The Project Gutenberg eBook ofVersesThis 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: VersesAuthor: Susan CoolidgeRelease date: October 1, 2003 [eBook #4560]Most recently updated: December 28, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES ***
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: VersesAuthor: Susan CoolidgeRelease date: October 1, 2003 [eBook #4560]Most recently updated: December 28, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Title: Verses
Author: Susan Coolidge
Author: Susan Coolidge
Release date: October 1, 2003 [eBook #4560]Most recently updated: December 28, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES ***
Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
Nourished by peaceful suns and gracious dew,Your sweet youth budded and your sweet lives grew,And all the world seemed rose-beset for you.
The rose of beauty was your mutual dower,The stainless rose of love, an early flower,The stately blooms of ease and wealth and power.
And treading thus on pathways flower-bestrewn,It well might be, that, cold and careless grown,You both had lived for your own joys alone.
But, holding all these fair things as in trust.Gently you walked, still scattering on the dustOf harder roads, which others tread, and must,—
Your heritage of brightness, not a rayOf noontide sought you out, but straight awayYou caught and halved it with some darker day:
And as the sweet saint's loaves were turned, it is said,To roses, so your roses turned to bread,That hungering souls and weary might be fed.
Dear friends, my poor words do but paint you wrong,Nor can I utter, in one trivial song,The goodness I have honored for so long.
Only this leaf, a single petal flung,One chord from a full harmony unsung,May speak the life-long love that lacks a tongue.
To J. H. and E. W. H.PreludeCommissionedThe Cradle Tomb in Westminster Abbey"Of such as I have"A PortraitWhen?On the ShoreAmong the LiliesNovemberEmbalmedGinevra Degli AmieriEaster LiliesEbb-TideFlood-TideA YearTokensHer GoingA Lonely MomentCommunionA FarewellEbb and FlowAngelusThe Morning Comes Before the SunLaborare est OrareEighteenOutward BoundFrom East to WestUnaTwo Ways to LoveAfter-GlowHope and ILeft BehindSavoir c'est PardonnerMorningA Blind SingerMaryWhen Love wentOvershadowedTime to GoGulf-StreamMy White ChrysanthemumTill the Day DawnMy BirthdayBy the CradleA Thunder StormThrough the DoorReadjustmentAt the GateA HomeThe Legend of KintuEasterBind-WeedAprilMaySecretsHow the Leaves Came DownBarcarolesMy RightsSolsticeIn the MistWithinMenace"He That Believeth Shall Not Make Haste"My Little GhostChristmasBenedicam Domino
Poems are heavenly things,And only souls with wingsMay reach them where they grow,May pluck and bear below,Feeding the nations thusWith food all glorious.
Verses are not of these;They bloom on earthly trees,Poised on a low-hung stem,And those may gather themWho cannot fly to whereThe heavenly gardens are.
So I by devious waysHave pulled some easy spraysFrom the down-dropping boughWhich all may reach, and nowI knot them, bud and leaf,Into a rhymed sheaf.
Not mine the pinion strongTo win the nobler song;I only cull and bringA hedge-row offeringOf berry, flower, and brake,If haply some may take.
"Do their errands; enter into the sacrifice with them; be a link yourself in the divine chain, and feel the joy and life of it."—ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY
What can I do for thee, Beloved,Whose feet so little while agoTrod the same way-side dust with mine,And now up paths I do not knowSpeed, without sound or sign?
What can I do? The perfect lifeAll fresh and fair and beautifulHas opened its wide arms to thee;Thy cup is over-brimmed and full;Nothing remains for me.
I used to do so many things,—Love thee and chide thee and caress;Brush little straws from off thy way,Tempering with my poor tendernessThe heat of thy short day.
Not much, but very sweet to give;And it is grief of griefs to bearThat all these ministries are o'er,And thou, so happy, Love, elsewhere,Never can need me more:—
And I can do for thee but this(Working on blindly, knowing notIf I may give thee pleasure so):Out of my own dull, burdened lotI can arise, and go
To sadder lives and darker homes,A messenger, dear heart, from theeWho wast on earth a comforter,And say to those who welcome me,I am sent forth by her.
Feeling the while how good it isTo do thy errands thus, and thinkIt may be, in the blue, far space,Thou watchest from the heaven's brink,—A smile upon my face.
And when the day's work ends with day,And star-eyed evening, stealing in,Waves a cool hand to flying noon,And restless, surging thoughts begin,Like sad bells out of tune,
I'll pray: "Dear Lord, to whose great loveNor bound nor limit line is set,Give to my darling, I implore,Some new sweet joy not tasted yet,For I can give no more."
