cliffs, rough and gray,I only saw, as in a dream,The road beside the mountain stream.
No smoke curled upward in the air,No meadow-lands stretched broad and fair;But towering peaks rose far and high,Piercing the clear, untroubled sky.
Yet down the yellow, winding roadThat followed where the river flowed,I saw a long procession passAs shadows over bending grass.
The young, the old, the sad, the gay,Whose feet had worn that narrow way,Since first within the dusky gladeSome Indian lover wooed his maid;
Or silent crept from tree to tree—Spirit of stealthy vengeance, he!Or breathless crouched while through the brakeThe wild deer stole his thirst to slake.
The barefoot school-boys rushing out,An eager, crowding, roisterous rout;The sturdy lads; the lassies gayAs bobolinks in merry May;
The farmer whistling to his teamWhen first the dawn begins to gleam;The loaded wains that one by oneDrag slowly home at set of sun;
Young lovers straying hand in handWithin a fair, enchanted land;And many a bride with lingering feet;And many a matron calm and sweet;
And many an old man bent with pain;And many a solemn funeral train;And sometimes, red against the sky,An army’s banners waving high!
All mysteries of life and deathTo which the spirit answereth,Are thine, O lonely mountain road,That followed where the river flowed!
The church was dim and silentWith the hush before the prayer,Only the solemn tremblingOf the organ stirred the air;Without, the sweet, still sunshine;Within, the holy calmWhere priest and people waitedFor the swelling of the psalm.Slowly the door swung open,And a trembling baby girl,Brown-eyed, with brown hair fallingIn many a wavy curl,With soft cheeks flushing hotly,Shy glances downward thrown,And small hands clasped before her,Stood in the aisle alone.Stood half abashed, half frightened,Unknowing where to go,While like a wind-rocked flower,Her form swayed to and fro,And the changing color flutteredIn the little troubled face,As from side to side she waveredWith a mute, imploring grace.It was but for a moment;What wonder that we smiled,By such a strange, sweet pictureFrom holy thoughts beguiled?Then up rose someone softly:And many an eye grew dim,As through the tender silenceHe bore the child with him.And I—I wondered (losingThe sermon and the prayer)If when sometime I enterThe “many mansions” fair,And stand, abashed and drooping,In the portal’s golden glow,Our God will send an angelTo show me where to go!
The church was dim and silentWith the hush before the prayer,Only the solemn tremblingOf the organ stirred the air;Without, the sweet, still sunshine;Within, the holy calmWhere priest and people waitedFor the swelling of the psalm.Slowly the door swung open,And a trembling baby girl,Brown-eyed, with brown hair fallingIn many a wavy curl,With soft cheeks flushing hotly,Shy glances downward thrown,And small hands clasped before her,Stood in the aisle alone.Stood half abashed, half frightened,Unknowing where to go,While like a wind-rocked flower,Her form swayed to and fro,And the changing color flutteredIn the little troubled face,As from side to side she waveredWith a mute, imploring grace.It was but for a moment;What wonder that we smiled,By such a strange, sweet pictureFrom holy thoughts beguiled?Then up rose someone softly:And many an eye grew dim,As through the tender silenceHe bore the child with him.And I—I wondered (losingThe sermon and the prayer)If when sometime I enterThe “many mansions” fair,And stand, abashed and drooping,In the portal’s golden glow,Our God will send an angelTo show me where to go!
The church was dim and silentWith the hush before the prayer,Only the solemn tremblingOf the organ stirred the air;Without, the sweet, still sunshine;Within, the holy calmWhere priest and people waitedFor the swelling of the psalm.
Slowly the door swung open,And a trembling baby girl,Brown-eyed, with brown hair fallingIn many a wavy curl,With soft cheeks flushing hotly,Shy glances downward thrown,And small hands clasped before her,Stood in the aisle alone.
Stood half abashed, half frightened,Unknowing where to go,While like a wind-rocked flower,Her form swayed to and fro,And the changing color flutteredIn the little troubled face,As from side to side she waveredWith a mute, imploring grace.
It was but for a moment;What wonder that we smiled,By such a strange, sweet pictureFrom holy thoughts beguiled?Then up rose someone softly:And many an eye grew dim,As through the tender silenceHe bore the child with him.
And I—I wondered (losingThe sermon and the prayer)If when sometime I enterThe “many mansions” fair,And stand, abashed and drooping,In the portal’s golden glow,Our God will send an angelTo show me where to go!
