WITH HER FACE

Allday the sun and rain have been as friends,Each vying with the other which shall beMost generous in dowering earth and seaWith their glad wealth, till each, as it descends,Is mingled with the other, where it blendsIn one warm, glimmering mist that falls on meAs once God's smile fell over Galilee.The lily-cup, filled with it, droops and bendsLike some white saint beside a sylvan shrineIn silent prayer; the roses at my feet,Baptized with it as with a crimson wine,Gleam radiant in grasses grown so sweet,The blossoms lift, with tenderness divine,Their wet eyes heavenward with these of mine.

Withher face between his hands!Was it any wonder sheStood atiptoe tremblingly?As his lips along the strandsOf her hair went lavishingTides of kisses, such as swingLove's arms to like iron bands.—With her face between his hands!And the hands—the hands that pressedThe glad face—Ah! where are they?Folded limp, and laid awayIdly over idle breast?He whose kisses drenched her hair,As he caught and held her there,In Love's alien, lost lands,With her face between his hands?Was it long and long ago,When her face was not as now,Dim with tears? nor wan her browAs a winter-night of snow?Nay, anointing still the strandsOf her hair, his kisses flowFlood-wise, as she dreaming stands,With her face between his hands.

And the hands—the hands that pressedThe glad face—Ah! where are they?Folded limp, and laid awayIdly over idle breast?He whose kisses drenched her hair,As he caught and held her there,In Love's alien, lost lands,With her face between his hands?

Was it long and long ago,When her face was not as now,Dim with tears? nor wan her browAs a winter-night of snow?Nay, anointing still the strandsOf her hair, his kisses flowFlood-wise, as she dreaming stands,With her face between his hands.

Hush!hush! list, heart of mine, and hearken low!You do not guess how tender is the Night,And in what faintest murmurs of delightHer deep, dim-throated utterances flowAcross the memories of long-ago!Hark! do your senses catch the exquisiteStaccatos of a bird that dreams he sings?Nay, then, you hear not rightly,—'tis a blurOf misty love-notes, laughs and whisperingsThe Night pours o'er the lips that fondle her,And that faint breeze, filled with all fragrant sighs,—That is her breath that quavers lover-wise—O blessed sweetheart, with thy swart, sweet kiss,Baptize me, drown me in black swirls of bliss!

Thehour before the dawn!O ye who grope therein, with fear and dreadAnd agony of soul, be comforted,Knowing, ere long, the darkness will be gone,And down its dusky aisles the light be shed;Therefore, in utter trust, fare on—fare on,This hour before the dawn!

Good-by, Old Year!Good-by!We have been happy—you and I;We have been glad in many ways;And now, that you have come to die,Remembering our happy days,'Tis hard to say, "Good-by—Good-by, Old Year!Good-by!"Good-by, Old Year!Good-by!We have seen sorrow—you and I—Such hopeless sorrow, grief and care,That now, that you have come to die,Remembering our old despair,'Tis sweet to say, "Good-by—Good-by, Old Year!Good-by!"

Good-by, Old Year!Good-by!We have seen sorrow—you and I—Such hopeless sorrow, grief and care,That now, that you have come to die,Remembering our old despair,'Tis sweet to say, "Good-by—Good-by, Old Year!Good-by!"

Onesaid: "Here is my hand to lean uponAs long as you may need it." And one said:"Believe me true to you till I am dead."And one, whose dainty way it was to fawnAbout my face, with mellow fingers drawnMost soothingly o'er brow and drooping head,Sighed tremulously: "Till my breath is fledKnow I am faithful!" ... Now, all these are goneAnd many like to them—and yet I makeNo bitter moan above their grassy graves—Alas! they are not dead for me to takeSuch sorry comfort!—but my heart behavesMost graciously, since one who never spakeA vow is true to me for true love's sake.