And with the words my thoughts shall climbWith following feet the heavenly stairUp which thy steps so lately sped,And, seeing thee so happy there,Come back half comforted.
A little, rudely sculptured bed,With shadowing folds of marble lace,And quilt of marble, primly spreadAnd folded round a baby's face.
Smoothly the mimic coverlet,With royal blazonries bedight,Hangs, as by tender fingers setAnd straightened for the last good-night.
And traced upon the pillowing stoneA dent is seen, as if to blessThe quiet sleep some grieving oneHad leaned, and left a soft impress.
It seems no more than yesterdaySince the sad mother down the stairAnd down the long aisle stole away,And left her darling sleeping there.
But dust upon the cradle lies,And those who prized the baby so,And laid her down to rest with sighs,Were turned to dust long years ago.
Above the peaceful pillowed headThree centuries brood, and strangers peepAnd wonder at the carven bed,—But not unwept the baby's sleep,
For wistful mother-eyes are blurredWith sudden mists, as lingerers stay,And the old dusts are roused and stirredBy the warm tear-drops of to-day.
Soft, furtive hands caress the stone,And hearts, o'erleaping place and age,Melt into memories, and ownA thrill of common parentage.
Men die, but sorrow never dies;The crowding years divide in vain,And the wide world is knit with tiesOf common brotherhood in pain;
Of common share in grief and loss,And heritage in the immortal bloomOf Love, which, flowering round its cross,Made beautiful a baby's tomb.
Love me for what I am, Love. Not for sakeOf some imagined thing which I might be,Some brightness or some goodness not in me,Born of your hope, as dawn to eyes that wakeImagined morns before the morning break.If I, to please you (whom I fain would please),Reset myself like new key to old tune,Chained thought, remodelled action, very soonMy hand would slip from yours, and by degreesThe loving, faulty friend, so close to-day,Would vanish, and another take her place,—A stranger with a stranger's scrutinies,A new regard, an unfamiliar face.Love me for what I am, then, if you may;But, if you cannot,—love me either way.
All sweet and various things do lend themselvesAnd blend and intermix in her rare soul,As chorded notes, which were untuneful else,Clasp each the other in a perfect whole.
Within her spirit, dawn, all dewy-pearled,Seems held and folded in by golden noons,While past the sunshine gleams a further worldOf deep star-spaces and mysterious moons.
Like widths of blowing ocean wet with spray,Like breath of early blooms at morning caught,Like cool airs on the cheek of heated day,Come the fair emanations of her thought.
Her movement, like the curving of a vine,Seems an unerring accident of grace,And like a flower's the subtle change and shineAnd meaning of her brightly tranquil face.
And like a tree, unconscious of her shade,She spreads her helpful branches everywhereFor wandering bird or bee, nor is afraidToo many guests shall crowd to harbor there.
For she is kinder than all others are,And weak things, sad things, gather where she dwells,To reach and taste her strength and drink of her,As thirsty creatures of clear water-wells.
Why vex with words where words are poor and vain?In one brief sentence lies the riddle's key,Which those who love her read and read again,Finding each time new meanings: SHE IS SHE!
If I were told that I must die to-morrow,That the next sunWhich sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrowFor any one,All the fight fought, all the short journey through:What should I do?
I do not think that I should shrink or falter,But just go on,Doing my work, nor change, nor seek to alterAught that is gone;But rise and move and love and smile and prayFor one more day.
And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,Say in that earWhich hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keepingHow should I fear?And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still.Do Thou Thy will."
I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,My soul would lieAll the night long; and when the morning splendorFlashed o'er the sky,I think that I could smile—could calmly say,"It is His day."
But, if instead a hand from the blue yonderHeld out a scroll,On which my life was, writ, and I with wonderBeheld unrollTo a long century's end its mystic clew,What should I do?
What COULD I do, O blessed Guide and Master,Other than this:Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,Nor fear to missThe road, although so very long it be,While led by Thee?
Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me,Although unseen,Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide Thee,Or heavens serene,Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray,Thy love decay.
I may not know, my God; no hand revealethThy counsels wise;Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth,No voice repliesTo all my questioning thought, the time to tell,And it is well.
Let me keep on, abiding and unfearingThy will always,Through a long century's ripening fruition,Or a short day's.Thou canst not come too soon; and I can waitIf thou come late.
The punctual tide draws up the bay,With ripple of wave and hiss of spray,And the great red flower of the light-house towerBlooms on the headland far away.
