CONVERSION.

I have lived this life as the skeptic lives it;I have said the sweetness was less than the gall;Praising, nor cursing, the Hand that gives it,I have drifted aimlessly through it all.I have scoffed at the tale of a so-called heaven;I have laughed at the thought of a Supreme Friend;I have said that it only to man was givenTo live, to endure; and to die was the end.But I know that a good God reigneth,Generous-hearted and kind and true;Since unto a worm like me he deignethTo send so royal a gift as you.Bright as a star you gleam on my bosom,Sweet as a rose that the wild bee sips;And I know, my own, my beautiful blossom,That none but a God could mould such lips.And I believe, in the fullest measureThat ever a strong man's heart could hold,In all the tales of heavenly pleasureBy poets sung or by prophets told;For in the joy of your shy, sweet kisses,Your pulsing touch and your languid sighI am filled and thrilled with better blissesThan ever were claimed for souls on high.And now I have faith in all the storiesTold of the beauties of unseen lands;Of royal splendors and marvellous gloriesOf the golden city not made with handsFor the silken beauty of falling tresses,Of lips all dewy and cheeks aglow,With—what the mind in a half trance guessesOf the twin perfection of drifts of snow;Of limbs like marble, of thigh and shoulderCarved like a statue in high relief—These, as the eyes and the thoughts grow bolder,Leave no room for an unbelief.So my lady, my queen most royal,My skepticism has passed away;If you are true to me, true and loyal,I will believe till the Judgment-day.

But I know that a good God reigneth,Generous-hearted and kind and true;Since unto a worm like me he deignethTo send so royal a gift as you.Bright as a star you gleam on my bosom,Sweet as a rose that the wild bee sips;And I know, my own, my beautiful blossom,That none but a God could mould such lips.

And I believe, in the fullest measureThat ever a strong man's heart could hold,In all the tales of heavenly pleasureBy poets sung or by prophets told;For in the joy of your shy, sweet kisses,Your pulsing touch and your languid sighI am filled and thrilled with better blissesThan ever were claimed for souls on high.

And now I have faith in all the storiesTold of the beauties of unseen lands;Of royal splendors and marvellous gloriesOf the golden city not made with handsFor the silken beauty of falling tresses,Of lips all dewy and cheeks aglow,With—what the mind in a half trance guessesOf the twin perfection of drifts of snow;

Of limbs like marble, of thigh and shoulderCarved like a statue in high relief—These, as the eyes and the thoughts grow bolder,Leave no room for an unbelief.So my lady, my queen most royal,My skepticism has passed away;If you are true to me, true and loyal,I will believe till the Judgment-day.

She had looked for his coming as warriors come,With the clash of arms and the bugle's call:But he came instead with a stealthy tread,Which she did not hear at all.She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun,As he rode like a prince to claim his bride:In the sweet dim light of the falling nightShe found him at her side.She had dreamed how the gaze of his strange, bold eyeWould wake her heart to a sudden glow:She found in his face the familiar graceOf a friend she used to know.She had dreamed how his coming would stir her soul,As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife:He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm,And a peace which crowned her life.

She had looked for his coming as warriors come,With the clash of arms and the bugle's call:But he came instead with a stealthy tread,Which she did not hear at all.

She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun,As he rode like a prince to claim his bride:In the sweet dim light of the falling nightShe found him at her side.

She had dreamed how the gaze of his strange, bold eyeWould wake her heart to a sudden glow:She found in his face the familiar graceOf a friend she used to know.

She had dreamed how his coming would stir her soul,As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife:He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm,And a peace which crowned her life.

Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays,Old times, old loves, old friendship, and old wine.Why should the old monopolize all praise?Then let the new claim mine.Give me strong new friends when the old prove weakOr fail me in my darkest hour of need;Why perish with the ship that springs a leakOr lean upon a reed?Give me new love, warm, palpitating, sweet,When all the grace and beauty leave the old;When like a rose it withers at my feet,Or like a hearth grows cold.Give me new times, bright with a prosperous cheer,In place of old, tear-blotted, burdened days;I hold a sunlit present far more dear,And worthy of my praise.When the old deeds are threadbare and worn through,And all too narrow for the broadening soul,Give me the fine, firm texture of the new,Fair, beautiful, and whole!

Long have the poets vaunted, in their lays,Old times, old loves, old friendship, and old wine.Why should the old monopolize all praise?Then let the new claim mine.

