H tit «. & # _•¥ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, ?S « ^ 8 dljitp. ©ojujrigljt Ifa. Shelf. L±M* UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. < Copyright, 1895 BY GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD Entered at Stationers' Hall^ London '2-36/7J- Acknowledgment is due to The Century Magazine, The Atlantic Monthly, Lippincoif s Magazine, The Independent ', St. Nicholas, and The Wide Awake, in whose columns many of these poems have appeared. G. D. L. PAGE Day-Dreams i Flowertime Weather 5 Pain-Wrought 6 To the Cicada Septemdecim — Seventeen Year Locust 7 Life 9 To a Rosebud 10 The Milky Way 12 He and She 15 The Storm-King 17 The Beggar 21 The Dance 23 The Fog 25 A Dream of Happiness 27 vii Vlll CONTENTS. PAGE Opportunity 28 The Snow-Storm 30 A Mystery 32 Good-bye 35 Pain 37 To A Hurt Child 40 Courage 42 "I Cannot Kneel — I Cannot Pray " . . .44 " Mother, Mother, Can it Be?" . . . .46 The Sunlight 48 My Other Me 50 The Poet-Heart 52 An Enigma ......... 55 " Wedded, but not Mated " 56 In Life's Tunnel 58 The Song of the Cricket 59 In the Hospital 61 Sympathy 72 My Letter 73 Sweet Mother of my Dreams 75 Love Now ! 77 In the Teens 79 Listening 81 Master Shadow 83 CONTENTS. ix PAGE Love's Young Dream 86 The Way to be Happy 88 The Gift of Song 90 To A Wounded Moth 92 Swinging 94 Recognition 96 The Song of the Golden Rod 97 Good-Night, Mother 99 Remembrance 101 Midsummer 104 To my Father 106 My Friend 107 In my Window-Seat 109 "MIMOSA LEAVES." DAY— DREAMS /^)H sweet are the dreams that darkness brings,- The fragrant roses, that slumber flings Into the garden of night ; But sweeter far are the dreams that day- Drops all along life's weary way, Like dew-drops on the buds of May, To bless our waking sight. Oh beautiful, beautiful dreams, that fall Like tender moonlight, over all The dreary wastes of life, As if an angel went before, And gilded all the landscape o'er With the shadow of Heaven, where of yore Was only pain and strife. i DA Y-DREAMS. Oh beautiful dreams, that spring like flowers Out of the seeds of life's dark hours, Watered with tears of pain ; Flowers that bloom mid desert sands, Too frail to transplant to brighter lands, Too fair to be gathered by mortal hands, Too sweet to lose again. Oh beautiful, beautiful, waking dreams, That flow like forest-hidden streams By the foot-worn road of day ; Streams that go singing for Love's own sake ; Streams that their sweetest music make Out of the very stones that break The smoothness of their way. Oh exquisite dreams, that softly show Through the grey-spun veil of earthly woe, Like a star in twilight skies, Too far to make our own, — so near It tempts our grasp, — that pure and clear, DA Y-DREAMS. 3 On Night's dark cheek lies like a tear Wept from an angel's eyes. Oh dreams that rest on the life of youth Like bubbles that rise in the well of truth From the sombre depths below ; Bubbles that catch each ray of the sun, And mirror them upwards one by one, Till all the well — so cold — so dun — Gleams with a borrowed glow. Oh stars that vanish, oh flowers that fade, Oh streams that are lost in the woodland shade, Oh bubbles that break with a kiss, Oh dreams that from the buried roots Of secret sorrows, like green shoots Grow towards the light, yet bear no fruits, — Are ye less fair for this ? What though ye are but dreams — but dreams ? Ah brighter our lives e'en for transient gleams DA Y-D REAMS. Of hopes that ne'er may be ours ! Then pray for a dreamless sleep if ye will, — For a slumber no visions have power to thrill, — But oh, thank God that he gives us still, The dreams of our waking hours. , \17HEN you and I are together, That makes for me flowertime weather, Albeit the rain Beats harsh on the pane, And November lies brown on the lea. But alas for my flowertime weather When we are no longer together ! Though June hold the land In the palm of her hand, It is everywhere Winter to me. PA I N— ^CWR^pVGnT DAIN, Pain, the Creator Pain Is making a poet of me. He has flung my soul in the pit below Where his furnace fires the fiercest glow. He is feeding the flames with woe on woe. My heart must thrill with every throe That human creature can live to know. I must suffer that I may sing. Pain, Pain, the Creator Pain Is working his will with me. Ashes and ruin and havoc complete Has he wrought of all I held dear and sweet. My soul lies scarred in the scorching heat. My thoughts run riot with blazing feet, Like madmen