Petal by petal its fiery roseOut of the darkness buds and grows;A dazzling shape on the dim, far cape,A beckoning shape as it comes and goes.
A moment of bloom, and then it diesOn the windy cliff 'twixt the sea and skies.The fog laughs low to see it go,And the white waves watch it with cruel eyes.
Then suddenly out of the mist-cloud dun,As touched and wooed by unseen sun,Again into sight bursts the rose of lightAnd opens its petals one by one.
Ah, the storm may be wild and the sea be strong,And man is weak and the darkness long,But while blossoms the flower on the light-house towerThere still is place for a smile and a song.
She stood among the liliesIn sunset's brightest ray,Among the tall June lilies,As stately fair as they;And I, a boyish lover then,Looked once, and, lingering, looked again,And life began that day.
She sat among the lilies,My sweet, all lily-pale;The summer lilies listened,I whispered low my tale.O golden anthers, breathing balm,O hush of peace, O twilight calm,Did you or I prevail?
She lies among the lily-snows,Beneath the wintry sky;All round her and about herThe buried lilies lie.They will awake at touch of Spring,And she, my fair and flower-like thing,In spring-time—by and by.
Dry leaves upon the wall,Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape,A single frosted cluster on the grapeStill hangs—and that is all.
It hangs forgotten quite,—Forgotten in the purple vintage-day,Left for the sharp and cruel frosts to slay,The daggers of the night.
It knew the thrill of spring;It had its blossom-time, its perfumed noons;Its pale-green spheres were rounded to soft runesOf summer's whispering.
Through balmy morns of May;Through fragrances of June and bright July,And August, hot and still, it hung on highAnd purpled day by day.
Of fair and mantling shapes,No braver, fairer cluster on the tree;And what then is this thing has come to theeAmong the other grapes,
Thou lonely tenant of the leafless vine,Granted the right to grow thy mates beside,To ripen thy sweet juices, but deniedThy place among the wine?
Ah! we are dull and blind.The riddle is too hard for us to guessThe why of joy or of unhappiness,Chosen or left behind.
But everywhere a hostOf lonely lives shall read their type in thine:Grapes which may never swell the tale of wine,Left out to meet the frost.
This is the street and the dwelling,Let me count the houses o'er;Yes,—one, two, three from the corner,And the house that I love makes four.
That is the very windowWhere I used to see her headBent over book or needle,With ivy garlanded.
And the very loop of the curtain,And the very curve of the vine,Were full of the grace and the meaningWhich was hers by some right divine.
I began to be glad at the corner,And all the way to the doorMy heart outran my footsteps,And frolicked and danced before,
In haste for the words of welcome,The voice, the repose and grace,And the smile, like a benediction,Of that beautiful, vanished face.
Now I pass the door, and I pause not,And I look the other way;But ever, a waft of fragrance,Too subtle to name or stay,
Comes the thought of the gracious presenceWhich made that past time sweet,And still to those who remember,Embalms the house and the street,
Like the breath from some vase, now emptyOf a flowery shape unseen,Which follows the path of its lover,To tell where a rose has been.
So it is come! The doctor's glossy smileDeceives me not. I saw him shake his head,Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without,As, slowly creaking, he went down the stair.Were they afraid that I should be afraid?I, who had died once and been laid in tomb?They need not.
Little one, look not so pale.I am not raving. Ah! you never heardThe story. Climb up there upon the bed:Sit close, and listen. After this one dayI shall not tell you stories any more.
How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve?Almost a woman? Scarcely more than thatWas your fair mother when she bore her bud;And scarcely more was I when, long years since,I left my father's house, a bride in May.You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church,Gloomy and rich, which stands, and seems to frownOn the Mercato, humming at its base;And hold on high, out of the common reach,The lilies and carved shields above its door;And, higher yet, to catch and woo the sun,A little loggia set against the sky?That was my play-place ever as a child;And with me used to play a kinsman's son,Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days!Two happy things we were, with none to chideOr hint that life was anything but play.
Sudden the play-time ended. All at once"You must be wed," they told me. "What is wed?"I asked; but with the word I bent my brow,Let them put on the garland, smiled to seeThe glancing jewels tied about my neck;And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forthBy my grave husband, older than my sire.
O the long years that followed! It would seemThat the sun never shone in all those years,Or only with a sudden, troubled glintFlashed on Antonio's curls, as he went byDoffing his cap, with eyes of wistful loveRaised to my face,—my conscious, woful face.Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twinedTogether, none forbidding, for so long.They let our childish fingers drop the seed,Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain;They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow,Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant.I loved Antonio, and he loved me.