You placed this flower in her hand, you say?This pure, pale rose in her hand of clay?Could she but lift her sealèd eyes,They would meet your own with a grieved surprise!She has been your wife for many a year,When clouds hung low and when skies were clear;At your feet she laid her life’s glad spring,And her summer’s glorious blossoming.Her whole heart went with the hand you won;If its warm love waned as the years went on,If it chilled in the grasp of an icy spell,What was the reason? I pray you tell!You cannot? I can; and beside her bierMy soul must speak and your soul must hear.If she was not all that she might have been,Hers was the sorrow, yours the sin.Whose was the fault if she did not growLike a rose in the summer? Do you know?Does a lily grow when its leaves are chilled?Does it bloom when its root is winter-killed?For a little while, when you first were wed,Your love was like sunshine round her shed;Then a something crept between you two,You led where she could not follow you.With a man’s firm tread you went and came;You lived for wealth, for power, for fame;Shut in to her woman’s work and ways,She heard the nation chant your praise.But ah! you had dropped her hand the while;What time had you for a kiss, a smile?You two, with the same roof overhead,Were as far apart as the sundered dead!You, in your manhood’s strength and prime;She, worn and faded before her time.’Tis a common story. This rose, you say,You laid in her pallid hand to-day?When did you give her a flower before?Ah, well!—what matter when all is o’er?Yet stay a moment; you’ll wed again.I mean no reproach; ’tis the way of men.But I pray you think when some fairer faceShines like a star from her wonted place,That love will starve if it is not fed;That true hearts pray for their daily bread.
You placed this flower in her hand, you say?This pure, pale rose in her hand of clay?Could she but lift her sealèd eyes,They would meet your own with a grieved surprise!She has been your wife for many a year,When clouds hung low and when skies were clear;At your feet she laid her life’s glad spring,And her summer’s glorious blossoming.Her whole heart went with the hand you won;If its warm love waned as the years went on,If it chilled in the grasp of an icy spell,What was the reason? I pray you tell!You cannot? I can; and beside her bierMy soul must speak and your soul must hear.If she was not all that she might have been,Hers was the sorrow, yours the sin.Whose was the fault if she did not growLike a rose in the summer? Do you know?Does a lily grow when its leaves are chilled?Does it bloom when its root is winter-killed?For a little while, when you first were wed,Your love was like sunshine round her shed;Then a something crept between you two,You led where she could not follow you.With a man’s firm tread you went and came;You lived for wealth, for power, for fame;Shut in to her woman’s work and ways,She heard the nation chant your praise.But ah! you had dropped her hand the while;What time had you for a kiss, a smile?You two, with the same roof overhead,Were as far apart as the sundered dead!You, in your manhood’s strength and prime;She, worn and faded before her time.’Tis a common story. This rose, you say,You laid in her pallid hand to-day?When did you give her a flower before?Ah, well!—what matter when all is o’er?Yet stay a moment; you’ll wed again.I mean no reproach; ’tis the way of men.But I pray you think when some fairer faceShines like a star from her wonted place,That love will starve if it is not fed;That true hearts pray for their daily bread.
You placed this flower in her hand, you say?This pure, pale rose in her hand of clay?Could she but lift her sealèd eyes,They would meet your own with a grieved surprise!
She has been your wife for many a year,When clouds hung low and when skies were clear;At your feet she laid her life’s glad spring,And her summer’s glorious blossoming.
Her whole heart went with the hand you won;If its warm love waned as the years went on,If it chilled in the grasp of an icy spell,What was the reason? I pray you tell!
You cannot? I can; and beside her bierMy soul must speak and your soul must hear.If she was not all that she might have been,Hers was the sorrow, yours the sin.
Whose was the fault if she did not growLike a rose in the summer? Do you know?Does a lily grow when its leaves are chilled?Does it bloom when its root is winter-killed?
For a little while, when you first were wed,Your love was like sunshine round her shed;Then a something crept between you two,You led where she could not follow you.
With a man’s firm tread you went and came;You lived for wealth, for power, for fame;Shut in to her woman’s work and ways,She heard the nation chant your praise.
But ah! you had dropped her hand the while;What time had you for a kiss, a smile?You two, with the same roof overhead,Were as far apart as the sundered dead!
You, in your manhood’s strength and prime;She, worn and faded before her time.’Tis a common story. This rose, you say,You laid in her pallid hand to-day?
When did you give her a flower before?Ah, well!—what matter when all is o’er?Yet stay a moment; you’ll wed again.I mean no reproach; ’tis the way of men.