I amdazed and bewildered with livingA life but an intricate skeinOf hopes and despairs and thanksgivingWound up and unravelled again—Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping,I am wondering ever the whileAt a something that smiles when I'm weeping,And a something that weeps when I smile.And I walk through the world as one dreamingWho knows not the night from the day,For I look on the stars that are gleaming,And lo, they have vanished away:And I look on the sweet-summer daylight,And e'en as I gaze it is fled,And, veiled in a cold, misty, gray light,The winter is there in its stead.I feel in my palms the warm fingersOf numberless friends—and I look,And lo, not a one of them lingersTo give back the pleasure he took;And I lift my sad eyes to the facesAll tenderly fixed on my own,But they wither away in grimacesThat scorn me, and leave me alone.And I turn to the woman that told meHer love would live on until death—But her arms they no longer enfold me,Though barely the dew of her breathIs dry on the forehead so pallidThat droops like the weariest thingO'er this most inharmonious balladThat ever a sorrow may sing.So I'm dazed and bewildered with livingA life but an intricate skeinOf hopes and despairs and thanksgivingWound up and unravelled again—Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping,I am wondering ever the whileAt a something that smiles when I'm weeping,And a something that weeps when I smile.

And I walk through the world as one dreamingWho knows not the night from the day,For I look on the stars that are gleaming,And lo, they have vanished away:And I look on the sweet-summer daylight,And e'en as I gaze it is fled,And, veiled in a cold, misty, gray light,The winter is there in its stead.

I feel in my palms the warm fingersOf numberless friends—and I look,And lo, not a one of them lingersTo give back the pleasure he took;And I lift my sad eyes to the facesAll tenderly fixed on my own,But they wither away in grimacesThat scorn me, and leave me alone.

And I turn to the woman that told meHer love would live on until death—But her arms they no longer enfold me,Though barely the dew of her breathIs dry on the forehead so pallidThat droops like the weariest thingO'er this most inharmonious balladThat ever a sorrow may sing.

So I'm dazed and bewildered with livingA life but an intricate skeinOf hopes and despairs and thanksgivingWound up and unravelled again—Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping,I am wondering ever the whileAt a something that smiles when I'm weeping,And a something that weeps when I smile.

Dah'sBrudder Sims! Dast slam yo' Bible shetAn' lef' dat man alone—kase he's de bossOb all de preachahs ev' I come across!Day's no twis' in dat gospil book, I bet,Ut Brudder Sims cain't splanify, an' setYou' min' at eaze! W'at's Moses an' de Laws?W'at's fo'ty days an' nights ut Noey tossAroun' de Dil-ooge?—W'at dem Chillen etDe Lo'd rain down? W'at s'prise ole Joney soIn dat whale's inna'ds?—W'at dat laddah meanUt Jacop see?—an' wha' dat laddah go?—Who clim dat laddah?—Wha' dat laddah lean?—An' wha' dat laddah now? "Dast chalk yo' toeWid Faith," sez Brudder Sims, "an' den you know!"

Crouchedat the corner of the streetShe sits all day, with face too whiteAnd hands too wasted to be sweetIn anybody's sight.Her form is shrunken, and a pairOf crutches leaning at her sideAre crossed like homely hands in prayerAt quiet eventide.Her eyes—two lustrous, weary things—Have learned a look that ever aches,Despite the ready jinglingsThe passer's penny makes.And, noting this, I pause and museIf any precious promise touchThis heart that has so much to loseIf dreaming overmuch—And, in a vision, mistilyHer future womanhood appears,—A picture framed with agonyAnd drenched with ceaseless tears—Where never lover comes to claimThe hand outheld so yearningly—The laughing babe that lisps her nameIs but a fantasy!And, brooding thus, all swift and wildA daring fancy, strangely sweet,Comes o'er me, that the crippled childThat crouches at my feet—Has found her head a resting-placeUpon my shoulder, while my kissAcross the pallor of her faceLeaves crimson trails of bliss.

Crouchedat the corner of the streetShe sits all day, with face too whiteAnd hands too wasted to be sweetIn anybody's sight.

Her form is shrunken, and a pairOf crutches leaning at her sideAre crossed like homely hands in prayerAt quiet eventide.

Her eyes—two lustrous, weary things—Have learned a look that ever aches,Despite the ready jinglingsThe passer's penny makes.

And, noting this, I pause and museIf any precious promise touchThis heart that has so much to loseIf dreaming overmuch—

And, in a vision, mistilyHer future womanhood appears,—A picture framed with agonyAnd drenched with ceaseless tears—

Where never lover comes to claimThe hand outheld so yearningly—The laughing babe that lisps her nameIs but a fantasy!

And, brooding thus, all swift and wildA daring fancy, strangely sweet,Comes o'er me, that the crippled childThat crouches at my feet—

Has found her head a resting-placeUpon my shoulder, while my kissAcross the pallor of her faceLeaves crimson trails of bliss.

