LOVE'S GUERDON.

How do I love thee?Oh, who knowsHow the blush of the roseCan its secret disclose?Oh, who knows?Why do I love thee?Ah, who caresSound a passion he sharesWith the angels? Who dares,Yes, who dares?

How do I love thee?Oh, who knowsHow the blush of the roseCan its secret disclose?Oh, who knows?

Why do I love thee?Ah, who caresSound a passion he sharesWith the angels? Who dares,Yes, who dares?

Thine eyes are stars to hold meTo love's pure rapturous height.Thy thoughts are pearls to lead meTo truth beyond earth's sight.Thy love is life to keep meForever in God's light.

Thy birthday, dear?Oh, would I had the poet's artBy which I could my wish impartFor thy new year;But e'en a poet's pen of goldWould fail my wish to thee unfoldIn earthly sphere.Thy birthday, dear?Oh, would I had the painter's skillProphetic visions to fulfillFor thy new year;But e'en a painter's rarest brushWould but my holy visions crush,Or fail to cheer.Thy birthday, dear?Oh, would I had sweet music's aidTo vitalize the prayers I've madeFor thy new year;Alas! not even music's bestCould put in form my soul's behestFor thee, my dear.That only will expression findIn purest depths of thine own mindThis coming year;As, guided by the inner light,There'll come to thee the new-born sightOf ravished seer.But in this sight thou may'st so feelEternal beauty o'er thee steal—God's gift, my dear—That thou can'st find the blessed artBy which to make e'en depths of heartIn form appear.Yet, it may be a heaven's birthdayWill have to dawn for us to sayOur best things, dear.For, as thou know'st, Truth's deepest wellMust e'er reflect, its depths to tellHeaven's atmosphere.

Thy birthday, dear?Oh, would I had the poet's artBy which I could my wish impartFor thy new year;But e'en a poet's pen of goldWould fail my wish to thee unfoldIn earthly sphere.

Thy birthday, dear?Oh, would I had the painter's skillProphetic visions to fulfillFor thy new year;But e'en a painter's rarest brushWould but my holy visions crush,Or fail to cheer.

Thy birthday, dear?Oh, would I had sweet music's aidTo vitalize the prayers I've madeFor thy new year;Alas! not even music's bestCould put in form my soul's behestFor thee, my dear.

That only will expression findIn purest depths of thine own mindThis coming year;As, guided by the inner light,There'll come to thee the new-born sightOf ravished seer.

But in this sight thou may'st so feelEternal beauty o'er thee steal—God's gift, my dear—That thou can'st find the blessed artBy which to make e'en depths of heartIn form appear.

Yet, it may be a heaven's birthdayWill have to dawn for us to sayOur best things, dear.For, as thou know'st, Truth's deepest wellMust e'er reflect, its depths to tellHeaven's atmosphere.

The kiss still burns upon my brow,That kiss of long ago,When in the flush of love's first hourHe said he loved me so.Another burns yet deeper still,The kiss of wedded bliss,When soul met soul in rapture sweet—Oh, pure love's burning kiss!The third was laid away with him,A kiss for heaven's day,(O heart abide God's way)—When in the life beyond earth's change,Beyond these mysteries sad and strange,New life will spring from out the old,New thoughts will larger truth unfold,And love have endless sway.

The kiss still burns upon my brow,That kiss of long ago,When in the flush of love's first hourHe said he loved me so.

Another burns yet deeper still,The kiss of wedded bliss,When soul met soul in rapture sweet—Oh, pure love's burning kiss!

The third was laid away with him,A kiss for heaven's day,(O heart abide God's way)—When in the life beyond earth's change,

Beyond these mysteries sad and strange,New life will spring from out the old,New thoughts will larger truth unfold,And love have endless sway.

