The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSweet Hours

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSweet HoursThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Sweet HoursAuthor: Carmen SylvaRelease date: March 19, 2015 [eBook #48533]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWEET HOURS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Sweet HoursAuthor: Carmen SylvaRelease date: March 19, 2015 [eBook #48533]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)

Title: Sweet Hours

Author: Carmen Sylva

Release date: March 19, 2015 [eBook #48533]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SWEET HOURS ***

BYCARMEN SYLVA

LONDONR. A. EVERETT & CO.,Ltd.42 ESSEX STREET, W.C.

1904

CONTENTSPAGETO THE MEMORY OF QUEEN VICTORIA1A FRIEND4OUT OF THE DEEP7A CORONATION10DOWN THE STREAM13IN THE RUSHING WIND16UNDER THE SNOW19SOLITUDE21THE GNAT24REST27THE SHADOW32THE GLOWWORM35A DREAM37IN THE DARK40THE SENTINEL43LETHE47A DEBTOR51"VENGEANCE IS MINE," SAITH THE LORD54NIGHT58ROUSED62SADNESS66WHEN JOY IS DEAD68A ROOM71UNREST74

PAGETO THE MEMORY OF QUEEN VICTORIA1A FRIEND4OUT OF THE DEEP7A CORONATION10DOWN THE STREAM13IN THE RUSHING WIND16UNDER THE SNOW19SOLITUDE21THE GNAT24REST27THE SHADOW32THE GLOWWORM35A DREAM37IN THE DARK40THE SENTINEL43LETHE47A DEBTOR51"VENGEANCE IS MINE," SAITH THE LORD54NIGHT58ROUSED62SADNESS66WHEN JOY IS DEAD68A ROOM71UNREST74

TO THE MEMORY OF QUEEN VICTORIAdecorativeTHESE ever wakeful eyes are closed. They sawSuch grief, that they could see no more. The heart—That quick'ning pulse of nations—could not bearAnother throb of pain, and could not hearAnother cry of tortur'd motherhood.Those uncomplaining lips, they sob no moreThe soundless sobs of dark and burning tears,That none have seen; they smile no more, to breatheA mother's comfort into aching hearts.The patriarchal Queen, the monumentOf touching widowhood, of endless love,And childlike purity—she sleeps. This nightIs watchful not. The restless hand, that slaveTo duty, to a mastermind, to wisdomThat fathom'd history and saw beyondThe times, lies still in marble whiteness. LoveSo great, so faithful, unforgetting andUnselfish—must it sleep? Or will that veil,That widow's veil unfold, and spread intoThe dovelike wings, that long were wont to hoverIn anxious care about her world-wide nest,And now will soar and sing, as harpchords sing,Whilst in their upward flight they breast the windOf Destiny. No rest for her, no tomb,Nor ashes! Light eternal! Hymns of joy!No silence now for her, who, ever silent,Above misfortunes' storms and thund'ring billows,Would stand with clear and fearless brow, so calm,That men drew strength from out those dauntless eyes,And quiet from that hotly beating heart,Kept still by stern command and unbent willBeneath those tight shut lips. Not ashes, whereA beacon e'er will burn, a fire, likeThe Altar's Soma, for the strong, the weak,The true, the brave, and for the quailing. No,Not ashes, but a light, that o'er the timesWill shed a gentle ray, and show the haven,When all the world, stormshaken, rudderless, will pray:If but her century would shine again!Oh, Lord! Why hast thou ta'en thy peaceful Queen?

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THESE ever wakeful eyes are closed. They sawSuch grief, that they could see no more. The heart—That quick'ning pulse of nations—could not bearAnother throb of pain, and could not hearAnother cry of tortur'd motherhood.Those uncomplaining lips, they sob no moreThe soundless sobs of dark and burning tears,That none have seen; they smile no more, to breatheA mother's comfort into aching hearts.The patriarchal Queen, the monumentOf touching widowhood, of endless love,And childlike purity—she sleeps. This nightIs watchful not. The restless hand, that slaveTo duty, to a mastermind, to wisdomThat fathom'd history and saw beyondThe times, lies still in marble whiteness. LoveSo great, so faithful, unforgetting andUnselfish—must it sleep? Or will that veil,That widow's veil unfold, and spread intoThe dovelike wings, that long were wont to hoverIn anxious care about her world-wide nest,And now will soar and sing, as harpchords sing,Whilst in their upward flight they breast the windOf Destiny. No rest for her, no tomb,Nor ashes! Light eternal! Hymns of joy!No silence now for her, who, ever silent,Above misfortunes' storms and thund'ring billows,Would stand with clear and fearless brow, so calm,That men drew strength from out those dauntless eyes,And quiet from that hotly beating heart,Kept still by stern command and unbent willBeneath those tight shut lips. Not ashes, whereA beacon e'er will burn, a fire, likeThe Altar's Soma, for the strong, the weak,The true, the brave, and for the quailing. No,Not ashes, but a light, that o'er the timesWill shed a gentle ray, and show the haven,When all the world, stormshaken, rudderless, will pray:If but her century would shine again!Oh, Lord! Why hast thou ta'en thy peaceful Queen?