Give me strong new friends when the old prove weakOr fail me in my darkest hour of need;Why perish with the ship that springs a leakOr lean upon a reed?

Give me new love, warm, palpitating, sweet,When all the grace and beauty leave the old;When like a rose it withers at my feet,Or like a hearth grows cold.

Give me new times, bright with a prosperous cheer,In place of old, tear-blotted, burdened days;I hold a sunlit present far more dear,And worthy of my praise.

When the old deeds are threadbare and worn through,And all too narrow for the broadening soul,Give me the fine, firm texture of the new,Fair, beautiful, and whole!

All perfect things are saddening in effect.The autumn wood robed in its scarlet clothes,The matchless tinting on the royal roseWhose velvet leaf by no least flaw is flecked,Love's supreme moment, when the soul uncheckedSoars high as heaven, and its best rapture knows—These hold a deeper pathos than our woes,Since they leave nothing better to expect.Resistless change, when powerless to improve,Can only mar. The gold will pale to gray;Nothing remains tomorrow as to-day;The lose will not seem quite so fait, and loveMust find its measures of delight made less.Ah, how imperfect is all Perfectness!

Resistless change, when powerless to improve,Can only mar. The gold will pale to gray;Nothing remains tomorrow as to-day;The lose will not seem quite so fait, and loveMust find its measures of delight made less.Ah, how imperfect is all Perfectness!

LOVE AND LIFE

The meadow and the mountain with desireGazed on each other, till a fierce unrestSurged 'neath the meadow's seemingly calm breast,And all the mountain's fissures ran with fire.A mighty river rolled between them there.What could the mountain do but gaze and burn?What could the meadow do but look and yearn,And gem its bosom to conceal despair?Their seething passion agitated space,Till, lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook,The river fled, the meadow leaped and tookThe leaning mountain in a close embrace.

The meadow and the mountain with desireGazed on each other, till a fierce unrestSurged 'neath the meadow's seemingly calm breast,And all the mountain's fissures ran with fire.

A mighty river rolled between them there.What could the mountain do but gaze and burn?What could the meadow do but look and yearn,And gem its bosom to conceal despair?

Their seething passion agitated space,Till, lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook,The river fled, the meadow leaped and tookThe leaning mountain in a close embrace.

Nay, nay, Antonio! nay, thou shalt not blame her,My Gracia, who hath so deserted me.Thou art my friend, but if thou dost defame herI shall not hesitate to challenge thee."Curse and forget her?" So I might another,One not so bounteous-natured or so fair;But she, Antonio, she was like no other—I curse her not, because she was so rare.She was made out of laughter and sweet kisses;Not blood, but sunshine, through her blue veins ranHer soul spilled over with its wealth of blisses;She was too great for loving but a man.None but a god could keep so rare a creature:I blame her not for her inconstancy;When I recall each radiant smile and feature,I wonder she so long was true to me.Call her not false or fickle. I, who love her,Do hold her not unlike the royal sun,That, all unmated, roams the wide world overAnd lights all worlds, but lingers not with one.If she were less a goddess, more a woman,And so had dallied for a time with me,And then had left me, I, who am but human,Would slay her and her newer love, maybe.But since she seeks Apollo, or anotherOf those lost gods (and seeks him all in vain)And has loved me as well as any otherOf her men loves, why, I do not complain.

Nay, nay, Antonio! nay, thou shalt not blame her,My Gracia, who hath so deserted me.Thou art my friend, but if thou dost defame herI shall not hesitate to challenge thee.

"Curse and forget her?" So I might another,One not so bounteous-natured or so fair;But she, Antonio, she was like no other—I curse her not, because she was so rare.

She was made out of laughter and sweet kisses;Not blood, but sunshine, through her blue veins ranHer soul spilled over with its wealth of blisses;She was too great for loving but a man.

None but a god could keep so rare a creature:I blame her not for her inconstancy;When I recall each radiant smile and feature,I wonder she so long was true to me.

Call her not false or fickle. I, who love her,Do hold her not unlike the royal sun,That, all unmated, roams the wide world overAnd lights all worlds, but lingers not with one.

If she were less a goddess, more a woman,And so had dallied for a time with me,And then had left me, I, who am but human,Would slay her and her newer love, maybe.