If I were only sureHe loves me still,As in the realms of beauteous space(Alas! so far from my embrace)He bides God's will,I could be more content to bearThe bitter anguish and despairWhich now me fill.If I were only sureHe waits for meTo join him in the heavenly realm(Oh, how the thought does overwhelm)When body-free,I could the better bear my fate,As day by day I learn to waitIn silent agony.O Father, in my doubtOne thing is sure,That Thou, all love, could ne'er destroy(Death only is in earth's alloy)Such love so pureAs that which blessed our union here,The love which knew no change nor fear—Such must endure.

If I were only sureHe waits for meTo join him in the heavenly realm(Oh, how the thought does overwhelm)When body-free,I could the better bear my fate,As day by day I learn to waitIn silent agony.

O Father, in my doubtOne thing is sure,That Thou, all love, could ne'er destroy(Death only is in earth's alloy)Such love so pureAs that which blessed our union here,The love which knew no change nor fear—Such must endure.

The days are happy here, dear,But happier would they beCould'st thou be near to bless meWith love's sweet ministry;Then all this beauty round meWould on my memory lie,As prayers of sainted mother,Or childhood's lullaby.

The days are happy here, dear,But happier would they beCould'st thou be near to bless meWith love's sweet ministry;

Then all this beauty round meWould on my memory lie,As prayers of sainted mother,Or childhood's lullaby.

Hotel Look-Off, Sugar Hill, N.H.

Oh! ecstasy rareComes down to shareThe heart that with human love trembles;While all on the earthIs crowned with new birthAnd everything heaven resembles.But grief and despairHave latent their shareIn hearts that with human love tremble,Since fires of loveEnkindled aboveIn frail earthen vessels assemble.Still, ecstasy rareComes down to shareThe heart that with human love trembles;While all on the earthIs crowned with new birthAnd everything heaven resembles.

Oh! ecstasy rareComes down to shareThe heart that with human love trembles;While all on the earthIs crowned with new birthAnd everything heaven resembles.

But grief and despairHave latent their shareIn hearts that with human love tremble,Since fires of loveEnkindled aboveIn frail earthen vessels assemble.

Still, ecstasy rareComes down to shareThe heart that with human love trembles;While all on the earthIs crowned with new birthAnd everything heaven resembles.

She picks me June roses.Were ever such roses?Their fragrance would honorThe heavenly halls.She finds me pet pansies.Such wondrous-eyed pansies,And lovely nasturtiumsThat run on the walls.Sweet peas she's now bringing,While all the time singing.And I? Ask the flowersTo tell what befalls.

She picks me June roses.Were ever such roses?Their fragrance would honorThe heavenly halls.

She finds me pet pansies.Such wondrous-eyed pansies,And lovely nasturtiumsThat run on the walls.

Sweet peas she's now bringing,While all the time singing.And I? Ask the flowersTo tell what befalls.

Would I were beautiful!Then you at Beauty's shrine might freely dine,A welcome guestFor joy's bequest.But, dear, if this were so,—If I were Beauty's child, all undefiled,To make you blestIn beauty's quest,You might forget to seeThe soul's pure hidden shrine wherein e'er shineThe things that testLove's true behest.Would I were beautiful,That you might better see the soul in me!That wish is best,Is 't not, dearest?

You might forget to seeThe soul's pure hidden shrine wherein e'er shineThe things that testLove's true behest.Would I were beautiful,That you might better see the soul in me!That wish is best,Is 't not, dearest?

Oh, the prayer of a dear virgin-heart,Breathed forth with true love's gentle art!Is there anything purerOn land or on sea,More laden with blessingFor you or for me?It is sweeter than song ever heard,More precious than love's spoken word.It is fraught with a keen recognitionOf truest soul-need and fruition.Is there anything purerOn land or on sea,More laden with comfortFor you or for me?It is oftentimes born in great pain,With no ray of hope's blessed gain.But as lulled by the angels at midnightEre reaching the infinite daylightIs there anything surer,On land or on sea,To bring the God-FatherTo you or to me?

Oh, the prayer of a dear virgin-heart,Breathed forth with true love's gentle art!Is there anything purerOn land or on sea,More laden with blessingFor you or for me?