Life was all shadow, but it was not sin!I loved Antonio, but I kept me pure,Not for my husband's sake, but for the sakeOf him, my first-born child, my little child,Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose lookThrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day.I loved; but, hear me swear, I kept me pure!(Remember that, Madonna, when I comeBefore thy throne to-morrow. Be not stern,Or gaze upon me with reproachful look,Making my little angel hide his faceAnd weep, while all the others turn glad eyesRejoicing on their mothers.)
It was hardTo sit in darkness while the rest had light,To move to discords when the rest had song,To be so young and never to have lived.I bore, as women bear, until one daySoul said to flesh, "This I endure no more,"And with the word uprose, tore clay apart,And what was blank before grew blanker still.
It was a fever, so the leeches said.I had been dead so long, I did not knowThe difference, or heed. Oil on my breast,The garments of the grave about me wrapped,They bore me forth, and laid me in the tomb.The rich and beautiful and dreadful tomb,Where all the buried Amteris lie,Beneath the Duomo's black and towering shade.
Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night.It was night then, when I awoke to feelThat deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleamsOf moonlight, creeping through the grated door,The coffins of my fathers all about.Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back,As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell.With frantic strength I beat upon the grate.It yielded to my touch. Some careless handHad left the bolt half-slipped. My father sworeAfterward, with a curse, he would make sureNext time. NEXT TIME. That hurts me even now!
Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which.High overhead Giotto's tower soared;Behind, the Duomo rose all white and black;Then pealed a sudden jargoning of bells,And down the darkling street I wildly fled,Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon,Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I.I had no aim, save to reach warmth and lightAnd human touch; but still my witless stepsLed to my husband's door, and there I stopped,By instinct, knocked, and called.
A window oped.A voice—t'was his—demanded: "Who is there?""Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the toneChange into horror, and he prayed aloudAnd called upon the saints, the while I urged,"O, let me in, Francesco; let me in!I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!"Then, with a crash, the window was shut fast;And, though I cried and beat upon the doorAnd wailed aloud, no other answer came.
Weeping, I turned away, and feebly stroveDown the hard distance towards my father's house."They will have pity and will let me in,"I thought. "They loved me and will let me in."Cowards! At the high window overheadThey stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed:"I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in!I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!""The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire.My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of waxTo St. Eustachio, would he but removeThis fearful presence from her door. Then sharpCame click of lock, and a long tube was thrustFrom out the window, and my brother cried,"Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!"
Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tombAnd the cold coffined ones? Up the long street,Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went.My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones;My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung looseOver my shroud. So wild and strange a shapeSaw never Florence since. The people callThat street through which I walked and wrung my hands"Street of the Dead One," even to this day.The sleeping houses stood in midnight black,And not a soul was in the streets but I.
At last I saw a flickering point of lightHigh overhead, in a dim window set.I had lain down to die; but at the sightI rose, crawled on, and with expiring strengthKnocked, sank again, and knew not even thenIt was Antonio's door by which I lay.
A window opened, and a voice called out:"Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought,"Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest,And bid me hence." But, lo! a moment moreThe bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touchWas life, lifted and clasped and bore me in."O ghost or angel of my buried love,I know not, care not which, be welcome here!Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!"I heard him say, and then I heard no more.
It was high noontide when I woke again,To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed,—My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn,Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb,Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feetOver the pavement to Antonio's door.Dead, they cared nothing: living, I was, theirs.Hot raged the quarrel; then came Justice in,And to the court we swept—I in my shroud—To try the cause.
This was the verdict given:"A woman who has been to burial borne,Made fast and left and locked in with the dead;Who at her husband's door has stood and pleadFor entrance, and has heard her prayer denied;Who from her father's house is urged and chased,Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact.
The Court pronounces the defendant—dead!She can resume her former ties at will,Or may renounce them, if such be her will.She is no more a daughter, or a spouse,Unless she choose, and is set free to formNew ties, if so she choose."
O, blessed words!That very day we knelt before the priest,My love and I, were wed, and life began.
Child of my child, child of Antonio's child,Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face.'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you.But time is brief, and, had I told you not,Haply the story would have met your earsFrom them, the Amieri, my own blood,Now turned to gall, whose foul and bitter lipsWill wag with lies when once my lips are dumb.(Pardon me, Virgin. I was gentle once,And thou hast seen my wrongs. Thou wilt forgive.)Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up,To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad.I, who have died once, do not fear to die.
Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this.Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sitsWaiting, and, spite of all the Frati say,I know I shall not stand long at that gate,Or knock and be refused an entrance there,For he will start up when lie hears my voice,The saints will smile, and he will open quick.Only a night to part me from that joy.Jesu Maria! let the dawning come.
Darlings of June and brides of summer sun,Chill pipes the stormy wind, the skies are drear;Dull and despoiled the gardens every one:What do you here?
We looked to see your gracious blooms ariseMid soft and wooing airs in gardens green,Where venturesome brown bees and butterfliesShould hail you queen.
Here is no bee nor glancing butterfly;They fled on rapid wings before the snow:Your sister lilies laid them down to die,Long, long ago.
And here, amid the slowly dropping rain,We keep our Easter feast, with hearts whose careMars the high cadence of each lofty strain,Each thankful prayer.
But not a shadow dims your joyance sweet,No baffled hope or memory darkly clad;You lay your whiteness at the Lord's dear feet,And are all glad.
O coward soul! arouse thee and draw near,Led by these fragrant acolytes to-day!Let their sweet confidence rebuke thy fear,Thy cold delay.
Come with thy darkness to the healing light,Come with thy bitter, which shall be made sweet,And lay thy soil beside the lilies white,At His dear feet!
Long reaches of wet grasses swayWhere ran the sea but yesterday,And white-winged boats at sunset drewTo anchor in the crimsoning blue.The boats lie on the grassy plain,Nor tug nor fret at anchor chain;Their errand done, their impulse spent,Chained by an alien element,With sails unset they idly lie,Though morning beckons brave and nigh;Like wounded birds, their flight denied,They lie, and long and wait the tide.
About their keels, within the netOf tough grass fibres green and wet,A myriad thirsty creatures, pentIn sorrowful imprisonment,Await the beat, distinct and sweet,Of the white waves' returning feet.My soul their vigil joins, and sharesA nobler discontent than theirs;Athirst like them, I patientlySit listening beside the sea,And still the waters outward glide:When is the turning of the tide?
Come, pulse of God; come, heavenly thrill!We wait thy coming,—and we will.The world is vast, and very farIts utmost verge and boundaries are;But thou hast kept thy word to-dayIn India and in dim Cathay,And the same mighty care shall reachEach humblest rock-pool of this beach.The gasping fish, the stranded keel,This dull dry soul of mine, shall feelThy freshening touch, and, satisfied,Shall drink the fulness of the tide.
All night the thirsty beach has listening lain,With patience dumb,Counting the slow, sad moments of her pain;Now morn has come,And with the morn the punctual tide again.
I hear the white battalions down the bayCharge with a cheer;The sun's gold lances prick them on their way,—They plunge, they rear,—Foam-plumed and snowy-pennoned, they are here!
The roused shore, her bright hair backward blown,Stands on the vergeAnd waves a smiling welcome, beckoning onThe flying surge,While round her feet, like doves, the billows crowd and urge.
Her glad lips quaff the salt, familiar wine;Her spent urns fill;All hungering creatures know the sound, the sign,—Quiver and thrill,With glad expectance crowd and banquet at their will.
I, too, the rapt contentment join and share;My tide is full;There is new happiness in earth, in air:All beautifulAnd fresh the world but now so bare and dull.
But while we raise the cup of bliss so high,Thus satisfied,Another shore beneath a sad, far skyWaiteth her tide,And thirsts with sad complainings still denied.
On earth's remotest bound she sits and waitsIn doubt and pain;Our joy is signal for her sad estates;Like dull refrainMarring our song, her sighings rise in vain.
To each his turn—the ebb-tide and the flood,The less, the more—God metes his portions justly out, I know;But still beforeMy mind forever floats that pale and grieving shore.
She has been just a year in Heaven.Unmarked by white moon or gold sun,By stroke of clock or clang of bell,Or shadow lengthening on the way,In the full noon and perfect day,In Safety's very citadel,The happy hours have sped, have run;And, rapt in peace, all pain forgot,She whom we love, her white soul shriven,Smiles at the thought and wonders not.
We have been just a year alone,—A year whose calendar is sighs,And dull, perpetual wishfulness,And smiles, each covert for a tear,And wandering thoughts, half there, half here,And weariful attempts to guessThe secret of the hiding skies,The soft, inexorable blue,With gleaming hints of glory sown,And Heaven behind, just shining through.
So sweet, so sad, so swift, so slow,So full of eager growth and light,So full of pain which blindly grows,So full of thoughts which either wayHave passed and crossed and touched each day,To us a thorn, to her a rose;The year so black, the year so white,Like rivers twain their course have run;The earthly stream we trace and know,But who shall paint the heavenly one?