Thesea was breaking at my feet,And looking out across the tide,Where placid waves and heaven meet,I thought me of the Other Side.For on the beach on which I stoodWere wastes of sands, and wash, and roar,Low clouds, and gloom, and solitude,And wrecks, and ruins—nothing more."O, tell me if beyond the seaA heavenly port there is!" I cried,And back the echoes laughingly"There is! there is!" replied.

Thesea was breaking at my feet,And looking out across the tide,Where placid waves and heaven meet,I thought me of the Other Side.

For on the beach on which I stoodWere wastes of sands, and wash, and roar,Low clouds, and gloom, and solitude,And wrecks, and ruins—nothing more.

"O, tell me if beyond the seaA heavenly port there is!" I cried,And back the echoes laughingly"There is! there is!" replied.

I growso weary, someway, of all thingThat love and loving have vouchsafed to me,Since now all dreamed-of sweets of ecstasyAm I possessed of: The caress that clings—The lips that mix with mine with murmuringsNo language may interpret, and the free,Unfettered brood of kisses, hungrilyFeasting in swarms on honeyed blossomingsOf passion's fullest flower—For yet I missThe essence that alone makes love divine—The subtle flavoring no tang of thisWeak wine of melody may here define:—A something found and lost in the first kissA lover ever poured through lips of mine.

A somethingquiet and subduedIn all the faces that we meet;A sense of rest, a solitudeO'er all the crowded street;The very noises seem to beCrude utterings of harmony,And all we hear, and all we see,Has in it something sweet.Thoughts come to us as from a dreamOf some long-vanished yesterday;The voices of the children seemLike ours, when young as they;The hand of Charity extendsTo meet Misfortune's, where it blends,Veiled by the dusk—and oh, my friends,Would it were dusk alway!

Thoughts come to us as from a dreamOf some long-vanished yesterday;The voices of the children seemLike ours, when young as they;The hand of Charity extendsTo meet Misfortune's, where it blends,Veiled by the dusk—and oh, my friends,Would it were dusk alway!

Wesprang for the side-holts—my gripsack and I—It dangled—I dangled—we both dangled by."Good speed!" cried mine host, as we landed at last—"Speed?" chuckled the watch we went lumbering past;Behind shut the switch, and out through the rear doorI glared while we waited a half hour more.I had missed the express that went thundering downTen minutes before to my next lecture town,And my only hope left was to catch this "wild freight,"Which the landlord remarked was "most luckily late—But the twenty miles distance was easily done,If they run half as fast as they usually run!"Not a word to each other—we struck a snail's pace—Conductor and brakeman ne'er changing a place—Save at the next watering-tank, where they allGot out—strolled about—cut their names on the wall,Or listlessly loitered on down to the pileOf sawed wood just beyond us, to doze for a while.'Twas high noon at starting, but while we drew near"Arcady" I said, "We'll not make it, I fear!I must strike Aix by eight, and it's three o'clock now;Let me stoke up that engine, and I'll show you how!"At which the conductor, with patience sublime,Smiled up from his novel with, "Plenty of time!"At "Trask," as we jolted stock-still as a stone,I heard a cow bawl in a five o'clock tone;And the steam from the saw-mill looked misty and thin,And the snarl of the saw had been stifled within:And a frowzy-haired boy, with a hat full of chips,Came out and stared up with a smile on his lips.At "Booneville," I groaned, "Can't I telegraph on?"No! Why? "'Cause the telegraph-man had just goneTo visit his folks in Almo"—and one heardThe sharp snap of my teeth through the throat of a word,That I dragged for a mile and a half up the track,And strangled it there, and came skulkingly back.Again we were off. It was twilight, and more,As we rolled o'er a bridge where beneath us the roarOf a river came up with so wooing an airI mechanic'ly strapped myself fast in my chairAs a brakeman slid open the door for more light,Saying: "Captain, brace up, for your town is in sight!""How they'll greet me!"—and all in a moment—"chewang!"And the train stopped again, with a bump and a bang.What was it? "The section-hands, just in advance."And I spit on my hands, and I rolled up my pants,And I clumb like an imp that the fiends had let looseUp out of the depths of that deadly caboose.I ran the train's length—I lept safe to the ground—And the legend still lives that for five miles aroundThey heard my voice hailing the hand-car that yankedMe aboard at my bidding, and gallantly cranked,As I grovelled and clung, with my eyes in eclipse,And a rim of red foam round my rapturous lips.Then I cast loose my ulster—each ear-tab let fall—Kicked off both my shoes—let go arctics and all—Stood up with the boys—leaned—patted each headAs it bobbed up and down with the speed that we sped;Clapped my hands—laughed and sang—any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix we rotated and stood.And all I remember is friends flocking roundAs I unsheathed my head from a hole in the ground;And no voice but was praising that hand-car divine,As I rubbed down its spokes with that lecture of mine.Which (the citizens voted by common consent)Was no more than its due. 'Twas the lecture they meant.