through a deserted street. And because I suffer, I sing. 6 TO Tnt-CICADA U S LPTEADECIA DURIED at moment of thy birth Beneath the earth ; Hid thy life long afar From glimpse of nearest star ; Creeping in darkness while rich seasons roll, Year following year, above thy stunted soul ; Knowing but what the dead know in the tomb Of silence and of gloom, Dead, thou too, in thy present and thy past, — What call doth reach thy deafened ear at last ? What instinct bids thee yearn towards the light- Thou, who hast known but night ? What dream dawns in thee, beautiful and bold, 7 8 TO THE CICADA SEPTEMDECIM. Of sylvan flight in noons of shimmering gold, Where trembling trees their fluted leaves unfold ? How should such radiant dream be thine ? Or how canst thou divine The counting of the years ? For when their meted tale is told, Lo, summoned straightway from the mould By voice none other hears, — Lo, born anew, The dream thou could'st not dream, is true ! Thy sluggish spirit wakes, spreads wings away, And knows the Day. So, when God's time is done, may mystic call On my dull senses fall. So may I, groping upward through life's night, Go forth, new-winged, to an undreamed-of light ! VWHAT is this life, that we value it so ? A perishing flake of the sun-beaten snow. An atom of dust on the wings of the wind. A vanishing thought in the heart of mankind. Yet what is this life, that we question its power ? For the flake in dissolving, may water a flower, The wind bear a seed to a desolate knoll, And the thought, in its passing, have rescued a soul. f^H little timid Rose, ^ That if the Zephyr blows Tremblest with fear, Oh dainty tender one, That blushest if the Sun Glances anear, Yet fragile as thou art, The secret of thy heart Who thinks to win ? Closer than bars of gold Thy silken petals hold The prize within. 10 TO A ROSEBUD. II And Winds in vain may blow, And fiercest Sunbeams glow Above thy head ; For when thy sweet heart lies Open to eager eyes, — Lo, thou art dead ! CVENING has come ; and across the skies, — Out through the darkness, that, quivering, dies, — Beautiful, broad, and white, Fashioned of many a silver ray Stolen out of the ruins of Day, Grows the pale bridge of the Milky Way, Built by the Architect Night. Dim with shadows, and bright with stars, Hung like gold lights on invisible bars Stirred by the wind's low breath, Rising on cloud-shapen pillars of grey, Perfect it stands, like a tangible way Binding to-morrow with Yesterday, Reaching to Life from Death. 12 THE MILKY WAY, 1 3 Dark show the Heavens on either side ; Soft flows the Blue in a waveless tide Under the silver arch ; Never a footstep is heard below, Echoing earthward, as measured and slow, Over the bridge the still hours go, Bound on their trackless march. Is it a pathway leading to Heaven Over Earth's sin-clouds, rent and riven With its supernal light, Crossed by the souls of those who have flown Stilly away from our arms, and alone Up to the beautiful, great, white Throne Pass in the hush of night ? Is it the road that our wild dreams walk, Far beyond reach of our waking talk, Out to the vague and grand, — Far beyond Fancy's broadest range, Out to the world of marvel and change, 14 THE MILKY WA Y. Out to the mystic, unreal and strange, — Out to the Wonderland ? Is it the way that the angels take When they come down by night to wake Over the slumbering Earth ? Is it the way the faint stars go back, When the young Day drives them off from his track Into the distant mysterious Black Where their bright souls had birth ? What may it be ? Who may certainly say ? Over the shadowy Milky Way No human foot hath trod. Ages have passed ; but unsullied and white, Still it stands, fair as a rainbow of night, Held like a promise above our dark sight, Guiding our thoughts to God. IT E stood with his hand on the mane of his steed, All booted and spurred. Oh a true knight indeed, — A gallant young knight was he ! And she stood, fair and slender, all lily-white drest, So near, ah so near, reaching up to his breast As a rose on his heart laid she. The morning sun glistened o'er woodland and dell, And tenderly, wistfully, lovingly fell O'er the twain by the dewy green lea, i5 1 6 HE AND SHE. Kissed a light to her eyes and a bloom to her cheek, And a thought to his heart that he dared not speak, Though so close by her side stood he ! On his breast the sweet rosebud blushed redder for shame. On her cheek the pale color now went and now came. Was any