A FRIENDdecorativeOLD age is gentle as an autumn morn;The harvest over, you will put the ploughInto another, stronger hand, and watchThe sowing you were wont to do.Old ageIs like an alabaster room, with softWhite curtains. All is light, but light so mild,So quiet, that it cannot hurt.The pangsAre hushed, for life is wild no more with strife,Nor breathless uphill work, nor heavy withThe brewing tempests, which have torn awaySo much, that nothing more remains to fear.What once was hope, is gone. You know. You sawThe worst, and not a sigh is left of allThe heavy sighs that tore your heart, and notA tear of all those tears that burnt your cheeks,And ploughed the furrows into them.You seeHow others work again and weep again,And hope and fear. Thy alabaster roomWith marble floor and dainty hangings hasA look so still, that others wonder whyThey feel it churchlike. All thy life is here;Thy life hath built the vault and paved it, andThy hands have woven yonder curtains thatSurround thy seat, a shady sunshine.AgeIs feeble not to thee, as all thy wishesAre silent and demand no effort. AgeIs kind to thee, allows thee all the restThat never came, when life was hard and toilsome.Receive it with a smile and clothe thyselfIn white, in Nature's silver crown, and singA lullaby of promise and of comfort.Tell them that life is precious, after work,And after grief and after all the deaths,And not a loathsome burden of a life.Old age is like a room of alabaster,The curtains silken; thou art priest and Druid!No mystery for thee, but Light from heaven!

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OLD age is gentle as an autumn morn;The harvest over, you will put the ploughInto another, stronger hand, and watchThe sowing you were wont to do.Old ageIs like an alabaster room, with softWhite curtains. All is light, but light so mild,So quiet, that it cannot hurt.The pangsAre hushed, for life is wild no more with strife,Nor breathless uphill work, nor heavy withThe brewing tempests, which have torn awaySo much, that nothing more remains to fear.What once was hope, is gone. You know. You sawThe worst, and not a sigh is left of allThe heavy sighs that tore your heart, and notA tear of all those tears that burnt your cheeks,And ploughed the furrows into them.You seeHow others work again and weep again,And hope and fear. Thy alabaster roomWith marble floor and dainty hangings hasA look so still, that others wonder whyThey feel it churchlike. All thy life is here;Thy life hath built the vault and paved it, andThy hands have woven yonder curtains thatSurround thy seat, a shady sunshine.AgeIs feeble not to thee, as all thy wishesAre silent and demand no effort. AgeIs kind to thee, allows thee all the restThat never came, when life was hard and toilsome.Receive it with a smile and clothe thyselfIn white, in Nature's silver crown, and singA lullaby of promise and of comfort.Tell them that life is precious, after work,And after grief and after all the deaths,And not a loathsome burden of a life.Old age is like a room of alabaster,The curtains silken; thou art priest and Druid!No mystery for thee, but Light from heaven!

OUT OF THE DEEPdecorativeTHY soul grows silent, when its accents areDisturbed, and low thy heart, when dark a burdenHas deeply covered it. Thy soul is proud.When thou hast made it free of wants and wishes,Then art thou rich.Our life is seldom open,For love and fear have shut it. When we layIt open, there is nought to show in it,But wounds and burning pain.Mysterious isThy power, great as it may be, a trialOf thine own will and of the curb uponThyself; mysterious to thyself, the more,The greater it has grown, surrounded asWe are by fear and pain.And when the soulLifts up her voice and speaks, then must she goAgainst the will of people, not her own,The will that is herself, the soul's own might.When heaven asks, we work with joy, a dearBeloved business put into our hands.We dream at first to make it daintily,Like Nature's work, so careful and so rich,And then the dream becomes a wish, then changesTo action, to be called by us our ownFree will. And when we feel alleviatedOf suffering, we call it hope. In eachHard battle of our life, free will is quiteThe same, unbending and undone, and gaveUs never yet a ray of satisfaction,Nor of real joy, the bleeding conqueror.And hope is e'er the same. It dwelleth notIn hearts that are too great for hope, too greatFor wishes, and that fearless never askWhy will is but obedience, power worthless,The greatest strength a reed, and thought an echo.Great hearts are free of either want or wish;They may be proud and richly clothe themselvesIn lofty, burdenless, mysterious Silence.

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THY soul grows silent, when its accents areDisturbed, and low thy heart, when dark a burdenHas deeply covered it. Thy soul is proud.When thou hast made it free of wants and wishes,Then art thou rich.Our life is seldom open,For love and fear have shut it. When we layIt open, there is nought to show in it,But wounds and burning pain.Mysterious isThy power, great as it may be, a trialOf thine own will and of the curb uponThyself; mysterious to thyself, the more,The greater it has grown, surrounded asWe are by fear and pain.And when the soulLifts up her voice and speaks, then must she goAgainst the will of people, not her own,The will that is herself, the soul's own might.When heaven asks, we work with joy, a dearBeloved business put into our hands.We dream at first to make it daintily,Like Nature's work, so careful and so rich,And then the dream becomes a wish, then changesTo action, to be called by us our ownFree will. And when we feel alleviatedOf suffering, we call it hope. In eachHard battle of our life, free will is quiteThe same, unbending and undone, and gaveUs never yet a ray of satisfaction,Nor of real joy, the bleeding conqueror.And hope is e'er the same. It dwelleth notIn hearts that are too great for hope, too greatFor wishes, and that fearless never askWhy will is but obedience, power worthless,The greatest strength a reed, and thought an echo.Great hearts are free of either want or wish;They may be proud and richly clothe themselvesIn lofty, burdenless, mysterious Silence.