I had missed the express that went thundering downTen minutes before to my next lecture town,And my only hope left was to catch this "wild freight,"Which the landlord remarked was "most luckily late—But the twenty miles distance was easily done,If they run half as fast as they usually run!"

Not a word to each other—we struck a snail's pace—Conductor and brakeman ne'er changing a place—Save at the next watering-tank, where they allGot out—strolled about—cut their names on the wall,Or listlessly loitered on down to the pileOf sawed wood just beyond us, to doze for a while.

'Twas high noon at starting, but while we drew near"Arcady" I said, "We'll not make it, I fear!I must strike Aix by eight, and it's three o'clock now;Let me stoke up that engine, and I'll show you how!"At which the conductor, with patience sublime,Smiled up from his novel with, "Plenty of time!"

At "Trask," as we jolted stock-still as a stone,I heard a cow bawl in a five o'clock tone;And the steam from the saw-mill looked misty and thin,And the snarl of the saw had been stifled within:And a frowzy-haired boy, with a hat full of chips,Came out and stared up with a smile on his lips.

At "Booneville," I groaned, "Can't I telegraph on?"No! Why? "'Cause the telegraph-man had just goneTo visit his folks in Almo"—and one heardThe sharp snap of my teeth through the throat of a word,That I dragged for a mile and a half up the track,And strangled it there, and came skulkingly back.

Again we were off. It was twilight, and more,As we rolled o'er a bridge where beneath us the roarOf a river came up with so wooing an airI mechanic'ly strapped myself fast in my chairAs a brakeman slid open the door for more light,Saying: "Captain, brace up, for your town is in sight!"

"How they'll greet me!"—and all in a moment—"chewang!"And the train stopped again, with a bump and a bang.What was it? "The section-hands, just in advance."And I spit on my hands, and I rolled up my pants,And I clumb like an imp that the fiends had let looseUp out of the depths of that deadly caboose.

I ran the train's length—I lept safe to the ground—And the legend still lives that for five miles aroundThey heard my voice hailing the hand-car that yankedMe aboard at my bidding, and gallantly cranked,As I grovelled and clung, with my eyes in eclipse,And a rim of red foam round my rapturous lips.

Then I cast loose my ulster—each ear-tab let fall—Kicked off both my shoes—let go arctics and all—Stood up with the boys—leaned—patted each headAs it bobbed up and down with the speed that we sped;Clapped my hands—laughed and sang—any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix we rotated and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking roundAs I unsheathed my head from a hole in the ground;And no voice but was praising that hand-car divine,As I rubbed down its spokes with that lecture of mine.Which (the citizens voted by common consent)Was no more than its due. 'Twas the lecture they meant.

Inthe heart of June, love,You and I together,On from dawn till noon, love,Laughing with the weather;Blending both our souls, love,In the selfsame tune,Drinking all life holds, love,In the heart of June.In the heart of June, love,With its golden weather,Underneath the moon, love,You and I together.Ah! how sweet to seem, love,Drugged and half aswoonWith this luscious dream, love,In the heart of June.

In the heart of June, love,With its golden weather,Underneath the moon, love,You and I together.Ah! how sweet to seem, love,Drugged and half aswoonWith this luscious dream, love,In the heart of June.

"Do I sleep, do I dream,Do I wonder and doubt—Are things what they seemOr is visions about?"