A year! We gather up our powers,Our lamps we consecrate and trim;Open all windows to the day,And welcome every heavenly air.We will press forward and will bear,Having this word to cheer the way:She, storm-tossed once, is safe with Him,Healed, comforted, content, forgiven;And while we count these heavy hoursHas been a year,—a year in Heaven.
Each day upon the yellow Nile, 'tis said.Joseph, the youthful ruler, cast forth wheat,That haply, floating to his father's feet,—The sad old father, who believed him dead,—It might be sign in Egypt there was bread;And thus the patriarch, past the desert sandsAnd scant oasis fringed with thirsty green,Be lured toward the love that yearned unseen.So, flung and scattered—ah! by what dear hands?—On the swift-rushing and invisible tide,Small tokens drift adown from far, fair lands,And say to us, who in the desert bide,"Are you athirst? Are there no sheaves to bind?Beloved, here is fulness; follow on and find."
She stood in the open door,She blessed them faint and low:"I must go," she said, "must goAway from the light of the sun,Away from you, every one;Must see your eyes no more,—Your eyes, that love me so.
"I should not shudder thus,Nor weep, nor be afraid.Nor cling to you so dismayed,Could I only pierce with ray eyesWhere the dark, dark shadow lies;Where something hideousIs hiding, perhaps," she said.
Then slowly she went from them,Went down the staircase grim,With trembling heart and limb;Her footfalls echoedIn the silence vast and dead,Like the notes of a requiem,Not sung, but uttered.
For a little way and a blackShe groped as grope the blind,Then a sudden radiance shined,And a vision her eyelids burned;All joyfully she turned,For a moment turned she back,And smiled at those behind.
There in the shadows drearAn angel sat serene,Of grave and tender mien,With whitest roses crowned;A scythe lay on the ground,As reaping-time were near,—A burnished scythe and a keen.
She did not start or paleAs the angel rose and laidHis hand on hers, nor saidA word, hut beckoned on;For a glorious meaning shoneOn the lips that told no tale,And she followed him, unafraid.
Her friends wept for a space;Then one said: "Be content;Surely some good is meantFor her, our Beautiful,—Some glorious good and full.Did you not see her face,Her dear smile, as she went?"
I sit alone in the gray,The snow falls thick and fast,And never a sound have I heard all dayBut the wailing of the blast,And the hiss and click of the snow, whirling to and fro.
There seems no living thingLeft in the world but I;My thoughts fly forth on restless wing,And drift back wearily,Storm-beaten, buffeted, hopeless, and almost dead.
No one there is to care;Not one to even knowOf the lonely day and the dull despairAs the hours ebb and flow,Slow lingering, as fain to lengthen out my pain.
And I think of the monks of old,Each in his separate cell,Hearing no sound, except when tolledThe stated convent bell.How could they live and bear that silence everywhere?
And I think of tumbling seas,'Neath cruel, lonely skies;And shipwrecked sailors over theseStretching their hungry eyes,—Eyes dimmed with wasting tears for weary years on years,—
Pacing the hopeless sand,Wistful and wan and pale,Each foam-flash like a beckoning hand,Each wave a glancing sail,And so for days and days, and still the sail delays.
I hide my eyes in vain,In vain I try to smile;That urging vision comes again,The sailor on his isle,With none to hear his cry, to help him live—or die!
And with the pang a thoughtBreaks o'er me like the sun,Of the great listening Love which caughtThose accents every one,Nor lost one faintest word, but always, always heard.
The monk his vigil paleCould lighten with a smile,The sailor's courage need not failUpon his lonely isle;For there, as here, by sea or land, the pitying Lord stoodclose at hand.
O coward heart of mine!When storms shall beat again,Hold firmly to this thought divine,As anchorage in pain:That, lonely though thou seemest to be, the Lord is near,remembering thee.
What is it to commune?It is when soul meets soul, and they embraceAs souls may, stooping from each separate sphereFor a brief moment's space.
What is it to commune?It is to lay the veil of custom by,To be all unafraid of truth to talk,Face to face, eye to eye.
Not face to face, dear Lord;That is the joy of brighter worlds to be;And yet, Thy bidden guests about Thy board,We do commune with Thee.
Behind the white-robed priestOur eyes, anointed with a sudden grace,Dare to conjecture of a mighty guest,A dim beloved Face.
And is it Thou, indeed?And dost Thou lay Thy glory all awayTo visit us, and with Thy grace to feedOur hungering hearts to-day?
And can a thing so sweet,And can such heavenly condescension be?Ah! wherefore tarry thus our lingering feet?It can be none but Thee.