one near to see ? For between their two hearts, like a visible word, Lay an unspoken Love. Oh, had any one heard ? No. No one but he and she. C? TAND back ! Stand back From my giant track ! Sweep the grey dust from the way ! See the pale grass bend ! See the great trees rend ! Hurrah ! I am Lord of the day ! I am Master and King Over everything — I am Monarch, and Earth must obey ! Weave me a gown Of yon cloud's black frown, Which shall keep me warm as I go. 2 17 1 8 THE STORM-KING. Pluck me a whip From the spars of yon ship And a staff from that forest below. And this tall church-spire Is the tip I desire For the arrow I set in my bow. I am King ! I am King ! The whole world shall ring My mad coronation bell ! Cities are shaking. Men's hearts are quaking. I will govern, oh strong and well ! I am coming ! I come ! Beat, beat the drum ! Let the echoes my advent tell ! Hurrah, oh hurrah ! Beneath moon and star How will I revel at night ! THE STORM-KING. 1 9 I will build me a fire Where hills stand higher, And scream and exult in its light, And write out my name, In red letters of flame, In cowering mortals' sight. I hiss and I mutter, And none knows if I utter Or blessing, or curse, or prayer. None knows what I speak ; Though I storm and I shriek, None interprets the message I bear. I rave and I rage, And Earth's wisest sage Hears no more than the brute in his lair ! I am King ! I am King ! And to me one thing Is beggar, or courtier, or pope. 20 THE STORM-KING. I thread into rags The proudest of flags, Or the end of the hangman's rope. I scoff in lords' faces. I jeer in high places. I shout on the graveyard's slope. Oh delight ! Oh joy ! The world is my toy ! Hurrah ! I am Lord of the day ! I rule all alone On my self-raised throne, And none may dispute my sway ! Then stand back ! Stand back ! Sweep the dust from my track ! I am Monarch, and Earth must obey ! & w tw A LL day, all the day, in the dust, in the heat, With maddening brain and with stag- gering feet, I stand on Life's highway, and beg my soul's meat. All day, all the day, in the cold, in the rain, Through days that are vapid and timeless with pain, I stretch out my hand to the rich — and in vain. Oh my soul is a-hungered — my soul is athirst ! It cries out to mortals as one God-accurst, Abandoned of Heaven, when life is at worst. 21 22 THE BEGGAR. Say, say, is there any 'neath Heaven's blue sky So beggared of faith, hope and courage as I ? Give, give, oh my brothers ! Give, give, or I die ! Shall I famish and faint in the midst of Life's mart, And ye who seem pitiful, spare not a part Of your souls' garnered wealth for one needy poor heart ? In vain ! Ye fling alms to the rags that ye meet ; But souls that lie naked and starved at your feet, These cry out unheard, and must die on the street. ET the music play ! I would dance alway — Dance till the dawn of the bright young day ! Wild notes are sounding — swift lights are glancing, And I — I am mad with the rapture of dancing — Mad with a breathless delight. With thine arm to enfold me, Thy strong hand to hold me, I could dance through an endless night. Doth the music play ? Or is it — oh say — But the sound of thy voice that I hear for alway ? 23 24 THE DANCE. Is it thy smile or the sweet lights glancing? Is it thy presence or only the dancing Makes the whole world so glad ? Love I — ah me ! Or the dance, or thee ? Am I mad ? Am I mad ? Am I mad ? Bid the music play ! Let us dance alway — Through all life — through all time — dance forever and aye ! Such wild notes are sounding ! Such bright lights are glancing ! And I — I am mad with the madness of dancing, — Of dancing ? — or dancing with thee ? In thy true love enfold me ! With thy strong heart uphold me ! Let us dance till earth ceases to be ! 5^= it fog It lies dim and cold on the face of the mould, Like a smile on the lips of the dead. As chill and as white, as dense and as light As the winding-sheet laid in the still of the night Over the funeral bed. 26 THE FOG. No pulse seems to throb, no voice dares to sob Beneath the grey calm of the cloud. A Hush holds the air with pale bands of despair, Too close to be pierced by a curse or a prayer, — The hush of a soul in its shroud. No stars in the sky ; no lights low or high ; No laughter ; no weeping ; no breath ; No murmur, no sound in the whole world around, But a Silence that lies blank and chill on the ground, Like the visible presence of Death. No murmur. No sound. Only white on the