But I pray you think when some fairer faceShines like a star from her wonted place,That love will starve if it is not fed;That true hearts pray for their daily bread.
Thou knowest, O my Father! Why should IWeary high heaven with restless prayers and tears?Thou knowest all! My heart’s unuttered cryHath soared beyond the stars and reached Thine ears.Thou knowest—ah, Thou knowest! Then what need,O, loving God, to tell Thee o’er and o’er,And with persistent iteration pleadAs one who crieth at some closèd door?“Tease not!” we mothers to our children say—“Our wiser love will grant whate’er is best.”Shall we, Thy children, run to Thee alway,Begging for this and that in wild unrest?I dare not clamor at the heavenly gate,Lest I should lose the high, sweet strains within;O, Love Divine! I can but stand and waitTill Perfect Wisdom bids me enter in!
Thou knowest, O my Father! Why should IWeary high heaven with restless prayers and tears?Thou knowest all! My heart’s unuttered cryHath soared beyond the stars and reached Thine ears.Thou knowest—ah, Thou knowest! Then what need,O, loving God, to tell Thee o’er and o’er,And with persistent iteration pleadAs one who crieth at some closèd door?“Tease not!” we mothers to our children say—“Our wiser love will grant whate’er is best.”Shall we, Thy children, run to Thee alway,Begging for this and that in wild unrest?I dare not clamor at the heavenly gate,Lest I should lose the high, sweet strains within;O, Love Divine! I can but stand and waitTill Perfect Wisdom bids me enter in!
Thou knowest, O my Father! Why should IWeary high heaven with restless prayers and tears?Thou knowest all! My heart’s unuttered cryHath soared beyond the stars and reached Thine ears.
Thou knowest—ah, Thou knowest! Then what need,O, loving God, to tell Thee o’er and o’er,And with persistent iteration pleadAs one who crieth at some closèd door?
“Tease not!” we mothers to our children say—“Our wiser love will grant whate’er is best.”Shall we, Thy children, run to Thee alway,Begging for this and that in wild unrest?
I dare not clamor at the heavenly gate,Lest I should lose the high, sweet strains within;O, Love Divine! I can but stand and waitTill Perfect Wisdom bids me enter in!
O my roses, lying underneath the snow!Do you still remember summer’s warmth and glow?Do you thrill, remembering how your blushes burnedWhen the Day-god on you ardent glances turned?Great tree, wildly stretching bare arms up to heaven,Do you think how softly, on some warm June even,All your young leaves whispered, all your birds sang low,As with rhythmic motion boughs swayed to and fro?River, lying whitely in a frozen sleep,Know you how your pulses used to throb and leap?How you danced and sparkled on your happy way,In the summer mornings when the world was gay?Dear Earth, dumbly waiting God’s appointed time,Are you faint with longing for the voice sublime?Wrapped in stony silence, does your great heart beat,Listening in the darkness for the coming of His feet?
O my roses, lying underneath the snow!Do you still remember summer’s warmth and glow?Do you thrill, remembering how your blushes burnedWhen the Day-god on you ardent glances turned?Great tree, wildly stretching bare arms up to heaven,Do you think how softly, on some warm June even,All your young leaves whispered, all your birds sang low,As with rhythmic motion boughs swayed to and fro?River, lying whitely in a frozen sleep,Know you how your pulses used to throb and leap?How you danced and sparkled on your happy way,In the summer mornings when the world was gay?Dear Earth, dumbly waiting God’s appointed time,Are you faint with longing for the voice sublime?Wrapped in stony silence, does your great heart beat,Listening in the darkness for the coming of His feet?
O my roses, lying underneath the snow!Do you still remember summer’s warmth and glow?Do you thrill, remembering how your blushes burnedWhen the Day-god on you ardent glances turned?
Great tree, wildly stretching bare arms up to heaven,Do you think how softly, on some warm June even,All your young leaves whispered, all your birds sang low,As with rhythmic motion boughs swayed to and fro?
River, lying whitely in a frozen sleep,Know you how your pulses used to throb and leap?How you danced and sparkled on your happy way,In the summer mornings when the world was gay?
Dear Earth, dumbly waiting God’s appointed time,Are you faint with longing for the voice sublime?Wrapped in stony silence, does your great heart beat,Listening in the darkness for the coming of His feet?