There is the gracious earThat never yet was deaf to sinner's call;We will not linger, and we dare not fear,But kneel,—and tell Thee all.
We tell Thee of our sinOnly half loathed, only half wished away,And those clear eyes of Love that look withinRebuke us, seem to say,—
"O, bought with my own blood,Mine own, for whom my precious life I gave,Am I so little prized, remembered, loved,By those I died to save?"
And under that deep gazeSorrow awakes; we kneel with eyelids wet,And marvel, as with Peter at the gate,That we could so forget,
We tell Thee of our care,Of the sore burden, pressing day by day,And in the light and pity of Thy faceThe burden melts away.
We breathe our secret wish,The importunate longing which no man may see;We ask it humbly, or, more restful still,We leave it all to Thee.
And last our amuletOf precious names we thread, and soft and lowWe crave for each beloved, or near or far,A blessing ere we go.
The thorns are turned to flowers,All dark perplexities seem light and fair,A mist is lifted from the heavy hours,And Thou art everywhere.
Go, sun, since go you must,The dusky evening lowers above our sky,Our sky which was so blue and sweetly fair;Night is not terrible that we should sigh.A little darkness we can surely bear;Will there not be more sunshine—by and by?
Go, rose, since go you must,Flowerless and chill the winter draweth nigh;Closed are the blithe and fragrant lips which madeAll summer long perpetual melody.Cheerless we take our way, but not afraid:Will there not be more roses—by and by?
Go, love, since go you must,Out of our pain we bless you as you fly;The momentary heaven the rainbow litWas worth whole days of black and stormy sky;Shall we not see, as by the waves we sit,Your bright sail winging shoreward—by and by?
Go, life, since go you must,Uncertain guest and whimsical ally!All questionless you came, unquestioned go;What does it mean to live, or what to die?Smiling we watch you vanish, for we knowSomewhere is nobler living—by and by.
How easily He turns the tides!Just now the yellow beach was dry,Just now the gaunt rocks all were bare,The sun beat hot, and thirstilyEach sea-weed waved its long brown hair,And bent and languished as in pain;Then, in a flashing moment's space,The white foam-feet which spurned the sandPaused in their joyous outward race,Wheeled, wavered, turned them to the land,And, a swift legionary band,Poured oil the waiting shores again.
How easily He turns the tides!The fulness of my yesterdayHas vanished like a rapid dream,And pitiless and far awayThe cool, refreshing waters gleam:Grim rocks of dread and doubt and pain
Rear their dark fronts where once was sea;But I can smile and wait for HimWho turns the tides so easily,Fills the spent rock-pool to its brim,And up from the horizon dimLeads His bright morning waves again.
Softly drops the crimson sun:Softly down from overhead,Drop the bell-notes, one by one,Melting in the melting red;Sign to angel bands unsleeping,—"Day is done, the dark is dread,Take the world in care and keeping.
"Set the white-robed sentries close,Wrap our want and wearinessIn the surety of repose;Let the shining presences,Bearing fragrance on their wings,Stand about our beds to bless,Fright away all evil things.
"Rays of Him whose shadow poursThrough all lives a brimming glory,Float o'er darksome woods and moors,Float above the billows hoary;Shine, through night and storm and sin,Tangled fate and bitter story,Guide the lost and wandering in!"
Now the last red ray is gone;Now the twilight shadows hie;Still the bell-notes, one by one,Send their soft voice to the sky,Praying, as with human lip,—"Angels, hasten, night is nigh,Take us to thy guardianship."
Slow buds the pink dawn like a roseFrom out night's gray and cloudy sheath;Softly and still it grows and grows,Petal by petal, leaf by leaf;Each sleep-imprisoned creature breaksIts dreamy fetters, one by one,And love awakes, and labor wakes,—The morning comes before the sun.
What is this message from the lightSo fairer far than light can be?Youth stands a-tiptoe, eager, bright,In haste the risen sun to see;Ah! check thy lunging, restless heart,Count the charmed moments as they run,It is life's best and fairest part,This morning hour before the sun.
When once thy day shall burst to flower,When once the sun shall climb the sky,And busy hour by busy hour,The urgent noontide draws anigh;When the long shadows creep abreast,To dim the happy task half done,Thou wilt recall this pause of rest,This morning hush before the sun.
To each, one dawning and one dew,One fresh young hour is given by fate,One rose flush on the early blue.Be not impatient then, but wait!Clasp the sweet peace on earth and sky,By midnight angels woven and spun;Better than day its prophecy,—The morning comes before the sun.