ground There creeps a thin Silence along, — Creeps near and more near, — oh so dim ! oh so drear ! Till I shiver, as one who has stood by a bier, And the words die away in my song. f^VNE sat and modelled a most perfect face ; And they who passed him, marvelling at its grace, Vowed never mortal breathed so blest as he Whose soul held dream of such divinity. He, as he wrought, cursed God. — This was his fate ; Conceiving Heaven, he lived without its gate. 27 T^HERE grew a rare floweret close by the way, And I said : " Such sweet blos- soms chance not every day. I must make it mine own in the time that I may." But an instant stayed I my steps and my song, Snatched the bud to my breast, and then hurried along To be foremost and first in the rush of the throng. 28 OP FOR TUNIT V. 2g The day it was long, and was dusty and hot ; But ambition compelled, and I rested me not ; And the flower that bloomed on my breast — I forgot. But when even came, weary and spent and foot- sore, When the dew laid the dust, and the day's toil was o'er, Then I thought of the blossom I gathered before. And I said : " Surely now at the last I may rest, And take joy in the end from Earth's sweetest and best." And my hand sought the bud where it lay on my breast. " All day hath it bloomed unregarded," I said, " But now shall it cheer me when daylight hath fled." Oh too tardy remembrance ! My flower was dead. j.« -^=3 © "55=> • $£=> © . © G=3> Q «=> T IGHTLY and whitely As wheat from the grain, Thickly and quickly As thoughts through the brain, So fast and so dumb, So the snowflakes come ; Swift, swift as the lays drop From glad poet-lips ; Soft, soft as the days drop From Time's finger-tips. Oh a-many, a-many ! Yet no sound from any. 30 THE SNOW-STORM, 3* Oh so fast, oh so fast ! Yet no track where they passed. Oh so fragile, so frail ! Yet no force can prevail To speed them or stay them. No prayer can outweigh them. They fall where they must Through the fathomless grey, And bring to Earth's dust, What of Heaven they may. ^AYSTLRy IFE held in her hands a measure, And swung it lightly and low ; And she said : I will see if my pleasure Do not outweigh my woe. And she gathered all stingless laughter, All loves that were lasting and sure, All joys that left memories after, All wealth that was wingless and pure ; She gathered all sunlight and starlight, All thornless and fadeless flowers ; She gathered the faint light and far light Of pangless and perfect hours ; She gathered all glimpses elysian That never had blasted the soul, All hopes that had held to fruition, 32 A MYSTERY. 33 All talents that won to the goal, All wisdom that never had saddened, All truths that never had lied, All ambitions that never had maddened, All beauty that satisfied. And she flung them all, all in her measure, But they nothing outbalanced the pain ; And she said : I must add yet a treasure, The kindest and best in my train. And she reached out and took Death, and laid it All restful and calm on the scale ; Yet pain, as before, still outweighed it, And she sighed as she said : Could this fail ? Then she reached up to merciful Heaven, Took down and flung over Earth's strife, A little pale hope all unproven, — The hope of a measureless life ; Flung it down with a doubting and wonder, With question and touch of disdain ; When lo, swift the light scale went under ; — Life's woe was outweighed by Life's gain. 3 34 A MYSTERY. Oh strange, oh most strange ! If the measure Of all mortal days be but woe Compared with their acme of pleasure, Life mused, as she swung the scale low, Why then should it lessen Earth's sorrow, Why magnify Death's consequence, To believe in a timeless to-morrow ? And Life held the scale in suspense. V\7E say it for an hour or for years ; We say it smiling, say it choked with tears ; We say it coldly, say it with a kiss ; And yet we have none other word than this, — Good-bye. We have no dearer word for our heart's friend. To him who journeys to the world's far end And scars our soul with going, thus we say As unto him who but steps o'er the way, — Good-bye. 35 36 GOOD-B YE. Alike to those we love and those we hate, We say no more in parting. At life's gate, To one who passes out beyond Earth's sight, We cry as to the wanderer for a night, Good-bye. I AM a Mystery that walks the Earth Since man began to be. Sorrow and Sin stood sponsors at my birth, And Terror christened me. More pitiless than Death, who gathereth His victims day by day, I doom man daily to desire Death, And still forbear to slay. More merciless than Time, I leave man Youth, And suck life's sweetness out. More cruel than Despair, I show man Truth, And leave him strength to doubt. 