“But a week is so long!” he said,With a toss of his curly head.“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!—Seven whole days! Why, in six you know(You said it yourself—you told me so)The greatGodup in heavenMade all the earth and the seas and skies,The trees and the birds and the butterflies!How can I wait for my seeds to grow!”“But a month is so long!” he said,With a droop of his boyish head.“Hear me count—one, two, three, four—Four whole weeks, and three days more;Thirty-one days, and each will creepAs the shadows crawl over yonder steep.Thirty-one nights, and I shall lieWatching the stars climb up the sky!How can I wait till a month is o’er?”“But a year is so long!” he said,Uplifting his bright young head.“All the seasons must come and goOver the hills with footsteps slow—Autumn and winter, summer and spring;Oh, for a bridge of gold to flingOver the chasm deep and wide,That I might cross to the other side,Where she is waiting—my love, my bride!”“Ten years may be long,” he said,Slow raising his stately head,“But there’s much to win, there is much to lose;A man must labor, a man must choose,And he must be strong to wait!The years may be long, but who would wearThe crown of honor, must do and dare!No time has he to toy with fateWho would climb to manhood’s high estate!”“Ah! life is not long!” he said,Bowing his grand white head.“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!Seven times ten are seventy.Seventy years! as swift their flightAs swallows cleaving the morning light,Or golden gleams at even.Life is short as a summer night—How long, OGod! is eternity?”
“But a week is so long!” he said,With a toss of his curly head.“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!—Seven whole days! Why, in six you know(You said it yourself—you told me so)The greatGodup in heavenMade all the earth and the seas and skies,The trees and the birds and the butterflies!How can I wait for my seeds to grow!”“But a month is so long!” he said,With a droop of his boyish head.“Hear me count—one, two, three, four—Four whole weeks, and three days more;Thirty-one days, and each will creepAs the shadows crawl over yonder steep.Thirty-one nights, and I shall lieWatching the stars climb up the sky!How can I wait till a month is o’er?”“But a year is so long!” he said,Uplifting his bright young head.“All the seasons must come and goOver the hills with footsteps slow—Autumn and winter, summer and spring;Oh, for a bridge of gold to flingOver the chasm deep and wide,That I might cross to the other side,Where she is waiting—my love, my bride!”“Ten years may be long,” he said,Slow raising his stately head,“But there’s much to win, there is much to lose;A man must labor, a man must choose,And he must be strong to wait!The years may be long, but who would wearThe crown of honor, must do and dare!No time has he to toy with fateWho would climb to manhood’s high estate!”“Ah! life is not long!” he said,Bowing his grand white head.“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!Seven times ten are seventy.Seventy years! as swift their flightAs swallows cleaving the morning light,Or golden gleams at even.Life is short as a summer night—How long, OGod! is eternity?”
“But a week is so long!” he said,With a toss of his curly head.“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!—Seven whole days! Why, in six you know(You said it yourself—you told me so)The greatGodup in heavenMade all the earth and the seas and skies,The trees and the birds and the butterflies!How can I wait for my seeds to grow!”
“But a month is so long!” he said,With a droop of his boyish head.“Hear me count—one, two, three, four—Four whole weeks, and three days more;Thirty-one days, and each will creepAs the shadows crawl over yonder steep.Thirty-one nights, and I shall lieWatching the stars climb up the sky!How can I wait till a month is o’er?”
“But a year is so long!” he said,Uplifting his bright young head.“All the seasons must come and goOver the hills with footsteps slow—Autumn and winter, summer and spring;Oh, for a bridge of gold to flingOver the chasm deep and wide,That I might cross to the other side,Where she is waiting—my love, my bride!”
“Ten years may be long,” he said,Slow raising his stately head,“But there’s much to win, there is much to lose;A man must labor, a man must choose,And he must be strong to wait!The years may be long, but who would wearThe crown of honor, must do and dare!No time has he to toy with fateWho would climb to manhood’s high estate!”
“Ah! life is not long!” he said,Bowing his grand white head.“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!Seven times ten are seventy.Seventy years! as swift their flightAs swallows cleaving the morning light,Or golden gleams at even.Life is short as a summer night—How long, OGod! is eternity?”