A CORONATIONdecorativeWHEN in Bohemia there were kings and queens,The crown was laid upon the head that hadTo bear and to exalt it—on the King's,And then upon the shoulder of the Queen.The shoulder bears the weight, the head the burden;The shoulder lifts, the head must carry. GreatFor both the heaviness, the endless pain,For both the thorns, for both hard labour, thanklessUnending work, the sorrow of their people,The care of each and all, the scorching tearsOf all, that make their path a desert, andTheir robe so heavy, as if dew had changedInto the icy hangings of the frost.The shoulder oftentimes is wounded byThe crown, the head bowed low, the heart so heavy,Much heavier than all that heavy weight,And yet doth woman's frail and bending shoulderResist the load, and still her smiling eyesAnd gentle lips make all the world believeHer shoulder bleedeth not, her toil is easy,The load they put upon her without askingHow great her strength, is like a toy. Oh, smile!Ye heavy-laden Queens! Let not a sighEscape your loving hearts, and no complaintBreak from the lips God made to heal and bless!Oh, smile! The world doth not forgive its slavesFor looking overworked. If thou canst bearNo more, then change the shoulder, tired Queen!

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WHEN in Bohemia there were kings and queens,The crown was laid upon the head that hadTo bear and to exalt it—on the King's,And then upon the shoulder of the Queen.The shoulder bears the weight, the head the burden;The shoulder lifts, the head must carry. GreatFor both the heaviness, the endless pain,For both the thorns, for both hard labour, thanklessUnending work, the sorrow of their people,The care of each and all, the scorching tearsOf all, that make their path a desert, andTheir robe so heavy, as if dew had changedInto the icy hangings of the frost.The shoulder oftentimes is wounded byThe crown, the head bowed low, the heart so heavy,Much heavier than all that heavy weight,And yet doth woman's frail and bending shoulderResist the load, and still her smiling eyesAnd gentle lips make all the world believeHer shoulder bleedeth not, her toil is easy,The load they put upon her without askingHow great her strength, is like a toy. Oh, smile!Ye heavy-laden Queens! Let not a sighEscape your loving hearts, and no complaintBreak from the lips God made to heal and bless!Oh, smile! The world doth not forgive its slavesFor looking overworked. If thou canst bearNo more, then change the shoulder, tired Queen!

DOWN THE STREAMdecorativeFROM whence the brook? From where the waters gatherIn mountains' deep recesses, stone-black lakesAnd dripping crevices. It ripples forthInto the shining day with scarce a voice,And with no strength at all, till mountain showersAnd winter's snow and spring storms pour their floodInto the dancing brook, that foams and startsAnd rushes headlong down the steeps and throwsInto the Unknown all its youth and strength,And thunders into hell, to rise againIn sheets of whiteness into dreamy veils,To kiss the flowers' feet and overflowThe meadows; thence, o'erbridged and caught and fastenedTo wheels, to grind and grind with irksome noise,To lose all liberty, all winsome frolic,And work till doomsday. On and on the streamGoes widening into calm and mighty strength,A hero of a stream, that bears the shipsLike toys, and carries legions.Wider stillHe grows, and stronger, as he drags the watersOf hundred rivers with him to the sea.At last his course is sluggish, tired, slow,A living death, till, blended with the sea,A rising tide will carry him awayInto oblivion. Such is life! A streamFrom unknown heights through storm and dangerous fall,Through unknown land and never-ending workUnto Eternity's great, unknown sea.You cannot rise above the height you come from,You only widen and expand—but downwards,—Your strength is gone, your impetus is quenched.And then the world will call you great and grand,And make a fortune out of all those waters:Your tears, your blood, your work, and what you spent;The strength of all your aims and all your falls!

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FROM whence the brook? From where the waters gatherIn mountains' deep recesses, stone-black lakesAnd dripping crevices. It ripples forthInto the shining day with scarce a voice,And with no strength at all, till mountain showersAnd winter's snow and spring storms pour their floodInto the dancing brook, that foams and startsAnd rushes headlong down the steeps and throwsInto the Unknown all its youth and strength,And thunders into hell, to rise againIn sheets of whiteness into dreamy veils,To kiss the flowers' feet and overflowThe meadows; thence, o'erbridged and caught and fastenedTo wheels, to grind and grind with irksome noise,To lose all liberty, all winsome frolic,And work till doomsday. On and on the streamGoes widening into calm and mighty strength,A hero of a stream, that bears the shipsLike toys, and carries legions.Wider stillHe grows, and stronger, as he drags the watersOf hundred rivers with him to the sea.At last his course is sluggish, tired, slow,A living death, till, blended with the sea,A rising tide will carry him awayInto oblivion. Such is life! A streamFrom unknown heights through storm and dangerous fall,Through unknown land and never-ending workUnto Eternity's great, unknown sea.You cannot rise above the height you come from,You only widen and expand—but downwards,—Your strength is gone, your impetus is quenched.And then the world will call you great and grand,And make a fortune out of all those waters:Your tears, your blood, your work, and what you spent;The strength of all your aims and all your falls!