But since she seeks Apollo, or anotherOf those lost gods (and seeks him all in vain)And has loved me as well as any otherOf her men loves, why, I do not complain.

On the white throat of the' useless passionThat scorched my soul with its burning breathI clutched my fingers in murderous fashion,And gathered them close in a grip of death;For why should I fan, or feed with fuel,A love that showed me but blank despair?So my hold was firm, and my grasp was cruel—I meant to strangle it then and there!I thought it was dead. But with no warning,It rose from its grave last night, and cameAnd stood by my bed till the early morning,And over and over it spoke your name.Its throat was red where my hands had held it;It burned my brow with its scorching breath;And I said, the moment my eyes beheld it,"A love like this can know no death."For just one kiss that your lips have givenIn the lost and beautiful past to meI would gladly barter my hopes of HeavenAnd all the bliss of Eternity.For never a joy are the angels keeping,To lay at my feet in Paradise,Like that of into your strong arms creeping,And looking into your love-lit eyes.I know, in the way that sins are reckoned,This thought is a sin of the deepest dye;But I know, too, if an angel beckoned,Standing close by the Throne on High,And you, adown by the gates infernal,Should open your loving arms and smile,I would turn my back on things supernal,To lie on your breast a little while.To know for an hour you were mine completely—Mine in body and soul, my own—I would bear unending tortures sweetly,With not a murmur and not a moan.A lighter sin or a lesser errorMight change through hope or fear divine;But there is no fear, and hell has no terror,To change or alter a love like mine.

I thought it was dead. But with no warning,It rose from its grave last night, and cameAnd stood by my bed till the early morning,And over and over it spoke your name.Its throat was red where my hands had held it;It burned my brow with its scorching breath;And I said, the moment my eyes beheld it,"A love like this can know no death."

For just one kiss that your lips have givenIn the lost and beautiful past to meI would gladly barter my hopes of HeavenAnd all the bliss of Eternity.For never a joy are the angels keeping,To lay at my feet in Paradise,Like that of into your strong arms creeping,And looking into your love-lit eyes.

I know, in the way that sins are reckoned,This thought is a sin of the deepest dye;But I know, too, if an angel beckoned,Standing close by the Throne on High,And you, adown by the gates infernal,Should open your loving arms and smile,I would turn my back on things supernal,To lie on your breast a little while.

To know for an hour you were mine completely—Mine in body and soul, my own—I would bear unending tortures sweetly,With not a murmur and not a moan.A lighter sin or a lesser errorMight change through hope or fear divine;But there is no fear, and hell has no terror,To change or alter a love like mine.

Dear Love, where the red lilies blossomed and grewThe white snows are falling;And all through the woods where I wandered with youThe loud winds are calling;And the robin that piped to us tune upon tune,Neath the oak, you remember,O'er hill-top and forest has followed the JuneAnd left us December.He has left like a friend who is true in the sunAnd false in the shadows;He has found new delights in the land where he's gone,Greener woodlands and meadows.Let him go! what care we? let the snow shroud the lea,Let it drift on the heather;We can sing through it all: I have you, you have me.And we'll laugh at the weather.The old year may die and a new year be bornThat is bleaker and colder:It cannot dismay us; we dare it, we scorn,For our love makes us bolder.Ah, Robin! sing loud on your far distant lea,You friend in fair weather!But here is a song sung that's fuller of glee,By two warm hearts together.

He has left like a friend who is true in the sunAnd false in the shadows;He has found new delights in the land where he's gone,Greener woodlands and meadows.Let him go! what care we? let the snow shroud the lea,Let it drift on the heather;We can sing through it all: I have you, you have me.And we'll laugh at the weather.

The old year may die and a new year be bornThat is bleaker and colder:It cannot dismay us; we dare it, we scorn,For our love makes us bolder.Ah, Robin! sing loud on your far distant lea,You friend in fair weather!But here is a song sung that's fuller of glee,By two warm hearts together.

If all the year was summer time,And all the aim of lifeWas just to lilt on like a rhyme,Then I would be your wife.If all the days were August days,And crowned with golden weather,How happy then through green-clad waysWe two could stray together!If all the nights were moonlit nights,And we had naught to doBut just to sit and plan delights,Then I would wed with you.If life was all a summer fete,Its soberest pace the "glide,"Then I would choose you for my mate,And keep you at my side.But winter makes full half the year,And labor half of life,And all the laughter and good cheerGive place to wearing strife.Days will grow cold, and moons wax old.And then a heart that's trueIs better far than grace or gold—And so, my love, adieu!I cannot wed with you.