’Tis the old unanswered question! Since the stars together sung,In the glory of the morning, when the earth was fair and young,Man hath asked it o’er and over, of the heavens so far and high,And from out the mystic silence never voice hath made reply!Yet again to-night I ask it, though I know, O friend of mine,There will come, to all my asking, never answering voice of thine.Ah! how many times the grasses have grown green above thy grave,And how many times above it have we heard the cold winds rave!Thou hast solved the eternal problem that the ages hold in fee;Thou dost know what we but dream of; where we marvel, thou dost see.What is truth, and what is fable; what the prophets saw who trodIn their rapt, ecstatic visions up the holy mount of God!Not of these high themes I question—but, O friend, I fain would knowHow beyond the silent river all the long years come and go!Where they are, our well-belovèd, who have vanished from our sight,As the stars fade out of heaven at the dawning of the light;How they live and how they love there, in the “somewhere” of our dreams;In the “city lying four-square” by the everlasting streams!Oh, the mystery of being! Which is better, life or death?Thou hast tried them both, O comrade, yet thy voice ne’er answereth!Hast thou grown as grow the angels? Doth thy spirit still aspireAs the flame that soareth upward, mounting higher still, and higher?In the flush of early manhood all thy earthly days were done;Short thy struggle and endeavor ere the peace of heaven was won.But for us who stayed behind thee—oh! our hands are worn with toil,And upon our souls, it may be, are the stains of earthly moil.Hast thou kept the lofty beauty and the glory of thy youth?Dost thou see our temples whitening, smiling softly in thy ruth?But for us who bear the burdens that you dropped so long ago,All the cares you have forgotten, and the pains you missed, we know.Yet—the question still remaineth! Which is better, death or life?The not doing, or the doing? Joy of calm, or joy of strife?Which is better—to be saved from temptation and from sin,Or to wrestle with the dragon and the glorious fight to win?Ah! we know not, but God knoweth! All resolves itself to this—That He gave to us the warfare, and to thee the heavenly bliss.It was best for thee to go hence in the morning of the day;Till the evening shadows lengthen it is best for us to stay!
’Tis the old unanswered question! Since the stars together sung,In the glory of the morning, when the earth was fair and young,Man hath asked it o’er and over, of the heavens so far and high,And from out the mystic silence never voice hath made reply!Yet again to-night I ask it, though I know, O friend of mine,There will come, to all my asking, never answering voice of thine.Ah! how many times the grasses have grown green above thy grave,And how many times above it have we heard the cold winds rave!Thou hast solved the eternal problem that the ages hold in fee;Thou dost know what we but dream of; where we marvel, thou dost see.What is truth, and what is fable; what the prophets saw who trodIn their rapt, ecstatic visions up the holy mount of God!Not of these high themes I question—but, O friend, I fain would knowHow beyond the silent river all the long years come and go!Where they are, our well-belovèd, who have vanished from our sight,As the stars fade out of heaven at the dawning of the light;How they live and how they love there, in the “somewhere” of our dreams;In the “city lying four-square” by the everlasting streams!Oh, the mystery of being! Which is better, life or death?Thou hast tried them both, O comrade, yet thy voice ne’er answereth!Hast thou grown as grow the angels? Doth thy spirit still aspireAs the flame that soareth upward, mounting higher still, and higher?In the flush of early manhood all thy earthly days were done;Short thy struggle and endeavor ere the peace of heaven was won.But for us who stayed behind thee—oh! our hands are worn with toil,And upon our souls, it may be, are the stains of earthly moil.Hast thou kept the lofty beauty and the glory of thy youth?Dost thou see our temples whitening, smiling softly in thy ruth?But for us who bear the burdens that you dropped so long ago,All the cares you have forgotten, and the pains you missed, we know.Yet—the question still remaineth! Which is better, death or life?The not doing, or the doing? Joy of calm, or joy of strife?Which is better—to be saved from temptation and from sin,Or to wrestle with the dragon and the glorious fight to win?Ah! we know not, but God knoweth! All resolves itself to this—That He gave to us the warfare, and to thee the heavenly bliss.It was best for thee to go hence in the morning of the day;Till the evening shadows lengthen it is best for us to stay!
’Tis the old unanswered question! Since the stars together sung,In the glory of the morning, when the earth was fair and young,
Man hath asked it o’er and over, of the heavens so far and high,And from out the mystic silence never voice hath made reply!
Yet again to-night I ask it, though I know, O friend of mine,There will come, to all my asking, never answering voice of thine.
Ah! how many times the grasses have grown green above thy grave,And how many times above it have we heard the cold winds rave!
Thou hast solved the eternal problem that the ages hold in fee;Thou dost know what we but dream of; where we marvel, thou dost see.
What is truth, and what is fable; what the prophets saw who trodIn their rapt, ecstatic visions up the holy mount of God!
Not of these high themes I question—but, O friend, I fain would knowHow beyond the silent river all the long years come and go!