IN THE RUSHING WINDdecorativeTHE wind hath whirled the leaves from off the tree.The leaves were yellow, they had lived their time,And lie a golden heap or fly away,As if the butterflies had left their wingsBehind, when love's short summertime had gone,And killed them. Lightly doth the leaves' great showerWhirl on and skim the ground, where ancient leavesLie rotten, trampled on, so featureless,That you can hardly tell what formed that mould,That never-ending burial-place of leaves.And then the wind will shake and bend the tree,And twist its branches off, burst it asunder,Uproot the giant and bring low his head,Upheave the granite block round which the rootsHad taken hold for countless centuries.On goes the wind! The corn is green and soft—Earth's wavy fur. It does but ripple lightlyIn childish laughter at the harmless funThat was a death-blow. But the sea awakesAnd frowns and foams and rises into angerSo wild with wrath, and yet so powerless,As if a thousand chains had chained it down,To howl, to suffer, to rebel againstThe heartless merriment of stronger powers.On goes the wind, to shake the rock, to blowInto a flame, the wild incendiary,And never doth he look behind, to see,To feel, to understand the horror heHath worked. The breath—the robe of Destiny—Sweeps on, sweeps past, and never lists that hellAnd heaven have awaked, in shrieking anguish,But blows the clouds away, laughs at the sun,And falls into unconscious, dreamless sleep.

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THE wind hath whirled the leaves from off the tree.The leaves were yellow, they had lived their time,And lie a golden heap or fly away,As if the butterflies had left their wingsBehind, when love's short summertime had gone,And killed them. Lightly doth the leaves' great showerWhirl on and skim the ground, where ancient leavesLie rotten, trampled on, so featureless,That you can hardly tell what formed that mould,That never-ending burial-place of leaves.And then the wind will shake and bend the tree,And twist its branches off, burst it asunder,Uproot the giant and bring low his head,Upheave the granite block round which the rootsHad taken hold for countless centuries.On goes the wind! The corn is green and soft—Earth's wavy fur. It does but ripple lightlyIn childish laughter at the harmless funThat was a death-blow. But the sea awakesAnd frowns and foams and rises into angerSo wild with wrath, and yet so powerless,As if a thousand chains had chained it down,To howl, to suffer, to rebel againstThe heartless merriment of stronger powers.On goes the wind, to shake the rock, to blowInto a flame, the wild incendiary,And never doth he look behind, to see,To feel, to understand the horror heHath worked. The breath—the robe of Destiny—Sweeps on, sweeps past, and never lists that hellAnd heaven have awaked, in shrieking anguish,But blows the clouds away, laughs at the sun,And falls into unconscious, dreamless sleep.

UNDER THE SNOWdecorativeIF green the corn and burning the volcano,Though snowclad, buried under rocks of ice,Why shall the heart not love and burn in wavingExpectant green, or rising flames of hotEnthusiasm, or burst into a torrentOf wrath, though snow the summit long hath crowned?Behold! The field is green, the seed has risenThat thou hast thrown into these aching furrows,Once ploughed by Destiny, and sown with sorrowAnd watered with the wells of tears, that droppedUpon each grain and flowed through all the furrows.They see the snow upon thine head, but notThe corn and not the threat'ning furnace ofThy soul. They think it is extinct, they hopeThou hast forgotten, that the gentle warmthThey feel is sunshine, not the stormy fire,That cannot cease to burn: for it remembers.

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IF green the corn and burning the volcano,Though snowclad, buried under rocks of ice,Why shall the heart not love and burn in wavingExpectant green, or rising flames of hotEnthusiasm, or burst into a torrentOf wrath, though snow the summit long hath crowned?Behold! The field is green, the seed has risenThat thou hast thrown into these aching furrows,Once ploughed by Destiny, and sown with sorrowAnd watered with the wells of tears, that droppedUpon each grain and flowed through all the furrows.They see the snow upon thine head, but notThe corn and not the threat'ning furnace ofThy soul. They think it is extinct, they hopeThou hast forgotten, that the gentle warmthThey feel is sunshine, not the stormy fire,That cannot cease to burn: for it remembers.