If all the year was summer time,And all the aim of lifeWas just to lilt on like a rhyme,Then I would be your wife.

If all the days were August days,And crowned with golden weather,How happy then through green-clad waysWe two could stray together!

If all the nights were moonlit nights,And we had naught to doBut just to sit and plan delights,Then I would wed with you.

If life was all a summer fete,Its soberest pace the "glide,"Then I would choose you for my mate,And keep you at my side.

But winter makes full half the year,And labor half of life,And all the laughter and good cheerGive place to wearing strife.

Days will grow cold, and moons wax old.And then a heart that's trueIs better far than grace or gold—And so, my love, adieu!I cannot wed with you.

You will forget me. The years are so tender,They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep;This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendorFades from the skies when the sun sinks to sleep;The cloud of forgetfulness, over and overWill banish the last rosy colors away,And the fingers of time will weave garlands to coverThe scar which you think is a life-mark to-day.You will forget me. The one boon you covetNow above all things will soon seem no prize;And the heart, which you hold not in keeping to prove itTrue or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes.The one drop to-day, that you deem only wantingTo fill your life-cup to the brim, soon will seemBut a valueless mite; and the ghost that is hauntingThe aisles of your heart will pass out with the dream.You will forget me; will thank me for sayingThe words which you think are so pointed with pain.Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playingWill change for you soon to a livelier strain.I shall pass from your life—I shall pass out forever,And these hours we have spent will be sunk in the past.Youth buries its dead; grief kills seldom or never,And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.

You will forget me. The one boon you covetNow above all things will soon seem no prize;And the heart, which you hold not in keeping to prove itTrue or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes.The one drop to-day, that you deem only wantingTo fill your life-cup to the brim, soon will seemBut a valueless mite; and the ghost that is hauntingThe aisles of your heart will pass out with the dream.

You will forget me; will thank me for sayingThe words which you think are so pointed with pain.Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playingWill change for you soon to a livelier strain.I shall pass from your life—I shall pass out forever,And these hours we have spent will be sunk in the past.Youth buries its dead; grief kills seldom or never,And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.

Adieu, Romauld! But thou canst not forget me.Although no more I haunt thy dreams at night,Thy hungering heart forever must regret me,And starve for those lost moments of delight.Naught shall avail thy priestly rites and duties,Nor fears of Hell, nor hopes of Heaven beyond:Before the Cross shall rise my fair form's beauties—-The lips, the limbs, the eyes of Clarimonde.Like gall the wine sipped from the sacred chaliceShall taste to one who knew my red mouth's bliss,When Youth and Beauty dwelt in Love's own palace,And life flowed on in one eternal kiss.Through what strange ways I come, dear heart, to reach thee,From viewless lands, by paths no man e'er trod!I braved all fears, all dangers dared, to teach theeA love more mighty than thy love of God.Think not in all His Kingdom to discoverSuch joys, Romauld, as ours, when fierce yet fondI clasped thee—kissed thee—crowned thee my one lover:Thou canst not find another Clarimonde.I knew all arts of love: he who possessed mePossessed all women, and could never tire;A new life dawned for him who once caressed me;Satiety itself I set on fire.Inconstancy I chained: men died to win me;Kings cast by crowns for one hour on my breast:And all the passionate tide of love within meI gave to thee, Romauld. Wert thou not blest?Yet, for the love of God, thy hand hath rivenOur welded souls. But not in prayer well conned,Not in thy dearly-purchased peace of Heaven,Canst thou forget those hours with Clarimonde.

Adieu, Romauld! But thou canst not forget me.Although no more I haunt thy dreams at night,Thy hungering heart forever must regret me,And starve for those lost moments of delight.

Naught shall avail thy priestly rites and duties,Nor fears of Hell, nor hopes of Heaven beyond:Before the Cross shall rise my fair form's beauties—-The lips, the limbs, the eyes of Clarimonde.

Like gall the wine sipped from the sacred chaliceShall taste to one who knew my red mouth's bliss,When Youth and Beauty dwelt in Love's own palace,And life flowed on in one eternal kiss.