Therehas always been an inclination, or desire, rather, on my part to believe in the mystic—even as far back as stretches the gum-elastic remembrance of my first "taffy-pullin'" given in honor of my fifth birthday; and the ghost-stories, served by way of ghastly dessert, by our hired girl. In fancy I again live over all the scenes of that eventful night:—

The dingy kitchen, with its haunting odors of a thousand feasts and wash-days; the old bench-legged stove, with its happy family of skillets, stewpans and round-bellied kettles crooning and blubbering about it. And how we children clustered round the genial hearth, with the warm smiles dying from our faces just as the embers dimmed and died out in the open grate, as with bated breath we listened to how some one's grandmother had said that her first man went through a graveyard once, one stormy night, "jest to show the neighbors that he wasn't afeard o' nothin'," and how when he was just passing the grave of his first wife "something kind o' big and white-like, with great big eyes like fire, raised up from behind the headboard, and kind o' re'ched out for him"; and how he turned and fled, "with that air white thing after him as tight as it could jump, and a hollerin' 'wough-yough-yough!' till you could hear it furder'n you could a bullgine," and how, at last, just as the brave and daring intruder was clearing two graves and the fence at one despairing leap, the "white thing," had made a grab at him with its iron claws, and had nicked him so close his second wife was occasioned the onerous duty of affixing another patch in his pantaloons. And in conclusion, our hired girl went on to state that this blood-curdling incident had so wrought upon the feelings of "the man that wasn't afeard o' nothin'," and had given him such a distaste for that particular graveyard, that he never visited it again, and even entered a clause in his will to the effect that he would ever remain an unhappy corpse should his remains be interred in said graveyard.

I forgot my pop-corn that night; I forgot my taffy; I forgot all earthly things; and I tossed about so feverishly in my little bed, and withal so restlessly, that more than once my father's admonition above the footboard of the big bed, of "Drat you! go to sleep, there!" foreshadowed my impending doom. And once he leaned over and made a vicious snatch at me, and holding me out at arm's length by one leg, demanded in thunder-tones, "what in the name o' flames and flashes I meant, anyhow!"

I was afraid to stir a muscle from that on, in consequence of which I at length straggled off in fitful dreams—and heavens! what dreams!—A very long and lank, and slim and slender old woman in white knocked at the door of my vision, and I let her in. She patted me on the head—and oh! how cold her hands were! And they were very hard hands, too, and very heavy—and, horror of horrors!—they were not hands—they were claws!—they were iron!—they were like the things I had seen the hardware man yank nails out of a keg with. I quailed and shivered till the long and slim and slender old woman jerked my head up and snarled spitefully, "What's the matter with you, bub," and I said, "Nawthin'!" and she said, "Don't you dare to lie to me!" I moaned.

"Don't you like me?" she asked.

I hesitated.

"And lie if you dare!" she said—"Don't you like me?"

"Oomh-oomh!" said I.

"Why?" said she.

"Cos, you're too long—and slim—an'"—

"Go on!" said she.

"—And tall!" said I.

"Ah, ha!" said she,—"and that's it, hey?"

And then she began to grow shorter and thicker, and fatter and squattier.

"And how do I suit you now?" she wheezed at length, when she had wilted down to about the size of a large loaf of bread.

I shook more violently than ever at the fearful spectacle.

"How do you like me now?" she yelped again,—"And don't you lie to me neither, or I'll swaller you whole!"

I writhed and hid my face.

"Do you like me?"

"No-o-oh!" I moaned.

She made another snatch at my hair. I felt her jagged claws sink into my very brain. I struggled and she laughed hideously.

"You don't, hey?"

"Yes, yes, I do. I love you!" said I.

"You lie! You lie!" She shrieked derisively. "You know you lie!" and as I felt the iron talons sinking and gritting in my very brain, with one wild, despairing effort, I awoke.

I saw the fire gleaming in the grate, and by the light it made I dimly saw the outline of the old mantelpiece that straddled it, holding the old clock high upon its shoulders. I was awake then, and the little squatty woman with her iron talons was a dream! I felt an oily gladness stealing over me, and yet I shuddered to be all alone.

If only some one were awake, I thought, whose blessed company would drown all recollections of that fearful dream; but I dared not stir or make a noise. I could only hear the ticking of the clock, and my father's sullen snore. I tried to compose my thoughts to pleasant themes, but that telescopic old woman in white would rise up and mock my vain appeals, until in fancy I again saw her altitudinous proportions dwindling into that repulsive and revengeful figure with the iron claws, and I grew restless and attempted to sit up. Heavens! something yet held me by the hair. The chill sweat that betokens speedy dissolution gathered on my brow. I made another effort and arose, that deadly clutch yet fastened in my hair. Could it be possible! The short, white woman still held me in her vengeful grasp! I could see her white dress showing from behind either of my ears. She still clung to me, and with one wild, unearthly cry of "Pap!" I started round the room.