SOLITUDEdecorativeTHE greatest friend, the friend that dwells with thee,When the wild turmoil of the world is thrustAside, when e'en thy smile may rest, that shield,That weapon, armour, gauntlet, laid aside,Will leave thy soul to sculpt thy features withHer own deep chisel; when before thyselfThou standest, as before thy judge and master,An outcry goeth forth from thee towardsThyself, then will great solitude enfoldThee, and her wings will hush the tempest.Fear not that angel's gravity, the lookHis searching eye will plunge into thy heart.Fear not the whisp'ring of his lips: Remember!For ev'ry word of thine, each working ofThy soul is booked, indelible the writing,It is encircled in the movement ofThe worlds and has its history. Thy soul,Itself a world, belongs to Solitude. It isSo lonely that no crowd of friends, nor e'enOne friend can take its loneliness away.There is but Solitude that can surroundThy soul with beings and thy heart with sight.It opens wide the floodgates of thy thought,And what the world repressed, hemmed in and stifled,Will rush like living waters through thy brainAnd sweep away the nothingness of things.Great Solitude will let thee listen. Hark!The voices of the Infinite are singing,The thoughts of thousands who have thought before theeCome crowding round thy brain and fill the air,And seek a new expression on thy lips.Thou art in such ennobling company,That Solitude becomes the gorgeous feast,For which thy soul is clothed in white and purple,Thy feet unshod tread on the holy groundWhere God has spoken. Hark! Great SolitudeHath thousand voices and a flood of light,Be not afraid, enter the Sanctuary,Thou wilt be taken by the hand and ledTo Life's own fountain, never-ending Thought!

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THE greatest friend, the friend that dwells with thee,When the wild turmoil of the world is thrustAside, when e'en thy smile may rest, that shield,That weapon, armour, gauntlet, laid aside,Will leave thy soul to sculpt thy features withHer own deep chisel; when before thyselfThou standest, as before thy judge and master,An outcry goeth forth from thee towardsThyself, then will great solitude enfoldThee, and her wings will hush the tempest.Fear not that angel's gravity, the lookHis searching eye will plunge into thy heart.Fear not the whisp'ring of his lips: Remember!For ev'ry word of thine, each working ofThy soul is booked, indelible the writing,It is encircled in the movement ofThe worlds and has its history. Thy soul,Itself a world, belongs to Solitude. It isSo lonely that no crowd of friends, nor e'enOne friend can take its loneliness away.There is but Solitude that can surroundThy soul with beings and thy heart with sight.It opens wide the floodgates of thy thought,And what the world repressed, hemmed in and stifled,Will rush like living waters through thy brainAnd sweep away the nothingness of things.Great Solitude will let thee listen. Hark!The voices of the Infinite are singing,The thoughts of thousands who have thought before theeCome crowding round thy brain and fill the air,And seek a new expression on thy lips.Thou art in such ennobling company,That Solitude becomes the gorgeous feast,For which thy soul is clothed in white and purple,Thy feet unshod tread on the holy groundWhere God has spoken. Hark! Great SolitudeHath thousand voices and a flood of light,Be not afraid, enter the Sanctuary,Thou wilt be taken by the hand and ledTo Life's own fountain, never-ending Thought!

THE GNATdecorativeALONG-LEGGED gnat with airy wings, a dartSharp as a needle and a searching tusk,Was flutt'ring round my lamp, clung to my book-shelf,And wandered over papers. Then I blewOn it, to chase it far away. But no,Beneath the tempest of my breath it clungStill faster to the paper's slender shelterAnd moved not, till I thought my breath had killed it.We watched each other; then it flew away.I thought how Fate and we thus ofttimes watchEach other, till Fate blow us into atoms,And we remain in some weak place, in Death'sSuspense, not knowing if again the stormWill blow. But Fate is careless and will letUs go, if but the wings that are to takeUs hence are still untorn, unsinged, uncrushed;Or else we creep along and die unseen,A wingless worm, not understanding whatThose papers and those shelves contain that areNo revelation, nought but a grave, whilst othersSuck life and food, from where the storm of FateHath torn us, unresisting, meaningless,And watching with an instant's careless glance,If we are really dead, or still may fly.Cheat cruel Fate, keep still like death, move not,Flutter not; then unfold thy wings, and goThy way, the coming morn is full of life,Bury thy head in flowers, in the dew,The sun is rising and thou art alive!

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ALONG-LEGGED gnat with airy wings, a dartSharp as a needle and a searching tusk,Was flutt'ring round my lamp, clung to my book-shelf,And wandered over papers. Then I blewOn it, to chase it far away. But no,Beneath the tempest of my breath it clungStill faster to the paper's slender shelterAnd moved not, till I thought my breath had killed it.We watched each other; then it flew away.I thought how Fate and we thus ofttimes watchEach other, till Fate blow us into atoms,And we remain in some weak place, in Death'sSuspense, not knowing if again the stormWill blow. But Fate is careless and will letUs go, if but the wings that are to takeUs hence are still untorn, unsinged, uncrushed;Or else we creep along and die unseen,A wingless worm, not understanding whatThose papers and those shelves contain that areNo revelation, nought but a grave, whilst othersSuck life and food, from where the storm of FateHath torn us, unresisting, meaningless,And watching with an instant's careless glance,If we are really dead, or still may fly.Cheat cruel Fate, keep still like death, move not,Flutter not; then unfold thy wings, and goThy way, the coming morn is full of life,Bury thy head in flowers, in the dew,The sun is rising and thou art alive!