Where they are, our well-belovèd, who have vanished from our sight,As the stars fade out of heaven at the dawning of the light;
How they live and how they love there, in the “somewhere” of our dreams;In the “city lying four-square” by the everlasting streams!
Oh, the mystery of being! Which is better, life or death?Thou hast tried them both, O comrade, yet thy voice ne’er answereth!
Hast thou grown as grow the angels? Doth thy spirit still aspireAs the flame that soareth upward, mounting higher still, and higher?
In the flush of early manhood all thy earthly days were done;Short thy struggle and endeavor ere the peace of heaven was won.
But for us who stayed behind thee—oh! our hands are worn with toil,And upon our souls, it may be, are the stains of earthly moil.
Hast thou kept the lofty beauty and the glory of thy youth?Dost thou see our temples whitening, smiling softly in thy ruth?
But for us who bear the burdens that you dropped so long ago,All the cares you have forgotten, and the pains you missed, we know.
Yet—the question still remaineth! Which is better, death or life?The not doing, or the doing? Joy of calm, or joy of strife?
Which is better—to be saved from temptation and from sin,Or to wrestle with the dragon and the glorious fight to win?
Ah! we know not, but God knoweth! All resolves itself to this—That He gave to us the warfare, and to thee the heavenly bliss.
It was best for thee to go hence in the morning of the day;Till the evening shadows lengthen it is best for us to stay!
I would be quiet, Lord,Nor tease, nor fret;Not one small need of mineWilt Thou forget.I am not wise to knowWhat most I need;I dare not cry too loudLest Thou shouldst heed:Lest Thou at length shouldst say,“Child, have thy will;As thou hast chosen, lo!Thy cup I fill!”What I most crave, perchanceThou wilt withhold,As we from hands unmeetKeep pearls, or gold;As we, when childish handsWould play with fire,Withhold the burning goalOf their desire.Yet choose Thou for me—ThouWho knowest best;This one short prayer of mineHolds all the rest!
I would be quiet, Lord,Nor tease, nor fret;Not one small need of mineWilt Thou forget.I am not wise to knowWhat most I need;I dare not cry too loudLest Thou shouldst heed:Lest Thou at length shouldst say,“Child, have thy will;As thou hast chosen, lo!Thy cup I fill!”What I most crave, perchanceThou wilt withhold,As we from hands unmeetKeep pearls, or gold;As we, when childish handsWould play with fire,Withhold the burning goalOf their desire.Yet choose Thou for me—ThouWho knowest best;This one short prayer of mineHolds all the rest!
I would be quiet, Lord,Nor tease, nor fret;Not one small need of mineWilt Thou forget.
I am not wise to knowWhat most I need;I dare not cry too loudLest Thou shouldst heed:
Lest Thou at length shouldst say,“Child, have thy will;As thou hast chosen, lo!Thy cup I fill!”
What I most crave, perchanceThou wilt withhold,As we from hands unmeetKeep pearls, or gold;
As we, when childish handsWould play with fire,Withhold the burning goalOf their desire.
Yet choose Thou for me—ThouWho knowest best;This one short prayer of mineHolds all the rest!
Only a week ago and thou wert here!I touched thy hand, I saw thy dear, dark eyes,I kissed thy tender lips, I felt thee near,I spake, and listened to thy low replies.To-day what leagues between us! Hill and vale,The rolling prairies and the mighty seas;Gray forest reaches where the wild winds wail,And mountain crests uplifted to the breeze!So far thou art, who wert of late so near!The stars we watched have changed not in the skies;Still do thy hyacinth bells their beauty wear,Yet half a continent between us lies!But swift as thought along the “singing wires”There flies a message like a bright-winged bird—“All’s well! All’s well!” and ne’er from woodland choirsBy gladder music hath the air been stirred!But thou, O thou, who but a week agoPassed calmly out beyond our yearning gaze,As some grand ship, all solemnly and slow,Sails out of sight beyond the gathering haze—Oh, where artthou? In what far distant realm,What star in yon resplendent fields of light,On what fair isle that no rude seas may whelm,Dost thou, O brother, find thy home to-night?Or art thou near us? There are those who sayThat but a breath divides our world from thine;A little cloud that may be blown away—A gossamer veil than spider’s web more fine.Dost thou, a shadowy presence, linger nearThe happy paths that thou wert wont to tread,Where woods were still, and shining brooks ran clear,And waving boughs arched greenly overhead?Oh! be thou far or near, it is the same!From thee there floats no message thro’ the air;No glad “All’s well” comes to us in thy nameThat we the joy of thy new life may share!