It is sweeter than song ever heard,More precious than love's spoken word.It is fraught with a keen recognitionOf truest soul-need and fruition.Is there anything purerOn land or on sea,More laden with comfortFor you or for me?

It is oftentimes born in great pain,With no ray of hope's blessed gain.But as lulled by the angels at midnightEre reaching the infinite daylightIs there anything surer,On land or on sea,To bring the God-FatherTo you or to me?

Through all this summer joy and rest,Though lying on fair Nature's breast,There breathes the longing heart's desire,Would he were here!The thrill of pain kind Nature feels;For all the while there o'er me stealsLike holy chimes in midnight air,"He'll soon be here."And flowers and trees, vales, hills, and birdsMake haste to echo her glad words,"He'll soon be here."

Through all this summer joy and rest,Though lying on fair Nature's breast,There breathes the longing heart's desire,Would he were here!

The thrill of pain kind Nature feels;For all the while there o'er me stealsLike holy chimes in midnight air,"He'll soon be here."

And flowers and trees, vales, hills, and birdsMake haste to echo her glad words,"He'll soon be here."

Sing too, little bird, what my heart sings to-day.Dost thou know?—I'll speak low—"Oh, I do love him so."Hold safe, waving grass, in thy rhythmical flow,What I say,Till the dayWhen as sweet new-mown hayThou can'st bear it to him in the fragrance loved best.Thou dost fear?—Oh, love dear,How I wish thou wert here!But pause, little cloud, thou canst carry it now,I am sure,Sweet and pure,Though the winds do allure;For thou art on the way to the west where he is.But dost know?—Tell him low,"That I do love him so,Oh! I do love him so."

Sing too, little bird, what my heart sings to-day.Dost thou know?—I'll speak low—"Oh, I do love him so."

Hold safe, waving grass, in thy rhythmical flow,What I say,Till the dayWhen as sweet new-mown hay

Thou can'st bear it to him in the fragrance loved best.Thou dost fear?—Oh, love dear,How I wish thou wert here!

But pause, little cloud, thou canst carry it now,I am sure,Sweet and pure,Though the winds do allure;

For thou art on the way to the west where he is.But dost know?—Tell him low,"That I do love him so,Oh! I do love him so."

January 1, 1867.

God's love was once enoughMy heart to satisfy,When in the days of childhood's faithI knew not doubt or sigh.But since I saw Roy's face,And knew his love's sweet cheer,And felt the anguish and despairWhich come from partings here,So hungry have I grownNo love can satisfy,And all my childhood's faith in GodDoth mock me as a lie.But still in these dark hoursI hold one anchor fast:Perhaps this is thewoman'swayTo reach God's love at last.

God's love was once enoughMy heart to satisfy,When in the days of childhood's faithI knew not doubt or sigh.

But since I saw Roy's face,And knew his love's sweet cheer,And felt the anguish and despairWhich come from partings here,

So hungry have I grownNo love can satisfy,And all my childhood's faith in GodDoth mock me as a lie.

But still in these dark hoursI hold one anchor fast:Perhaps this is thewoman'swayTo reach God's love at last.

January 1, 1887.

The deepening years have provedLove's conquest justified.The woman's hungry heart at lastIn God is satisfied.

Has Love come?Ah, too late!Already Death stands o'er meWith hungry eyes that bore me—O cruel fate,That after all life's yearsOf sacrifice and tears,'Tis Death, not Love, that wins.But, stay! This message bear,Ere yet Death's work begins:"In other realms earth's lossesWill change from saddening crossesTo love-crowned joy,Where Death shall have no mission,But Love his sweet fruitionWithout alloy."

'Twas much he asked—a virgin heartUnknown to worldly ways.What could he give? Ah, well he knewHe lacked sweet virtue's praise.The virgin heart was given to himWithout a doubting thought,When, lo! through seeming sacrificeA miracle was wrought;A miracle of love and grace,Revealing woman's power;For, clothed in purity, he roseTo meet the coming hour.