RESTdecorativeAND did they say that rest was not so sweet,Old age a sadness, no repose at all?Then have they quite forgotten. They rememberNo more the heartbreak of their early youth,The battle fought for life, the angry cloudsThat hid the sun, till he would shine no more,The anguish of their nights, that made their bedA furnace and a rack. They say: 'Twas butA nightmare! And they smile, and yet that smileIs sadder than a frown, much sadder thanA tear, as it is hopeless. For a tearHas a bright spot, wherein the sun may sparkle.That smile is sunless, be it e'er so sweet.And know ye not how wildly ye have calledOn Death, and tried to catch him by the wing,Or let yourself be trodden under footBy him? And wrung your hands in agony,When he had passed you by. Ye dare not tellYour heart what it has suffered, dare not lookInto the past again, for fear of turningTo stone, for whitelipp'd fear of waking fromIts sleep that heart to make it throb again,Like millstones. You remember! Ah! You see!You even try to do away with pity,For fear of being tortured yet again,And shaken yet again, and no more ableTo quiet that unruly heart, that learntTo fear. Oh! Have ye never known what fearCan make of you? The wandering of your clock,That hammers nails into your brain and hands,The coming of the dawn, that cruel dawn,With icy, deathlike eyes and hollow voice,Announcing mercilessly that the dayHath come? And were you not afraid, when nightSet in again, with redhot eyeballs, withThe lonely wringing of your soul betweenHer hands, like linen, that she washed in tears,In blood, in rivers of despair? Oh, see!Here comes with gentle wing and loving eyeSweet Rest, and lays her mantle round your shoulders,And bids you fear no more, but listen toThe birds' first Alleluia to the morn,That dances o'er the dew, up to the dawn,And be it e'er so cold, so lifeless, likeThe last of all the dawn they sang to. FearIs banished, anguish quenched in all the watersThat grief has steeped you in. You know that ne'erAnother day can be so dark again,As Rest forbids the cruel dawn to breakWith threat'ning eyes, as Rest shuts out the night,And leaves thee lonely not, but fills thy sightWith loving faces at the gates of heaven.Sweet Rest is round thee, like an autumn sun,And sheds thy rays upon the striving young ones.Ye long for bed again, like little children;No longer doth the pillow seem on fire,Your couch a bed of coals. The weary headIs cool, the limbs lie still, and thought comes gentlyLike a nurse's well-known ditty, that will lullTo sleep thee with its sameness. Rest hath comeAt last, and looks into thy room, intoThy heart, and sends forgetfulness, like balm,Like a flower's perfume through thy silent chamber.The clock is peaceful with its quiet beat,And night and morn are one; they bring no struggle.Sweet Rest hath come, great, wingèd, heaven-born,To lead thee to thy home with angels' hands.

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AND did they say that rest was not so sweet,Old age a sadness, no repose at all?Then have they quite forgotten. They rememberNo more the heartbreak of their early youth,The battle fought for life, the angry cloudsThat hid the sun, till he would shine no more,The anguish of their nights, that made their bedA furnace and a rack. They say: 'Twas butA nightmare! And they smile, and yet that smileIs sadder than a frown, much sadder thanA tear, as it is hopeless. For a tearHas a bright spot, wherein the sun may sparkle.That smile is sunless, be it e'er so sweet.And know ye not how wildly ye have calledOn Death, and tried to catch him by the wing,Or let yourself be trodden under footBy him? And wrung your hands in agony,When he had passed you by. Ye dare not tellYour heart what it has suffered, dare not lookInto the past again, for fear of turningTo stone, for whitelipp'd fear of waking fromIts sleep that heart to make it throb again,Like millstones. You remember! Ah! You see!You even try to do away with pity,For fear of being tortured yet again,And shaken yet again, and no more ableTo quiet that unruly heart, that learntTo fear. Oh! Have ye never known what fearCan make of you? The wandering of your clock,That hammers nails into your brain and hands,The coming of the dawn, that cruel dawn,With icy, deathlike eyes and hollow voice,Announcing mercilessly that the dayHath come? And were you not afraid, when nightSet in again, with redhot eyeballs, withThe lonely wringing of your soul betweenHer hands, like linen, that she washed in tears,In blood, in rivers of despair? Oh, see!Here comes with gentle wing and loving eyeSweet Rest, and lays her mantle round your shoulders,And bids you fear no more, but listen toThe birds' first Alleluia to the morn,That dances o'er the dew, up to the dawn,And be it e'er so cold, so lifeless, likeThe last of all the dawn they sang to. FearIs banished, anguish quenched in all the watersThat grief has steeped you in. You know that ne'erAnother day can be so dark again,As Rest forbids the cruel dawn to breakWith threat'ning eyes, as Rest shuts out the night,And leaves thee lonely not, but fills thy sightWith loving faces at the gates of heaven.Sweet Rest is round thee, like an autumn sun,And sheds thy rays upon the striving young ones.Ye long for bed again, like little children;No longer doth the pillow seem on fire,Your couch a bed of coals. The weary headIs cool, the limbs lie still, and thought comes gentlyLike a nurse's well-known ditty, that will lullTo sleep thee with its sameness. Rest hath comeAt last, and looks into thy room, intoThy heart, and sends forgetfulness, like balm,Like a flower's perfume through thy silent chamber.The clock is peaceful with its quiet beat,And night and morn are one; they bring no struggle.Sweet Rest hath come, great, wingèd, heaven-born,To lead thee to thy home with angels' hands.