37 38 PAIN. I bind the freest in my subtle band. I blanche the boldest cheek. I hold the hearts of poets in my hand, And wring them ere they speak. I walk in darkness over souls that bleed. I shape each as I go To something different. I sow the seed Whence grapes or thistles grow. No two that dream me, dream the self-same face. No two name me alike. A Horror without form I fill all space. Across all time I strike. Look how man cringes to mine unseen rod ! Kings own my sovereignty. Though seers but prove me as they prove a God, Yet none denieth me. PAIN. 39 I come ! I come ! Life's monster Mystery, I come, to bless or damn. Kneel, kneel, vain soul ! Helpless, acknowledge me ! Thou feelest that / a??i I \ 17 HAT, are you hurt, Sweet ? So am I ; Cut to the heart ; Though I may neither moan nor cry, To ease the smart. Where was it, Love ? Just here ! So wide Upon your cheek ! Oh happy pain that needs no pride, And may dare speak. Lay here your pretty head. One touch Will heal its worst. 40 TO A HURT CHILD, 41 While I, whose wound bleeds overmuch, Go all unnursed. There, Sweet. Run back now to your play. Forget your woes. I too was sorely hurt this day ; — But no one knows. cou TJ AST thou made shipwreck of thy happiness ? Yet, if God please, Thou 'It find thee some small haven none the less, In nearer seas, Where thou mayst sleep for utter weariness, If not for ease. The port thou dreamed'st of thou shalt never reach, Though gold its gates, And wide and fair the silver of its beach. 42 COURAGE. 43 For sorrow waits To pilot all whose aims too far outreach, Towards darker straits. Yet so no soul divine thou art astray, On this cliff's crown Plant thou a victor flag ere breaks the day Across night's brown, And none shall guess it doth but point the way Where a bark went down. «7*ttii*n*i* ($nt*(~ J*eaii ♦ nof 'prey F CAN not kneel — I can not pray — My dumb heart has no words to say. My stubborn knees refuse to bend. They kneel who pray, and to what end Should I kneel, who can make no prayer Out of my agonized despair ? My sorrow lies beyond the reach Of any form of human speech. God is so great, and I so weak ; How can so hurt a creature speak ? 44 / CAN NOT KNEEL — / CAN NOT PR A Y. 45 How move Him to undo the woe ? — Calm with the vastness of the blow, I can but gaze with stricken eyes Out into His imperial skies, Drop my vain hands upon my breast, And feel what God wills must be best. I\/l OTHER, Mother, can it be There lives any besides me Who has known this agony ? Mother, oh Mother, when they said That thy sweetest soul had fled, It was I who died instead. Thee they laid away to sleep Out of sight of all who weep. Me unburied still they keep. 46 MOTHER, MOTHER, CAN IT BE? 47 Who will show them I am dead ? Who will ask that o'er my head Moan be made and prayers be said ? I am more dead than thou art. Love lies spoiling at my heart. Who dares keep us twain apart ? Dead, I know no more men's faith. Dead, I hear not what God saith. I am no more but a wraith. Restless, ghost-like, to and fro, Haunting thy dear home below, Speechless day by day I go ; Conscious only of a pain Rends my very soul in twain, Robs me of Heaven and makes Earth vain. For Mother, Mother, thou art where ? Art not here, and art not there. And seeking, I but find — despair. "THE Sunlight, the Sunlight, It cometh apace ! It breaks through the dun light Of Night-shadowed space ! It comes with a glimmer, A sparkle and shimmer. The moon showeth dimmer, The planets give place ! It bendeth, it rendeth Night's prisoning bars ! Exultant out-sendeth Its voiceless hurrahs ! 48 THE SUNLIGHT. 49 O'er bulwarks and bowers It scatters bright showers, Like luminous flowers Grown out of the stars ! Oh souls that lie sleeping In doubt and in night, Wake, wake from your weeping ! Day comes, in despite Of cavil or grieving. Man's best of Believing, Is but the receiving Of Heavenly Light. er } /CHILDREN, do you ever In walks by land or sea, Meet a little maiden Long time lost to me ? She is gay and gladsome, Has a laughing face, And a heart as sunny ; And her name is Grace. Naught she knows of sorrow, Naught of doubt or blight. 