'Twas much he asked—a virgin heartUnknown to worldly ways.What could he give? Ah, well he knewHe lacked sweet virtue's praise.

The virgin heart was given to himWithout a doubting thought,When, lo! through seeming sacrificeA miracle was wrought;

A miracle of love and grace,Revealing woman's power;For, clothed in purity, he roseTo meet the coming hour.

Last night the ocean's moanWas to my earsThe deep sad undertoneOf vanished years,Bearing a burden,A bliss unattained,A strife and a longing,A life sad and pained,To the shores vast and freeOf eternity's sea.But in that undertoneOf restless pain,Came at length a monotoneOf sweet refrain,Bearing a passionLong known to the sea—Told in moments of silenceA sad heart to free—To be borne me some dayIn the ocean's own way.And this rare monotoneOf mysteryWas now that passion-moanOf secrecy,Bearing, "I love her,My moaning ne'er'll ceaseTill she on my breastFindeth love's perfect peace;Till she on my breastFindeth love's perfect rest."Oh, is there tenderer toneFor mortal ear,Than such a monotone,Distinct and clear,Bearing its comfort,Its heavenly peace,Its help for all sorrow,Its heart-pain release,To a soul waiting longFor love's tender, true song?And now the ocean's moanIs to my earsThe dearest undertoneOf all the years,Bearing a memory,A sweet bliss attained,A gratified longing,A life's joys regained,To the shores vast and freeOf eternity's sea.

Last night the ocean's moanWas to my earsThe deep sad undertoneOf vanished years,

Bearing a burden,A bliss unattained,A strife and a longing,A life sad and pained,To the shores vast and freeOf eternity's sea.

But in that undertoneOf restless pain,Came at length a monotoneOf sweet refrain,

Bearing a passionLong known to the sea—Told in moments of silenceA sad heart to free—To be borne me some dayIn the ocean's own way.

And this rare monotoneOf mysteryWas now that passion-moanOf secrecy,

Bearing, "I love her,My moaning ne'er'll ceaseTill she on my breastFindeth love's perfect peace;Till she on my breastFindeth love's perfect rest."

Oh, is there tenderer toneFor mortal ear,Than such a monotone,Distinct and clear,

Bearing its comfort,Its heavenly peace,Its help for all sorrow,Its heart-pain release,To a soul waiting longFor love's tender, true song?

And now the ocean's moanIs to my earsThe dearest undertoneOf all the years,

Bearing a memory,A sweet bliss attained,A gratified longing,A life's joys regained,To the shores vast and freeOf eternity's sea.

Boar's Head, Hampton, N.H.

Love's sweet and tender flowerOf pure, perennial life,Blooms ever fresh in powerO'er all earth's wrong and strife.Pluck not in haste, young man,This flower of wondrous hue,Nor dare to crush, nor fail to scan.Such beauty ever new.Gaze at it long, young girl,And guard its sacred blush;Then shall its treasures old unfurlYour yearning soul to hush.

Love's sweet and tender flowerOf pure, perennial life,Blooms ever fresh in powerO'er all earth's wrong and strife.

Pluck not in haste, young man,This flower of wondrous hue,Nor dare to crush, nor fail to scan.Such beauty ever new.

Gaze at it long, young girl,And guard its sacred blush;Then shall its treasures old unfurlYour yearning soul to hush.

(In Four Scenes.)

SCENE I.

"When he comes, my darling,I shall tell him all:All the secret ecstasy,All the peace and joy,All my heart's sweet fantasy,Free from self's alloy,—All—O blessed powerOf love's sweet hour,When I shall tell him all,Shall tell him all!"

"When he comes, my darling,I shall tell him all:All the secret ecstasy,All the peace and joy,All my heart's sweet fantasy,Free from self's alloy,—All—

O blessed powerOf love's sweet hour,When I shall tell him all,Shall tell him all!"

SCENE II.

"Hark, hark! he's come. I hear his step.O joy, love's hour is here.I knew that he was true and pure,I could not feel love's fear.Oh, no; I could not, dear."

SCENE III.