Only a week ago and thou wert here!I touched thy hand, I saw thy dear, dark eyes,I kissed thy tender lips, I felt thee near,I spake, and listened to thy low replies.To-day what leagues between us! Hill and vale,The rolling prairies and the mighty seas;Gray forest reaches where the wild winds wail,And mountain crests uplifted to the breeze!So far thou art, who wert of late so near!The stars we watched have changed not in the skies;Still do thy hyacinth bells their beauty wear,Yet half a continent between us lies!But swift as thought along the “singing wires”There flies a message like a bright-winged bird—“All’s well! All’s well!” and ne’er from woodland choirsBy gladder music hath the air been stirred!But thou, O thou, who but a week agoPassed calmly out beyond our yearning gaze,As some grand ship, all solemnly and slow,Sails out of sight beyond the gathering haze—Oh, where artthou? In what far distant realm,What star in yon resplendent fields of light,On what fair isle that no rude seas may whelm,Dost thou, O brother, find thy home to-night?Or art thou near us? There are those who sayThat but a breath divides our world from thine;A little cloud that may be blown away—A gossamer veil than spider’s web more fine.Dost thou, a shadowy presence, linger nearThe happy paths that thou wert wont to tread,Where woods were still, and shining brooks ran clear,And waving boughs arched greenly overhead?Oh! be thou far or near, it is the same!From thee there floats no message thro’ the air;No glad “All’s well” comes to us in thy nameThat we the joy of thy new life may share!
Only a week ago and thou wert here!I touched thy hand, I saw thy dear, dark eyes,I kissed thy tender lips, I felt thee near,I spake, and listened to thy low replies.
To-day what leagues between us! Hill and vale,The rolling prairies and the mighty seas;Gray forest reaches where the wild winds wail,And mountain crests uplifted to the breeze!
So far thou art, who wert of late so near!The stars we watched have changed not in the skies;Still do thy hyacinth bells their beauty wear,Yet half a continent between us lies!
But swift as thought along the “singing wires”There flies a message like a bright-winged bird—“All’s well! All’s well!” and ne’er from woodland choirsBy gladder music hath the air been stirred!
But thou, O thou, who but a week agoPassed calmly out beyond our yearning gaze,As some grand ship, all solemnly and slow,Sails out of sight beyond the gathering haze—
Oh, where artthou? In what far distant realm,What star in yon resplendent fields of light,On what fair isle that no rude seas may whelm,Dost thou, O brother, find thy home to-night?
Or art thou near us? There are those who sayThat but a breath divides our world from thine;A little cloud that may be blown away—A gossamer veil than spider’s web more fine.
Dost thou, a shadowy presence, linger nearThe happy paths that thou wert wont to tread,Where woods were still, and shining brooks ran clear,And waving boughs arched greenly overhead?
Oh! be thou far or near, it is the same!From thee there floats no message thro’ the air;No glad “All’s well” comes to us in thy nameThat we the joy of thy new life may share!
My birthday!—“How many years ago?Twenty or thirty?” Don’t ask me!“Forty or fifty?”—How can I tell?I do not remember my birth, you see!It is hearsay evidence—nothing more!Once on a time, the legends say,A girl was born—and that girl was I.How can I vouch for the truth, I pray?I know I am here, but when I cameLet some one wiser than I am tell!Did this sweet flower you plucked for meKnow when its bud began to swell?How old am I? You ought to knowWithout any telling of mine, my dear!For when I came to this happy earthWere you not waiting for me here?A dark-eyed boy on the northern hills,Chasing the hours with flying feet,Did you not know your wife was born,By a subtile prescience, faint yet sweet?Did never a breath from the south-land come,With sunshine laden and rare perfume,To lift your hair with a soft caress,And waken your heart to richer bloom?Not one? O mystery strange as life!To think that we who are now so dearWere once in our dreams so far apart,Nor cared if the other were far or near!But—how old am I? You must tell.Just as old as I seem to you!Nor shall I a day older beWhile life remaineth and love is true!