Through what strange ways I come, dear heart, to reach thee,From viewless lands, by paths no man e'er trod!I braved all fears, all dangers dared, to teach theeA love more mighty than thy love of God.

Think not in all His Kingdom to discoverSuch joys, Romauld, as ours, when fierce yet fondI clasped thee—kissed thee—crowned thee my one lover:Thou canst not find another Clarimonde.

I knew all arts of love: he who possessed mePossessed all women, and could never tire;A new life dawned for him who once caressed me;Satiety itself I set on fire.

Inconstancy I chained: men died to win me;Kings cast by crowns for one hour on my breast:And all the passionate tide of love within meI gave to thee, Romauld. Wert thou not blest?

Yet, for the love of God, thy hand hath rivenOur welded souls. But not in prayer well conned,Not in thy dearly-purchased peace of Heaven,Canst thou forget those hours with Clarimonde.

We love but once. The great gold orb of lightFrom dawn to even-tide doth cast his ray;But the full splendor of his perfect mightIs reached but once throughout the livelong day.We love but once. The waves, with ceaseless motion,Do day and night plash on the pebbled shore;But the strong tide of the resistless oceanSweeps in but one hour of the twenty-four.We love but once. A score of times, perchance,We may be moved in fancy's fleeting fashion—May treasure up a word, a tone, a glance;But only once we feel the soul's great passion.We love but once. Love walks with death and birth(The saddest, the unkindest of the three);And only once while we sojourn on earthCan that strange trio come to you or me.

We love but once. The great gold orb of lightFrom dawn to even-tide doth cast his ray;But the full splendor of his perfect mightIs reached but once throughout the livelong day.

We love but once. The waves, with ceaseless motion,Do day and night plash on the pebbled shore;But the strong tide of the resistless oceanSweeps in but one hour of the twenty-four.

We love but once. A score of times, perchance,We may be moved in fancy's fleeting fashion—May treasure up a word, a tone, a glance;But only once we feel the soul's great passion.

We love but once. Love walks with death and birth(The saddest, the unkindest of the three);And only once while we sojourn on earthCan that strange trio come to you or me.

There was a fair green garden slopingFrom the south-east side of the mountain-ledge;And the earliest tint of the dawn came gropingDown through its paths, from the day's dim edge.The bluest skies and the reddest rosesArched and varied its velvet sod;And the glad birds sang, as the soul supposesThe angels sing on the hills of God.I wandered there when my veins seemed burstingWith life's rare rapture and keen delight,And yet in my heart was a constant thirstingFor something over the mountain-height.I wanted to stand in the blaze of gloryThat turned to crimson the peaks of snow,And the winds from the west all breathed a storyOf realms and regions I longed to know.I saw on the garden's south side growingThe brightest blossoms that breathe of June;I saw in the east how the sun was glowing,And the gold air shook with a wild bird's tune;I heard the drip of a silver fountain,And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with gleeBut still I looked out over the mountainWhere unnamed wonders awaited me.I came at last to the western gateway,That led to the path I longed to climb;But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway,For close at my side stood gray-beard Time.I paused, with feet that were fain to linger,Hard by that garden's golden gate,But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger;"Pass on," he said, "for the day groes late."And now on the chill giay cliffs I wander,The heights recede which I thought to find,And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder,When I think of the garden I left behind.Should I stand at last on its summit's splendor,I know full well it would not repayFor the fair lost tints of the dawn so tenderThat crept up over the edge o' day.I would go back, but the ways are winding,If ways there are to that land, in sooth,For what man succeeds in ever findingA path to the garden of his lost youth?But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten,That a rose scent dufts from far away,And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen,That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray.

I wandered there when my veins seemed burstingWith life's rare rapture and keen delight,And yet in my heart was a constant thirstingFor something over the mountain-height.I wanted to stand in the blaze of gloryThat turned to crimson the peaks of snow,And the winds from the west all breathed a storyOf realms and regions I longed to know.

I saw on the garden's south side growingThe brightest blossoms that breathe of June;I saw in the east how the sun was glowing,And the gold air shook with a wild bird's tune;I heard the drip of a silver fountain,And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with gleeBut still I looked out over the mountainWhere unnamed wonders awaited me.

I came at last to the western gateway,That led to the path I longed to climb;But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway,For close at my side stood gray-beard Time.I paused, with feet that were fain to linger,Hard by that garden's golden gate,But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger;"Pass on," he said, "for the day groes late."