She gave one look, one piercing look,Drew back her anguished soul,Then murmured low, "O bitter hour!But—God—forgive—the—whole—Forgive—O bitter powerOf love's death-hour,I thought to tell him all,To tell him all."

She gave one look, one piercing look,Drew back her anguished soul,Then murmured low, "O bitter hour!But—God—forgive—the—whole—Forgive—

O bitter powerOf love's death-hour,I thought to tell him all,To tell him all."

SCENE IV.

He gazed upon her lifeless face,He held her lifeless hand.Was this the form he once had loved?He did not understand.Once loved? Yes, that was so.He'd loved since, one or two,And—well, what was a woman for,If not for man to woo?

MORAL.

Alas, for broken hearts and livesOf those who can but trust!Alas, for those who see no lawBut that of selfish must!

"Oh, is not love eternalWhen once the heart be won?Oh, is not love infernalWhen love can be undone?"So sighed a gentle maidenIn light of memory dear,As, sad and heavy-laden,She longed for knowledge clear.But soon the bitter heart-acheGave way to victory's cheer;For, brave, she chose for His sakeThe life which knows no peer;The life of abnegationWhich gives the Christ's own peace,But leaves the sad temptationTo ask for life's release.

"Oh, is not love eternalWhen once the heart be won?Oh, is not love infernalWhen love can be undone?"

So sighed a gentle maidenIn light of memory dear,As, sad and heavy-laden,She longed for knowledge clear.

But soon the bitter heart-acheGave way to victory's cheer;For, brave, she chose for His sakeThe life which knows no peer;

The life of abnegationWhich gives the Christ's own peace,But leaves the sad temptationTo ask for life's release.

"Thy will, not mine, be done!"So breathe I when the day's begun,So breathe I when the day is done.I whisper it in blinding tears,I pause and listen, till appearsThe welcome voice for listening ears;The voice which checks my wayward willAnd makes my longing heart to thrillWith love for those who need me still.But, O, how long must I so pray?When will I learn to calmly say,"Thy will is mine," both night and day?Ah! this can never be on earth,Since he who gladly gave me birthTo everything that was of worthHas gone from out my sense and sight,To what? O ye who still inviteTo heaven's sure realm and faith's own right,Reveal some clue for me to seeWhat life is his, what he's to me.Alas! ye can't. Then what can beMore precious when the day is done,Or when the morning is begun,Than, "Not my will, but Thine, be done."

"Thy will, not mine, be done!"So breathe I when the day's begun,So breathe I when the day is done.

I whisper it in blinding tears,I pause and listen, till appearsThe welcome voice for listening ears;

The voice which checks my wayward willAnd makes my longing heart to thrillWith love for those who need me still.

But, O, how long must I so pray?When will I learn to calmly say,"Thy will is mine," both night and day?

Ah! this can never be on earth,Since he who gladly gave me birthTo everything that was of worth

Has gone from out my sense and sight,To what? O ye who still inviteTo heaven's sure realm and faith's own right,

Reveal some clue for me to seeWhat life is his, what he's to me.Alas! ye can't. Then what can be

More precious when the day is done,Or when the morning is begun,Than, "Not my will, but Thine, be done."

Transformed, redeemed from all that dwarfs or blights,In perfect harmony with beauteous sightsBeyond imagination's highest flightsEre reached by seer,We shall together walk the golden streetsSometime, my dear.But how, you ask, shall we each other know,So changed from what we were while here below,When, caged like birds, we longed and suffered so?Ah, do not fear.Will not the soul, when free, seek like the birdIts own, my dear?It may not be at once or soon, 'tis true.For you may be among the blessed fewWho'll sooner reach the blissful heights—your dueFor pure life here—But sometime, sure as God is love and truth,We'll meet, my dear.Some precious, long-forgotten look or wordBreathed through the softest, sweetest music heard,Or some vibration rare of soul depths stirredBy memory's tear,Will, like a flash of light, reveal our soulsTogether, dear,To live the fuller life we've dreamed of here.