I remember nothing further, until as the glowing morn sifted through the maple at the window, powdering with gold the drear old room, and baptizing with its radiance the anxious group of old home-faces leaning over my bed, I heard my father's voice once more rasping on my senses—"Now get the booby up, and wash that infernal wax out of his hair!"

Whydid we meet long years of yore?And why did we strike hands and say:"We will be friends, and nothing more";Why are we musing thus to-day?Because because was just because,And no one knew just why it was.Why did I say good-by to you?Why did I sail across the main?Why did I love not heaven's own blueUntil I touched these shores again?Because because was just because,And you nor I knew why it was.Why are my arms about you now,And happy tears upon your cheek?And why my kisses on your brow?Look up in thankfulness and speak!Because because was just because,And only God knew why it was.

Why did I say good-by to you?Why did I sail across the main?Why did I love not heaven's own blueUntil I touched these shores again?Because because was just because,And you nor I knew why it was.

Why are my arms about you now,And happy tears upon your cheek?And why my kisses on your brow?Look up in thankfulness and speak!Because because was just because,And only God knew why it was.

Thechiming seas may clang; and Tubal CainMay clink his tinkling metals as he may;Or Pan may sit and pipe his breath away;Or Orpheus wake his most entrancing strainTill not a note of melody remain!—But thou, O cricket, with thy roundelay,Shalt laugh them all to scorn! So wilt thou, pray,Trill me thy glad song o'er and o'er again:I shall not weary; there is purest worthIn thy sweet prattle, since it sings the loneHeart home again. Thy warbling hath no dearthOf childish memories—no harsher toneThan we might listen to in gentlest mirth,Thou poor plebeian minstrel of the hearth.

Howdear to my heart are the scenes of my childhoodThat now but in mem'ry I sadly review;The old meeting-house at the edge of the wildwood,The rail fence and horses all tethered thereto;The low, sloping roof, and the bell in the steeple,The doves that came fluttering out overheadAs it solemnly gathered the God-fearing peopleTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read.The old-fashioned Bible—The dust-covered Bible—The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.The blessed old volume! The face bent above it—As now I recall it—is gravely severe,Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love itMakes grander the text through the lens of a tear,And, as down his features it trickles and glistens,The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his headLike a haloéd patriarch's leans as he listensTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read.The old-fashioned Bible—The dust-covered Bible—The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derisionAnd scoff the old book though it uselessly liesIn the dust of the past, while this newer revisionLisps on of a hope and a home in the skies?Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven?Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said,When so long He has, listening, leaned out of HeavenTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read?The old-fashioned Bible—The dust-covered Bible—The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

The blessed old volume! The face bent above it—As now I recall it—is gravely severe,Though the reverent eye that droops downward to love itMakes grander the text through the lens of a tear,And, as down his features it trickles and glistens,The cough of the deacon is stilled, and his headLike a haloéd patriarch's leans as he listensTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read.The old-fashioned Bible—The dust-covered Bible—The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

Ah! who shall look backward with scorn and derisionAnd scoff the old book though it uselessly liesIn the dust of the past, while this newer revisionLisps on of a hope and a home in the skies?Shall the voice of the Master be stifled and riven?Shall we hear but a tithe of the words He has said,When so long He has, listening, leaned out of HeavenTo hear the old Bible my grandfather read?The old-fashioned Bible—The dust-covered Bible—The leathern-bound Bible my grandfather read.

Lelloine!Lelloine! Don't you hear me calling?Calling through the night for you, and calling through the day;Calling when the dawn is here, and when the dusk is falling—Calling for my Lelloine the angels lured away!Lelloine! I call and listen, starting from my pillow—In the hush of midnight, Lelloine! I cry,And o'er the rainy window-pane I hear the weeping willowTrail its dripping leaves like baby-fingers in reply.Lelloine, I miss the glimmer of your glossy tresses,I miss the dainty velvet palms that nestled in my own;And all my mother-soul went out in answerless caresses,And a storm of tears and kisses when you left me here alone.I have prayed, O Lelloine, but Heaven will not hear me,I can not gain one sign from Him who leads you by the hand;And O it seems that ne'er again His mercy will come near me—That He will never see my need, nor ever understand.Won't you listen, Lelloine?—just a little leaningO'er the walls of Paradise—lean and hear my prayer,And interpret death to Him in all its awful meaning,And tell Him you are lonely without your mother there.