50 MY OTHER ME. 5 1 Heaven is just above her. All her thoughts are white. Long time since I lost her, That other Me of mine. She crossed into Time's shadow, Out of Youth's sunshine. Now the darkness keeps her, And call her as I will, The years that lie between us, Hide her from me still. I am dull and pain-worn, And lonely as can be. Oh children, if you meet her, Send back my other Me ! J he Joef (Jleart /^NE day, in Time's sunniest ages, Fair Life, and her servant Pain, Her workman, who works without wages, And wiser who is than all sages That follow the stars in her train, Together, in friendliest fashion Sat framing a poet-heart ; And with infinite care and compassion, Life chose out each charm and each passion, And blent them with marvellous art. Fairer, she cried, than Earth's fairest, This lovely spirit shall be, 52 THE POET HEART. 53 Enriched with all gifts that are rarest. See to it no power thou sparest In moulding my poet for me. Here are days that are golden and sunny, And a heart made to gather their light, And hold it as purses hold money,— To hold it as flowers hold honey, And tremble and thrill with delight. Take, take, without stint, without measure, Of all that I have that is best ; Of beauty, of love and of pleasure Take richly, and make at thy leisure A poet to sing me to rest. And so from her full store of graces, Fair Life, with a smile, gave the whole, While Pain, with the stillest of faces, And fingers whose touch left no traces, Wrought her of these a soul. 54 THE POET HEART. Then he stood up and said : It is ended, And held forth his soul to the light, — A wondrous creation, where blended Strange shadows, and sunlight so splendid It darkened all else to the sight. Life took and beheld it in gladness. Such, cried she, true poets should be, — All ecstasy, rapture and sadness, Created in moments of madness, And fashioned, oh Pain, by thee. This, sure, is thy ripest endeavor, Cried Life, smiling soft as she spoke. Now poet-heart, sing on forever ! But alas ! Earth will hear its song never. Pain touched it once more. — And it broke. AN ENICAA T^O have not, is to long for with desire. To have, is but to lose. To lose, is to remember and expire. How may one rightly choose ? Between a want, a loss, a lifelong pain, What, saving death, hath any soul of gain ? 55 ncJtoJ^loafed \17EDDING bells and death-knells Ringing forth together. (Shines the sun ? or is it dun ? Or is it stormy weather ?) Oh woe the knells ! oh joy the bells That sob and shout in chime ! They bid to a marriage and funeral carriage At one and the self-same time. Wedding bells and death-knells Ringing forth together. (Be there sun or be there none, What care I for the weather ?) 56 WEDDED, BUT NOT MATED. $? They toll, they toll, for a tortured soul. They call to a marriage feast. One shall be wedded, one be buried, And both by the self-same priest. Wedding bells and death-knells Ringing forth together. (Falls the rain upon the pane ? *T is time for saddest weather !) Funeral knells and marriage bells. A shroud and a wedding ring. A soul is wed. A soul is dead. The bells have ceased to swing. DORNE by a Power resistless and unseen We know not whither, We look out through the gloom with troubled mien. How came we hither ? Darkness before and after. Blank, dim walls On either side, Against which our dull vision beats and falls, Met and defied. Shrouded in mystery that leaves no room To guess aright, We rush, uncertain, to a certain doom. — When lo, the light ! 58 THECRJCKLT VES, the world is big, but I '11 do my best Since I happen to find myself in it, And I '11 sing my loudest out with the rest, Though I 'm neither a lark nor a linnet, And strive towards the goal with as tireless zest, Though I know I may never win it. For shall no bird sing but the nightingale ? No flower bloom but the rose? 59 60 THE SONG OF THE CRICKET. Shall lesser stars quench their torches pale When Mars through the midnight glows ? Shall only the highest and greatest prevail ? May nothing seem white but the snows ? Nay, the world is so big that it needs us all To make audible music in it. God fits a melody e'en to the small. We have nothing to do but begin it. So I '11 chirp my merriest out with them all, Though I 'm neither a lark nor a linnet ! /^ RIMED with misery, want, and sin, From a drunken brawl they brought him in, While tearless-eyed around his bed, They whispered coldly : He is dead, And looked askance as they went past, And said : Best so. He has sinned his last. But the Doctor came and declared : Not so. A fragment of life yet lies aglow. And day and night beside the bed, He bent his skilful, earnest head ; 61 62 IN THE HOSPITAL. By night, by day, with toil, with pain, Coaxed back the worthless life again ; Coaxed back the life so nearly told, And the man returned to his ways of old, — Returned unchanged to his old, sad ways, And sinned and sinned to the end of his days. And the Doctor wrote in his private book : Sin, Sorrow, Wrong, where'er I look. I have saved a hideous life. And why ? That a man curse God again, and die. n. The mother smiled through her wretchedness, For the new-born babe lay motionless. And the nurses looked at her ringless hand. Best dead, they said. We understand. IN THE HOSPITAL. 