But how, you ask, shall we each other know,So changed from what we were while here below,When, caged like birds, we longed and suffered so?Ah, do not fear.Will not the soul, when free, seek like the birdIts own, my dear?

It may not be at once or soon, 'tis true.For you may be among the blessed fewWho'll sooner reach the blissful heights—your dueFor pure life here—But sometime, sure as God is love and truth,We'll meet, my dear.

Some precious, long-forgotten look or wordBreathed through the softest, sweetest music heard,Or some vibration rare of soul depths stirredBy memory's tear,Will, like a flash of light, reveal our soulsTogether, dear,To live the fuller life we've dreamed of here.

Why weepest thou, O dear one?Do sorrows press?Beneath the weight of sorrowIs love's caress.Why joyest thou, O dear one?Is love thine own?Ah! 'neath love's deep rejoicingIs sorrow's moan.Indeed, all earth's great passions—Is it not so?—Are circled in the shadowOf joy or woe.But why should we bemoan this?Could otherwiseTruth's dazzling light be subjectTo mortal eyes?Could otherwise we enterThe endless light,Beyond the shadowed circleOf mortal sight?

Why weepest thou, O dear one?Do sorrows press?Beneath the weight of sorrowIs love's caress.

Why joyest thou, O dear one?Is love thine own?Ah! 'neath love's deep rejoicingIs sorrow's moan.

Indeed, all earth's great passions—Is it not so?—Are circled in the shadowOf joy or woe.

But why should we bemoan this?Could otherwiseTruth's dazzling light be subjectTo mortal eyes?

Could otherwise we enterThe endless light,Beyond the shadowed circleOf mortal sight?

YOUTH.

I am dancing along. Just to live is a joy,I'm so happy and free.I know not nor care what will tame or destroy,Life now satisfies me.Oh, there's naught like dear youthTo reveal the glad truthThat 'tis pure, healthful joy just to know and to be!

MIDDLE AGE.

I am marching along, full of work and of planTo alleviate wrong.With a heart full of love both to God and to man,And an arm free and strong.Oh, there's naught like mid-lifeTo make sure without strifeThe beauty of progress through action and song.

OLD AGE.

I am living along, sitting down by the way.My work is all done.I have fought the good fight, known the full of each day,And true victory won.Oh, there's naught like old ageTo declare with the sage,Life ending on earth is but heaven begun.

Under the restless surfaceOf ocean's vast domain,The god of perfect quietHolds ever peaceful reign.Under the restless surfaceOf passions strong and wild,The still small voice of conscienceIs heard in accents mild.Under the restless surfaceOf all man's life on earth,The Christ of sacred storyRenews each day his birth.

Under the restless surfaceOf ocean's vast domain,The god of perfect quietHolds ever peaceful reign.

Under the restless surfaceOf passions strong and wild,The still small voice of conscienceIs heard in accents mild.

Under the restless surfaceOf all man's life on earth,The Christ of sacred storyRenews each day his birth.

(Written at Mountain Cottage, on Mount Wachusett, where Louisa M. Alcott spent the last summer of her life.)

Last summer she believed that in and through these beauteous scenesGod's loving self did flow,But now she knows 'tis so.For, having crossed the boundary lines of honest doubt and fear,She sees with spirit-eyeWhat sense could not descry.Her firm belief, thus blossomed into perfect flower of sight,Becomes a restful cheerTo all who linger here,Still asking for the secret of these changing, beauteous scenes,And troubled with the whyOf all earth's sorrowing cry.Her presence here has filled the place with memory of a soulMade beautiful through painEternity to gain.

Last summer she believed that in and through these beauteous scenesGod's loving self did flow,But now she knows 'tis so.

For, having crossed the boundary lines of honest doubt and fear,She sees with spirit-eyeWhat sense could not descry.

Her firm belief, thus blossomed into perfect flower of sight,Becomes a restful cheerTo all who linger here,

Still asking for the secret of these changing, beauteous scenes,And troubled with the whyOf all earth's sorrowing cry.