Lelloine! I call and listen, starting from my pillow—In the hush of midnight, Lelloine! I cry,And o'er the rainy window-pane I hear the weeping willowTrail its dripping leaves like baby-fingers in reply.

Lelloine, I miss the glimmer of your glossy tresses,I miss the dainty velvet palms that nestled in my own;And all my mother-soul went out in answerless caresses,And a storm of tears and kisses when you left me here alone.

I have prayed, O Lelloine, but Heaven will not hear me,I can not gain one sign from Him who leads you by the hand;And O it seems that ne'er again His mercy will come near me—That He will never see my need, nor ever understand.

Won't you listen, Lelloine?—just a little leaningO'er the walls of Paradise—lean and hear my prayer,And interpret death to Him in all its awful meaning,And tell Him you are lonely without your mother there.

Whisperingto themselves apart,They who knew her said of her,"Dying of a broken heart—Death her only comforter—For the man she loved is dead—She will follow soon!" they said.Beautiful? Ah! brush the dustFrom Raphael's fairest face,And restore it, as it mustFirst have smiled back from its placeOn his easel as he leantWrapt in awe and wonderment!Why, to kiss the very hemOf the mourning-weeds she wore,Like the winds that rustled them,I had gone the round world o'er;And to touch her hand I swearAll things dareless I would dare!But unto themselves apart,Whispering, they said of her,"Dying of a broken heart—Death her only comforter—For the man she loved is dead—She will follow soon!" they said.So I mutely turned away,Turned with sorrow and despair,Yearning still from day to dayFor that woman dying there,Till at last, by longing led,I returned to find her—dead?"Dead?"—I know that word would tellRhyming there—but in this case"Wed" rhymes equally as wellIn the very selfsame place—And, in fact, the latter wordIs the one she had preferred.Yet unto themselves apart,Whisp'ring they had said of her—"Dying of a broken heart—Death her only comforter—For the man she loved is dead—She will follow soon!" they said.

Whisperingto themselves apart,They who knew her said of her,"Dying of a broken heart—Death her only comforter—For the man she loved is dead—She will follow soon!" they said.

Beautiful? Ah! brush the dustFrom Raphael's fairest face,And restore it, as it mustFirst have smiled back from its placeOn his easel as he leantWrapt in awe and wonderment!

Why, to kiss the very hemOf the mourning-weeds she wore,Like the winds that rustled them,I had gone the round world o'er;And to touch her hand I swearAll things dareless I would dare!

But unto themselves apart,Whispering, they said of her,"Dying of a broken heart—Death her only comforter—For the man she loved is dead—She will follow soon!" they said.

So I mutely turned away,Turned with sorrow and despair,Yearning still from day to dayFor that woman dying there,Till at last, by longing led,I returned to find her—dead?

"Dead?"—I know that word would tellRhyming there—but in this case"Wed" rhymes equally as wellIn the very selfsame place—And, in fact, the latter wordIs the one she had preferred.

Yet unto themselves apart,Whisp'ring they had said of her—"Dying of a broken heart—Death her only comforter—For the man she loved is dead—She will follow soon!" they said.

Afterthe frost! O the rose is dead,And the weeds lie pied in the garden-bed,And the peach tree's shade in the wan sunshine,Faint as the veins in these hands of mine,Streaks the gray of the orchard wallWhere the vine rasps loose, and the last leaves fall,And the bare boughs writhe, and the winds are lost—After the frost—the frost!After the frost! O the weary headAnd the hands and the heart are quietéd;And the lips we loved are locked at last,And kiss not back, though the rain falls fastAnd the lashes drip, and the soul makes moan,And on through the dead leaves walks aloneWhere the bare boughs writhe and the winds are lost—After the frost—the frost!

After the frost! O the weary headAnd the hands and the heart are quietéd;And the lips we loved are locked at last,And kiss not back, though the rain falls fastAnd the lashes drip, and the soul makes moan,And on through the dead leaves walks aloneWhere the bare boughs writhe and the winds are lost—After the frost—the frost!