THE SHADOWdecorativeTHE shadow of your threshold is so fullOf meaning, that the stranger knows what homeIs yours, if peace dwell here, or strife, or restlessUnsatisfied ambition. As the tree'sDeep shadow meaneth rest and comfort, orIs poison, sleep eternal, such the houseThat is a home's sweet shadow or a darkAbode of sin, of lurking lie and danger.The shadow of your life, that is so smallIn bright midday and summer's burning sun,Begins to lengthen when your evening comes,And shows the beauty of the tree in outline,Its graceful forms, its harmony and power;And never did its beauty strike before,As now, when lost in thought, you contemplateThe shadow on the lawn. The golden raysThat flood it, make it higher, nobler, andIts shadow ever greater, till the nightCalls forth the moon, to make it deep and weirdAs if unspoken pain had darkened it,As if the silvery paleness of the moonSharpened its features into hardness almost.Behold the shadow of thy life! Look well ifIt be a threshold that reveals the strongUnbending will, the height of all your aims,Your passions' darkness, and the harmonyOf all the branches that were put intoYour care! Look at the shadow when your dayIs done, and winter's moon will draw its lineIn naked truth, without the flattering leavesUpon your windingsheet's unruffled snow.

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THE shadow of your threshold is so fullOf meaning, that the stranger knows what homeIs yours, if peace dwell here, or strife, or restlessUnsatisfied ambition. As the tree'sDeep shadow meaneth rest and comfort, orIs poison, sleep eternal, such the houseThat is a home's sweet shadow or a darkAbode of sin, of lurking lie and danger.The shadow of your life, that is so smallIn bright midday and summer's burning sun,Begins to lengthen when your evening comes,And shows the beauty of the tree in outline,Its graceful forms, its harmony and power;And never did its beauty strike before,As now, when lost in thought, you contemplateThe shadow on the lawn. The golden raysThat flood it, make it higher, nobler, andIts shadow ever greater, till the nightCalls forth the moon, to make it deep and weirdAs if unspoken pain had darkened it,As if the silvery paleness of the moonSharpened its features into hardness almost.Behold the shadow of thy life! Look well ifIt be a threshold that reveals the strongUnbending will, the height of all your aims,Your passions' darkness, and the harmonyOf all the branches that were put intoYour care! Look at the shadow when your dayIs done, and winter's moon will draw its lineIn naked truth, without the flattering leavesUpon your windingsheet's unruffled snow.

THE GLOWWORMdecorativeTHE mountains lost in clouds, the giant firsStanding out 'gainst the never-ceasing lightning,Shaken by thunderpeals, in threefold strength,As all the valleys echoed through the night.The mighty heads stormbent, the branches tossedInto the sheets of water, sky and earthIn lurid light, a never-ceasing flame.There in the grass, beneath a tiny leafA firefly put forth its wondrous ray,As if no storm, no rain, no hail were nigh,A peaceful little flame, and yet so strong,That it outshone the lightning. It would say:I am the same as lightning! Storm thy lifeAnd threat'ning thunder, but thy flame O minstrel,Thy heart's own fire, is as strong, as true,As elementary as Fate's wild raving,And though it throws its light but on a leaf,That leaf may be eternal by the lightThy soul hath shed on it. That steady flameBurns on, when all the clouds have spent their fire,And when the bowels of the earth have ceasedTo growl in answer. Undisturbed, thy flameWill live, defying Fate's alarm, a fearless,Undying mighty word, as strong as lightningAnd love's own sheen, thy soul's unwavering beacon.A DREAMdecorativeMETHOUGHT that unto God I prayed: Oh, Lord!If thou wouldst deign to let poor me beholdThy greatness, so that with my human brainI understood it! Thus I spoke, and Lo!I stood alone upon a mountain rock,In utter darkness, towering rocks beyondThe dread abyss, that at my feet lay blackAnd fathomless, yielding no answer toThe searching eye. And, measureless, the skyAbove was dark'ning into endless night.Then, from the deep did vapours seem to riseIn white procession, denser, and yet denser,Until into a rising column theyBegan to form—a column like a mountain,That rose and rose and rose up to the vaultsOf darkness which it seemed to carry, allOne mass of light. And when I looked again,That column built itself of millions andMillions of milk-white stars that moved and shoneAnd seemed to lift the skies unto a heightThat human sight and human word could notAttain. And whilst I looked and wondered atThe seething worlds, the column changed and formedItself into the statue BuonarrotiHas made of Moses, only reaching fromThe deep into the heavens, white and bright,As if three suns, themselves invisible,Had shed their light upon the statue, orAs if an inner light shone out from it.The socle, not on earth, but far beyond,Was standing on the Parthenon, that shoneAs bright again with endless rows of columns.Here was the answer: Millions and yet millionsOf rising worlds, and every people's art,And all religions may but serve to formMy human likeness, so that men beholdMe great as mortal eye and brain encompass.For days I walked on clouds, I lived my dream.I heard not, saw not, thought not, but beheldThe world's Creator in the silent night,And felt the blessing so unspeakableOf God's own answer to my childish prayer.