And now on the chill giay cliffs I wander,The heights recede which I thought to find,And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder,When I think of the garden I left behind.Should I stand at last on its summit's splendor,I know full well it would not repayFor the fair lost tints of the dawn so tenderThat crept up over the edge o' day.

I would go back, but the ways are winding,If ways there are to that land, in sooth,For what man succeeds in ever findingA path to the garden of his lost youth?But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten,That a rose scent dufts from far away,And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen,That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray.

Though critics may bow to art, and I am its own true lover,It is not art, butheart, which wins the wide world over.Though smooth be the heartless prayer, no ear in Heaven will mind it,And the finest phrase falls dead if there is no feeling behind it.Though perfect the player's touch, little, if any, he sways us,Unless we feel his heart throb through the music he plays us.Though the poet may spend his life in skilfully rounding a measure,Unless he writes from a full, warm heart he gives us little pleasure.So it is not the speech which tells, but the impulse which goes with the saying;And it is not the words of the prayer, but the yearning back of the praying.It is not the artist's skill which into our soul comes stealingWith a joy that is almost pain, but it is the player's feeling.And it is not the poet's song, though sweeter than sweet bells chiming,Which thrills us through and through, but the heart which beats under the rhyming.And therefore I say again, though I am art's own true lover,That it is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over.

Though critics may bow to art, and I am its own true lover,It is not art, butheart, which wins the wide world over.

Though smooth be the heartless prayer, no ear in Heaven will mind it,And the finest phrase falls dead if there is no feeling behind it.

Though perfect the player's touch, little, if any, he sways us,Unless we feel his heart throb through the music he plays us.

Though the poet may spend his life in skilfully rounding a measure,Unless he writes from a full, warm heart he gives us little pleasure.

So it is not the speech which tells, but the impulse which goes with the saying;And it is not the words of the prayer, but the yearning back of the praying.

It is not the artist's skill which into our soul comes stealingWith a joy that is almost pain, but it is the player's feeling.

And it is not the poet's song, though sweeter than sweet bells chiming,Which thrills us through and through, but the heart which beats under the rhyming.

And therefore I say again, though I am art's own true lover,That it is not art, but heart, which wins the wide world over.

RECOLLECTIONS

Why do we grudge our sweets so to the livingWho, God knows, find at best too much of gall,And then with generous, open hands kneel, givingUnto the dead our all?Why do we pierce the warm hearts, sin or sorrow,With idle jests, or scorn, or cruel sneers,And when it cannot know, on some to-morrow,Speak of its woe through tears?What do the dead care, for the tender token—The love, the praise, the floral offerings?But palpitating, living hearts are brokenFor want of just these things.

Why do we grudge our sweets so to the livingWho, God knows, find at best too much of gall,And then with generous, open hands kneel, givingUnto the dead our all?

Why do we pierce the warm hearts, sin or sorrow,With idle jests, or scorn, or cruel sneers,And when it cannot know, on some to-morrow,Speak of its woe through tears?

What do the dead care, for the tender token—The love, the praise, the floral offerings?But palpitating, living hearts are brokenFor want of just these things.

Sometimes I feel so passionate a yearningFor spiritual perfection here below,This vigorous frame, with healthful fervor burning,Seems my determined foe,So actively it makes a stern resistance,So cruelly sometimes it wages warAgainst a wholly spiritual existenceWhich I am striving for.It interrupts my soul's intense devotions;Some hope it strangles, of divinest birth,With a swift rush of violent emotionsWhich link me to the earth.It is as if two mortal foes contendedWithin my bosom in a deadly strife,One for the loftier aims for souls intended,One for the earthly life.And yet I know this very war within me,Which brings out all my will-power and control,This very conflict at the last shall win meThe loved and longed-for goal.The very fire which seems sometimes so cruelIs the white light that shows me my own strength.A furnace, fed by the divinest fuel,It may become at length.Ah! when in the immortal ranks enlisted,I sometimes wonder if we shall not findThat not by deeds, but by what we've resisted,Our places are assigned.

Sometimes I feel so passionate a yearningFor spiritual perfection here below,This vigorous frame, with healthful fervor burning,Seems my determined foe,

So actively it makes a stern resistance,So cruelly sometimes it wages warAgainst a wholly spiritual existenceWhich I am striving for.