O friend!There is no wayTo bid farewell to thee!The words that we would sayAbove thy grave to-dayStill falter and delayAnd fail us utterly.When walking with us here,The hand we loved to pressWas gentle, and sincereAs thy frank eyes were clearThrough every smile and tearOf pleasure and distress.In years, young; yet in thoughtMature; thy spirit, free,And fired with fervor caughtOf thy proud sire, who foughtHis way to fame, and taughtIts toilsome way to thee.So even thou hast gainedThe victory God-given—Yea, as our cheeks are stainedWith tears, and our souls painedAnd mute, thou hast attainedThy high reward in Heaven!

O friend!There is no wayTo bid farewell to thee!The words that we would sayAbove thy grave to-dayStill falter and delayAnd fail us utterly.

When walking with us here,The hand we loved to pressWas gentle, and sincereAs thy frank eyes were clearThrough every smile and tearOf pleasure and distress.

In years, young; yet in thoughtMature; thy spirit, free,And fired with fervor caughtOf thy proud sire, who foughtHis way to fame, and taughtIts toilsome way to thee.

So even thou hast gainedThe victory God-given—Yea, as our cheeks are stainedWith tears, and our souls painedAnd mute, thou hast attainedThy high reward in Heaven!

Whenit rains, and with the rainNever bird has heart to sing,And across the window-paneIs no sunlight glimmering;When the pitiless refrainBrings a tremor to the lips,Our tears are like the rainAs it drips, drips, drips—Like the sad, unceasing rain as it drips.When the light of heaven's blueIs blurred and blotted quite,And the dreary day to youIs but a long twilight;When it seems that ne'er againShall the sun break its eclipse,Our tears are like the rainAs it drips, drips, drips—Like the endless, friendless rain as it drips.When it rains! weary heart,O be of better cheer!The leaden clouds will part,And the morrow will be clear;Take up your load again,With a prayer upon your lips,Thanking Heaven for the rainAs it drips, drips, drips—With the golden bow of promise as it drips.

When the light of heaven's blueIs blurred and blotted quite,And the dreary day to youIs but a long twilight;When it seems that ne'er againShall the sun break its eclipse,Our tears are like the rainAs it drips, drips, drips—Like the endless, friendless rain as it drips.

When it rains! weary heart,O be of better cheer!The leaden clouds will part,And the morrow will be clear;Take up your load again,With a prayer upon your lips,Thanking Heaven for the rainAs it drips, drips, drips—With the golden bow of promise as it drips.

Cat-likehe creeps along where ways are dim,From covert unto covert's secrecy;His shadow in the moonlight shrinks from himAnd crouches warily.He hugs strange envies to his breast, and nursesWild hatreds, till the murderous hand he gripsFalls, quivering with the tension of the cursesHe launches from his lips.Drenched in his victim's blood he holds high revel;He mocks at justice, and in all men's eyesInsults his God—and no one but the devilIs sorry when he dies.

Cat-likehe creeps along where ways are dim,From covert unto covert's secrecy;His shadow in the moonlight shrinks from himAnd crouches warily.

He hugs strange envies to his breast, and nursesWild hatreds, till the murderous hand he gripsFalls, quivering with the tension of the cursesHe launches from his lips.

Drenched in his victim's blood he holds high revel;He mocks at justice, and in all men's eyesInsults his God—and no one but the devilIs sorry when he dies.

Ofall good gifts that the Lord lets fall,Is not silence the best of all?The deep, sweet hush when the song is closed,And every sound but a voiceless ghost;And every sigh, as we listening leant,A breathless quiet of vast content?The laughs we laughed have a purer ringWith but their memory echoing;And the joys we voiced, and the words we said,Seem so dearer for being dead.So of all good gifts that the Lord lets fall,Is not silence the best of all?

Ofall good gifts that the Lord lets fall,Is not silence the best of all?

The deep, sweet hush when the song is closed,And every sound but a voiceless ghost;

And every sigh, as we listening leant,A breathless quiet of vast content?

The laughs we laughed have a purer ringWith but their memory echoing;

And the joys we voiced, and the words we said,Seem so dearer for being dead.

So of all good gifts that the Lord lets fall,Is not silence the best of all?

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