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THE mountains lost in clouds, the giant firsStanding out 'gainst the never-ceasing lightning,Shaken by thunderpeals, in threefold strength,As all the valleys echoed through the night.The mighty heads stormbent, the branches tossedInto the sheets of water, sky and earthIn lurid light, a never-ceasing flame.There in the grass, beneath a tiny leafA firefly put forth its wondrous ray,As if no storm, no rain, no hail were nigh,A peaceful little flame, and yet so strong,That it outshone the lightning. It would say:I am the same as lightning! Storm thy lifeAnd threat'ning thunder, but thy flame O minstrel,Thy heart's own fire, is as strong, as true,As elementary as Fate's wild raving,And though it throws its light but on a leaf,That leaf may be eternal by the lightThy soul hath shed on it. That steady flameBurns on, when all the clouds have spent their fire,And when the bowels of the earth have ceasedTo growl in answer. Undisturbed, thy flameWill live, defying Fate's alarm, a fearless,Undying mighty word, as strong as lightningAnd love's own sheen, thy soul's unwavering beacon.

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METHOUGHT that unto God I prayed: Oh, Lord!If thou wouldst deign to let poor me beholdThy greatness, so that with my human brainI understood it! Thus I spoke, and Lo!I stood alone upon a mountain rock,In utter darkness, towering rocks beyondThe dread abyss, that at my feet lay blackAnd fathomless, yielding no answer toThe searching eye. And, measureless, the skyAbove was dark'ning into endless night.Then, from the deep did vapours seem to riseIn white procession, denser, and yet denser,Until into a rising column theyBegan to form—a column like a mountain,That rose and rose and rose up to the vaultsOf darkness which it seemed to carry, allOne mass of light. And when I looked again,That column built itself of millions andMillions of milk-white stars that moved and shoneAnd seemed to lift the skies unto a heightThat human sight and human word could notAttain. And whilst I looked and wondered atThe seething worlds, the column changed and formedItself into the statue BuonarrotiHas made of Moses, only reaching fromThe deep into the heavens, white and bright,As if three suns, themselves invisible,Had shed their light upon the statue, orAs if an inner light shone out from it.The socle, not on earth, but far beyond,Was standing on the Parthenon, that shoneAs bright again with endless rows of columns.Here was the answer: Millions and yet millionsOf rising worlds, and every people's art,And all religions may but serve to formMy human likeness, so that men beholdMe great as mortal eye and brain encompass.For days I walked on clouds, I lived my dream.I heard not, saw not, thought not, but beheldThe world's Creator in the silent night,And felt the blessing so unspeakableOf God's own answer to my childish prayer.

IN THE DARKdecorativeTHE moon has but one side of light and beauty,The other, steeped in never-ending night,Seems worse than dead, as in the harmonyOf spheres, she cannot even echo. AndShe died they say, for love of her great brother,The glorious Sun, whom she may never reach,Condemned to be apart, for that great sinOf love. He was the light and life and joyOf all her world, how could she then refrainAnd love not, when her brother was a god?But then she died, you see, and was forgiven.Wherefore is Earth so dark and yet alive?Wherefore doth fire still melt the gold in depthsSo fathomless, that not a spark may lightThe poor outside? She wanders through the worlds,Unknown, without a ray, and yet aliveWith foaming waters and with words as proudAs flowing hair. Why art thou dark, O Earth?If thou wert sinless, would not dancing raysLaugh through the night and gladden other planets?Would not thy bosom's warmth give life againTo yonder ghost, thy mate in misery?What hast thou done to be condemned to darkness,To be a living hell, wherein the soulsOf millions suffer until death? Thy heartIs gold: hast thou betrayed the sun? Or hastThou stolen wondrous goods, in gliding fromThe sun? Therefore is Death to be thy child,A curse to wander on thy lovely sides,That oft are torn and ever motherlyWill comfort the offender with her off'rings.Or art thou dark because thy womb must beThe grave of all thy children, Mother Earth?

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THE moon has but one side of light and beauty,The other, steeped in never-ending night,Seems worse than dead, as in the harmonyOf spheres, she cannot even echo. AndShe died they say, for love of her great brother,The glorious Sun, whom she may never reach,Condemned to be apart, for that great sinOf love. He was the light and life and joyOf all her world, how could she then refrainAnd love not, when her brother was a god?But then she died, you see, and was forgiven.Wherefore is Earth so dark and yet alive?Wherefore doth fire still melt the gold in depthsSo fathomless, that not a spark may lightThe poor outside? She wanders through the worlds,Unknown, without a ray, and yet aliveWith foaming waters and with words as proudAs flowing hair. Why art thou dark, O Earth?If thou wert sinless, would not dancing raysLaugh through the night and gladden other planets?Would not thy bosom's warmth give life againTo yonder ghost, thy mate in misery?What hast thou done to be condemned to darkness,To be a living hell, wherein the soulsOf millions suffer until death? Thy heartIs gold: hast thou betrayed the sun? Or hastThou stolen wondrous goods, in gliding fromThe sun? Therefore is Death to be thy child,A curse to wander on thy lovely sides,That oft are torn and ever motherlyWill comfort the offender with her off'rings.Or art thou dark because thy womb must beThe grave of all thy children, Mother Earth?

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