Her presence here has filled the place with memory of a soulMade beautiful through painEternity to gain.

August, 1888.

TO J. A. C.

As winds the lovely Otter Creek through vales of summer green,Ne'er pausing on its way,Though love its tribute pay,So gently winds my loving thought through memory's changing scenes,To days of long agoWhen thee I first did know.Thy heartfelt sympathy and help were to my fresh young soulWhat these dear Vermont hillsAre to the little rills;A presence near, a faithful strength, life-giving and serene—Oh, hills, be now as muchTo her who feels Time's touch!In different paths, through various ways, we've known the world since then.Together now we restOn Nature's peaceful breast.

As winds the lovely Otter Creek through vales of summer green,Ne'er pausing on its way,Though love its tribute pay,

So gently winds my loving thought through memory's changing scenes,To days of long agoWhen thee I first did know.

Thy heartfelt sympathy and help were to my fresh young soulWhat these dear Vermont hillsAre to the little rills;

A presence near, a faithful strength, life-giving and serene—Oh, hills, be now as muchTo her who feels Time's touch!

In different paths, through various ways, we've known the world since then.Together now we restOn Nature's peaceful breast.

TO M. C.

If knowledge gained in later yearsMay wholly cloud from sightThe glimpse which childhood's eye hath caughtOf heaven's celestial light,Then need we not the atmosphereOf second childhood's daysTo catch another broader glimpseOf heaven's immortal rays?Ah, yes; we even need to seek,Through earth's illusive hour,Immortal childhood's heavenly daysOf sweet, revealing power;For how can otherwise we catchThe deeper glimpses yetOf life eternal, glorious, pure,Where sun hath never set?

If knowledge gained in later yearsMay wholly cloud from sightThe glimpse which childhood's eye hath caughtOf heaven's celestial light,

Then need we not the atmosphereOf second childhood's daysTo catch another broader glimpseOf heaven's immortal rays?

Ah, yes; we even need to seek,Through earth's illusive hour,Immortal childhood's heavenly daysOf sweet, revealing power;

For how can otherwise we catchThe deeper glimpses yetOf life eternal, glorious, pure,Where sun hath never set?

TO B. P. S.

"Why don't I write a story?"Ah, friend, if you could seeThe depths of hidden heart-lifeAlas! so known to me,You'd find the truest storyFlashed out in gleams of light,Before which all pens falterAnd vanish out of sight.And as they vanish from meThey leave the impress clear,That only Heaven's pen could writeSuch stories acted here.So in His book of life,Revealed to all some day,You'll find my story grand and true,Worked out in His own way.

"Why don't I write a story?"Ah, friend, if you could seeThe depths of hidden heart-lifeAlas! so known to me,

You'd find the truest storyFlashed out in gleams of light,Before which all pens falterAnd vanish out of sight.

And as they vanish from meThey leave the impress clear,That only Heaven's pen could writeSuch stories acted here.

So in His book of life,Revealed to all some day,You'll find my story grand and true,Worked out in His own way.

The kingdom of heaven is where?Oh, where?Would that the heart which with pity o'erflows,While deigning love's burdens to share,Could disclose!The kingdom of heaven is what?Oh, what?Would that the Infinite Presence which flowsThrough a life on the earth finely cutMight disclose!The kingdom of heaven is whence?Oh, whence?Ah! let the wind and the breath of the roseTheir secrets of life and of senseDare disclose!Could we then see the better whence spirit arose?Who knows? Oh, who knows?

The kingdom of heaven is where?Oh, where?Would that the heart which with pity o'erflows,While deigning love's burdens to share,Could disclose!

The kingdom of heaven is what?Oh, what?Would that the Infinite Presence which flowsThrough a life on the earth finely cutMight disclose!

The kingdom of heaven is whence?Oh, whence?Ah! let the wind and the breath of the roseTheir secrets of life and of senseDare disclose!Could we then see the better whence spirit arose?Who knows? Oh, who knows?

Back to Index Next