"Although St. Franceses was unwearied in her devotions, yet if, during her prayers, she was called away by her husband or any domestic duty, she would close the book cheerfully, saying that a wife and a mother, when called upon, must quit her God at the alter to find Him in her domestic affairs."—Legends of the Monastic Orders.
How infinite and sweet, Thou everywhereAnd all abounding Love, Thy service is!Thou liest an ocean round my world of care,My petty every-day; and fresh and fair,Pour Thy strong tides through all my crevices,Until the silence ripples into prayer.
That Thy full glory may abound, increase,And so Thy likeness shall be formed in me,I pray; the answer is not rest or peace,But charges, duties, wants, anxieties,Till there seems room for everything but Thee,And never time for anything but these.
And I should fear, but lo! amid the press,The whirl and hum and pressure of my day,I hear Thy garment's sweep, Thy seamless dress,And close beside my work and wearinessDiscern Thy gracious form, not far away,But very near, O Lord, to help and bless.
The busy fingers fly, the eyes may seeOnly the glancing needle which they hold,But all my life it, blossoming inwardly,And every breath is like a litany,While through each labor, like a thread of gold,Is woven the sweet consciousness of Thee.
Ah! grown a dim and fairy shade,Dear child, who, fifteen years ago,Out of our arms escaped and fledWith swift white feet, as if afraid,To hide beneath the grass, the snow,that sunny little head.
This is your birthday! Fair, so fair,And grown to gracious maiden-height,And versed in heavenly lore and ways;White-vested as the angels are,In very light of very light,Somehow, somewhere, you keep the day
With those new friends, whom "new" we call,But who are dearer now than we,And better known by fate and name:And do they smile and say, "How tallThe child becomes, how radiant, sheWho was so little when she came!"
Darling, we count your eighteen years,—Fifteen in Heaven, on earth but three,—And try to frame you grown and wise:But all in vain; there still appearsOnly the child you used to be,Our baby with the violet eyes.
A grievous day of wrathful winds,Of low-hung clouds, which scud and fly,And drop cold rains, then lift and showA sullen realm of upper sky.
The sea is black as night; it roarsFrom lips afoam with cruel spray,Like some fierce, many-throated packOf wolves, which scents and chases prey.
Crouched in my little wind-swept nook,I hear the menacing voices call,And shudder, as above the deckTopples and swings the weltering wall.
It seems a vast and restless grave,Insatiate, hungry, beckoningWith dreadful gesture of commandTo every free and living thing.
"O Lord," I cry, "Thou makest lifeAnd hope and all sweet things to be;Rebuke this hovering, following Death,—This horror never born of Thee."
A sudden gleam, the waves light upWith radiant momentary hues,—Amber and shadowy pearl and gold,Opal and green and unknown blues,—
And, rising on the tossing walls,Within the foaming valleys swung,Soft shapes of sea-birds, dimly seen,Flutter and float and call their young,
A moment; then the lowering cloudsSettle anew above the main,The colors die, the waves rise higher,And night and terror rule again.
No more I see the small, dim shapes,So unafraid of wind and wave,Nestling beneath the tempest's roar,Cradled in what I deemed a grave.
But all night long I lay and smiledAt thought of those soft folded wings,And trusting, with the trustful birds,In Him who cares for smallest things.
The boat cast loose her moorings;"Good-by" was all we said."Good-by, Old World," we said with a smile,And never looked back as we sped,A shining wake of foam behind,To the heart of the sunset red.
Heavily drove our plunging keelThe warring waves between;Heavily strove we night and day,Against the west-wind keen,Bent, like a foe, to bar our path,—A foe with an awful mien.
Never a token met our eyesFrom the dear land far away;No storm-swept bird, no drifting branch,To tell us where it lay.Wearily searched we, hour by hour,Through the mist and the driving spray,
Till, all in a flashing moment,The fog-veils rent and flew,And a blithesome south-wind caught the sailsAnd whistled the cordage through,And the stars swung low their silver lampsIn a dome of airy blue,
And, breathed from unseen distances,A new and joyous airCaressed our senses suddenlyWith a rapture fresh and rare."It is the breath of home!" we cried;"We feel that we are there."
O Land whose tent-roof is the domeOf Heaven's, purest sky,Whose mighty heart inspires the windOf glad, strong liberty,Standing upon thy sunset shore,Beside the waters high,
Long may thy rosy smile be bright;Above the ocean dinThy young, undaunted voice be heard,Calling the whole world kin;And ever be thy arms held outTo take the storm-tossed in!