It interrupts my soul's intense devotions;Some hope it strangles, of divinest birth,With a swift rush of violent emotionsWhich link me to the earth.

It is as if two mortal foes contendedWithin my bosom in a deadly strife,One for the loftier aims for souls intended,One for the earthly life.

And yet I know this very war within me,Which brings out all my will-power and control,This very conflict at the last shall win meThe loved and longed-for goal.

The very fire which seems sometimes so cruelIs the white light that shows me my own strength.A furnace, fed by the divinest fuel,It may become at length.

Ah! when in the immortal ranks enlisted,I sometimes wonder if we shall not findThat not by deeds, but by what we've resisted,Our places are assigned.

If I should die, how kind you all would grow!In that strange hour I would not have one foe.There are no words too beautiful to sayOf one who goes forevermore awayAcross that ebbing tide which has no flow.With what new lustre my good deeds would glow!If faults were mine, no one would call them so,Or speak of me in aught but praise that day,If I should die.Ah, friends! before my listening ear lies low,While I can hear and understand, bestowThat gentle treatment and fond love, I pray,The lustre of whose late though radiant wayWould gild my grave with mocking light, I know,If I should die.

With what new lustre my good deeds would glow!If faults were mine, no one would call them so,Or speak of me in aught but praise that day,If I should die.

Ah, friends! before my listening ear lies low,While I can hear and understand, bestowThat gentle treatment and fond love, I pray,The lustre of whose late though radiant wayWould gild my grave with mocking light, I know,If I should die.

I am troubled to-night with a curious pain;It is not of the flesh, it is not of the brain,Nor yet of a heart that is breaking:But down still deeper, and out of sight—In the place where the soul and the body unite—There lies the scat of the aching.They have been lovers in days gone by;But the soul is fickle, and longs to flyFrom the fettering mesalliance:And she tears at the bonds which are binding her so,And pleads with the body to let her go,But he will not yield compliance.For the body loves, as he loved in the past,When he wedded the soul; and he holds her fast,And swears that he will not loose her;That he will keep her and hide her awayFor ever and ever and for a dayFrom the arms of Death, the seducer.Ah! this is the strife that is wearying me—The strife 'twixt a soul that would be freeAnd a body that will not let her.And I say to my soul, "Be calm, and wait;For I tell ye truly that soon or lateYe surely shall drop each fetter."And I say to the body, "Be kind, I pray;For the soul is not of thy mortal clay,But is formed in spirit fashion."And still through the hours of the solemn nightI can hear my sad soul's plea for flight,And my body's reply of passion.

They have been lovers in days gone by;But the soul is fickle, and longs to flyFrom the fettering mesalliance:And she tears at the bonds which are binding her so,And pleads with the body to let her go,But he will not yield compliance.

For the body loves, as he loved in the past,When he wedded the soul; and he holds her fast,And swears that he will not loose her;That he will keep her and hide her awayFor ever and ever and for a dayFrom the arms of Death, the seducer.

Ah! this is the strife that is wearying me—The strife 'twixt a soul that would be freeAnd a body that will not let her.And I say to my soul, "Be calm, and wait;For I tell ye truly that soon or lateYe surely shall drop each fetter."

And I say to the body, "Be kind, I pray;For the soul is not of thy mortal clay,But is formed in spirit fashion."And still through the hours of the solemn nightI can hear my sad soul's plea for flight,And my body's reply of passion.

DAY DREAMS

I said this morning, as I leaned and threwMy shutters open to the Spring's surprise,"Tell me, O Earth, how is it that in youYear after year the same fresh feelings rise?How do you keep your young exultant glee?No more those sweet emotions come to me."I note through all your fissures how the tideOf healthful life goes leaping as of old;Your royal dawns retain their pomp and pride;Your sunsets lose no atom of their gold.How can this wonder be?" My soul's fine earLeaned, listening, till a small voice answered near:"My days lapse never over into night;My nights encroach not on the rights of dawn.I rush not breathless after some delight;I waste no grief for any pleasure gone.My July noons burn not the entire year.Heart, hearken well!" "Yes, yes; go on; I hear.""I do not strive to make my sunsets' goldPave all the dim and distant realms of space.I do not bid my crimson dawns unfoldTo lend the midnight a fictitious grace.I break no law, for all God's laws are good.Heart, hast thou heard?" "Yes, yes; and understood."