My birthday!—“How many years ago?Twenty or thirty?” Don’t ask me!“Forty or fifty?”—How can I tell?I do not remember my birth, you see!It is hearsay evidence—nothing more!Once on a time, the legends say,A girl was born—and that girl was I.How can I vouch for the truth, I pray?I know I am here, but when I cameLet some one wiser than I am tell!Did this sweet flower you plucked for meKnow when its bud began to swell?How old am I? You ought to knowWithout any telling of mine, my dear!For when I came to this happy earthWere you not waiting for me here?A dark-eyed boy on the northern hills,Chasing the hours with flying feet,Did you not know your wife was born,By a subtile prescience, faint yet sweet?Did never a breath from the south-land come,With sunshine laden and rare perfume,To lift your hair with a soft caress,And waken your heart to richer bloom?Not one? O mystery strange as life!To think that we who are now so dearWere once in our dreams so far apart,Nor cared if the other were far or near!But—how old am I? You must tell.Just as old as I seem to you!Nor shall I a day older beWhile life remaineth and love is true!
My birthday!—“How many years ago?Twenty or thirty?” Don’t ask me!“Forty or fifty?”—How can I tell?I do not remember my birth, you see!
It is hearsay evidence—nothing more!Once on a time, the legends say,A girl was born—and that girl was I.How can I vouch for the truth, I pray?
I know I am here, but when I cameLet some one wiser than I am tell!Did this sweet flower you plucked for meKnow when its bud began to swell?
How old am I? You ought to knowWithout any telling of mine, my dear!For when I came to this happy earthWere you not waiting for me here?
A dark-eyed boy on the northern hills,Chasing the hours with flying feet,Did you not know your wife was born,By a subtile prescience, faint yet sweet?
Did never a breath from the south-land come,With sunshine laden and rare perfume,To lift your hair with a soft caress,And waken your heart to richer bloom?
Not one? O mystery strange as life!To think that we who are now so dearWere once in our dreams so far apart,Nor cared if the other were far or near!
But—how old am I? You must tell.Just as old as I seem to you!Nor shall I a day older beWhile life remaineth and love is true!
O Rose, my red, red Rose,Where has thy beauty fled?Low in the west is a sea of fire,But the great white moon soars high and higher,As my garden walks I tread.Thy white rose-sisters gleamLike stars in the darkening sky;They bend their brows with a sudden thrillTo the kiss of the night-dews soft and still,When the warm south wind floats by.And the stately lilies standFair in the silvery light,Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer;Their pure breath sanctifies the air,As its fragrance fills the night.But O, my red, red Rose!My Rose with the crimson lips!So bright thou wert in the sunny morn,Yet now thou art hiding all forlorn,And thy soul is in drear eclipse!Dost thou mourn thy lover dead—Thy lover, the lordly Sun?Didst thou see him sink in the glowing westWith pomp of banners above his rest?He shall rise again, sweet one!He shall rise with his eye of fire—And thy passionate heart shall beat,And thy radiant blushes burn again,With the joy of rapture after painAt the coming of his feet!
O Rose, my red, red Rose,Where has thy beauty fled?Low in the west is a sea of fire,But the great white moon soars high and higher,As my garden walks I tread.Thy white rose-sisters gleamLike stars in the darkening sky;They bend their brows with a sudden thrillTo the kiss of the night-dews soft and still,When the warm south wind floats by.And the stately lilies standFair in the silvery light,Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer;Their pure breath sanctifies the air,As its fragrance fills the night.But O, my red, red Rose!My Rose with the crimson lips!So bright thou wert in the sunny morn,Yet now thou art hiding all forlorn,And thy soul is in drear eclipse!Dost thou mourn thy lover dead—Thy lover, the lordly Sun?Didst thou see him sink in the glowing westWith pomp of banners above his rest?He shall rise again, sweet one!He shall rise with his eye of fire—And thy passionate heart shall beat,And thy radiant blushes burn again,With the joy of rapture after painAt the coming of his feet!
O Rose, my red, red Rose,Where has thy beauty fled?Low in the west is a sea of fire,But the great white moon soars high and higher,As my garden walks I tread.
Thy white rose-sisters gleamLike stars in the darkening sky;They bend their brows with a sudden thrillTo the kiss of the night-dews soft and still,When the warm south wind floats by.
And the stately lilies standFair in the silvery light,Like saintly vestals, pale in prayer;Their pure breath sanctifies the air,As its fragrance fills the night.
But O, my red, red Rose!My Rose with the crimson lips!So bright thou wert in the sunny morn,Yet now thou art hiding all forlorn,And thy soul is in drear eclipse!
Dost thou mourn thy lover dead—Thy lover, the lordly Sun?Didst thou see him sink in the glowing westWith pomp of banners above his rest?He shall rise again, sweet one!
He shall rise with his eye of fire—And thy passionate heart shall beat,And thy radiant blushes burn again,With the joy of rapture after painAt the coming of his feet!