"I note through all your fissures how the tideOf healthful life goes leaping as of old;Your royal dawns retain their pomp and pride;Your sunsets lose no atom of their gold.How can this wonder be?" My soul's fine earLeaned, listening, till a small voice answered near:

"My days lapse never over into night;My nights encroach not on the rights of dawn.I rush not breathless after some delight;I waste no grief for any pleasure gone.My July noons burn not the entire year.Heart, hearken well!" "Yes, yes; go on; I hear."

"I do not strive to make my sunsets' goldPave all the dim and distant realms of space.I do not bid my crimson dawns unfoldTo lend the midnight a fictitious grace.I break no law, for all God's laws are good.Heart, hast thou heard?" "Yes, yes; and understood."

Why do we pity those who weep? The painThat finds a ready outlet in the flowOf salt and bitter tears is blessed woe,And does not need our sympathies. The rainBut fits the shorn field for new yield of grain;While the red, brazen skies, the sun's fierce glow,The dry, hot winds that from the tropics blowDo parch and wither the unsheltered plain.The anguish that through long, remorseless yearsLooks out upon the world with no reliefOf sudden tempests or slow-dripping tears—The still, unuttered, silent, wordless griefThat evermore doth ache, and ache, and ache—This is the sorrow wherewith hearts do break.

Whoever was begotten by pure love,And came desired and welcome into life,Is of immaculate conception. HeWhose heart is full of tenderness and truth,Who loves mankind more than he loves himself,And cannot find room in his heart for hate,May be another Christ. We all may beThe Saviours of the world if we believeIn the Divinity which dwells in usAnd worship it, and nail our grosser selves,Our tempers, greeds, and our unworthy aims,Upon the cross. Who giveth love to all;Pays kindness for unkindness, smiles for frowns;And lends new courage to each fainting heart,And strengthens hope and scatters joy abroad—He, too, is a Redeemer, Son of God.

CAME DESIRED AND WELCOMED INTO LIFE

Let there be many windows to your soul,That all the glory of the universeMay beautify it. Not the narrow paneOf one poor creed can catch the radiant raysThat shine from countless sources. Tear awayThe blinds of superstition; let the lightPour through fair windows broad as Truth itselfAnd high as God.Why should the spirit peerThrough some priest-curtained orifice, and gropeAlong dim corridors of doubt, when allThe splendor from unfathomed seas of spaceMight bathe it with the golden waves of Love?Sweep up the debris of decaying faiths;Sweep down the cobwebs of worn-out beliefs,And throw your soul wide open to the lightOf Reason and of Knowledge. Tune your earTo all the wordless music of the starsAnd to the voice of Nature, and your heartShall turn to truth and goodness as the plantTurns to the sun. A thousand unseen handsReach down to help you to their peace-crowned heights.And all the forces of the firmamentShall fortify your strength. Be not afraidTo thrust aside half-truths and grasp the whole.

Why should the spirit peerThrough some priest-curtained orifice, and gropeAlong dim corridors of doubt, when allThe splendor from unfathomed seas of spaceMight bathe it with the golden waves of Love?Sweep up the debris of decaying faiths;Sweep down the cobwebs of worn-out beliefs,And throw your soul wide open to the lightOf Reason and of Knowledge. Tune your earTo all the wordless music of the starsAnd to the voice of Nature, and your heartShall turn to truth and goodness as the plantTurns to the sun. A thousand unseen handsReach down to help you to their peace-crowned heights.And all the forces of the firmamentShall fortify your strength. Be not afraidTo thrust aside half-truths and grasp the whole.

When first I looked upon the face of PainI shrank repelled, as one shrinks from a foeWho stands with dagger poised, as for a blow.I was in search of Pleasure and of Gain;I turned aside to let him pass: in vain;He looked straight in my eyes and would not go."Shake hands," he said; "our paths are one, and soWe must be comrades on the way, 'tis plain."I felt the firm clasp of his hand on mine;Through all my veins it sent a strengthening glow.I straightway linked my arm in his, and lo!He led me forth to joys almost divine;With God's great truths enriched me in the end:And now I hold him as my dearest friend.

I felt the firm clasp of his hand on mine;Through all my veins it sent a strengthening glow.I straightway linked my arm in his, and lo!He led me forth to joys almost divine;With God's great truths enriched me in the end:And now I hold him as my dearest friend.

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