63 But the Doctor came and declared : Not so. A fragment of life yet lies aglow. And wrestling close and long with Death, He brought again the faltering breath, And gave the poor unwelcome life Back to the mother who was not wife. And she took it with loathing and bore off in shame The babe for whom Earth had no place when it came. And the Doctor wrote in his private book : Sin, Sorrow, Wrong, where'er I look. I have saved a needless life. And why ? That a babe risk Heaven ere it die. in. With pitying hands and gentle feet, They bore in a child struck down on the street, 64 IN THE HOSPITAL. Mangled and bruised in every limb, With brow snow-cold and blue eyes dim. And they kissed the silk hair on his golden head, And sobbed : Thank God, the sweet child is dead. But the Doctor came and declared : Not so. A fragment of life yet lies aglow. And day and night, beside the bed, He bent his skilful, earnest head, With patience, care, and tireless pain, Won back the broken life again ; Won it back from the brink of Death's calm river, To struggle, and sicken, and suffer forever ; Won it back from the merciful shores of the dead, To lie through slow years on a terrible bed. And the Doctor wrote in his private book : Sin, Sorrow, Wrong, where'er I look. BEYOND THE HOSPITAL. 6$ I have saved a sorrowful life. And why ? That a child taste of Hell ere men let him die. And the Doctor closed his book, and said : Three live by me who best were dead. The Doctor's work was done. He lay Upon his death-bed, old and gray, With the look on his face as of one who has wept, And has labored and watched while his fellows have slept. And he folded his hands on his weary breast, And murmured : Come, Death. I am ready for rest. God judge of me lightly. I did what I could, And yet have wrought evil in striving for good. 5 66 BEYOND THE HOSPITAL. And swiftly, lo, all space was riven To where the Angels stood in Heaven. And he heard one say : A wise man dies. Is it time I went down and closed his eyes ? Not yet, they said. 'T is in his book : Sin, Sorrow, Wrong, where'er I look. Is he ready for Heaven who needs to learn first, God's hand brings a blessing e'en out of life's worst ? Not yet, said they. This wise man said : Three live by me who best were dead. Is he ready for death, knowing not what life meant, That no being lives but to some good intent ? And the Angels stood beside his bed. Unlearn Earth's falsehoods, friend, they said. BEYOND THE HOSPITAL. 6j And the Doctor uplifted his questioning gaze, And saw through the world and its innermost ways, Where grovelled a mortal, close wrapped in his sin, Degraded without and degraded within. God forgive ! groaned the Doctor. I am the cause Yon creature yet liveth to transgress Thy laws. Speak soft, said the Angels. How mayest thou tell What moment of sinning condemns him to Hell ? Or how knowest thou but some late day of grace May find, e'en for him, in high Heaven a place ? Leave God to adjudge him. Thou seest in part ; Thou look'st at the life ; God looks at the heart. Oh pity him, help him ! but dare not to say It were better to shorten his life by a day ; For as red flags of danger warn off from the road, So yon erring soul hath led many to God. 68 BEYOND THE HOSPITAL. The Doctor smiled softly : I understand. God holds, e'en for sinners, some work in His hand. And he turned his wondering eyes away To where a cradled infant lay, While the mother hung o'er it with love and with shame, For she gave it a life, but could give it no name. God forgive ! cried the Doctor. The babe but for me, Had been spared all knowledge of Earth's infamy. Speak soft, said the Angels. That babe is the link To draw her soul back from destruction's brink. There is nobler work given those puny hands, Than falls to the lot of the Angel bands. Oh pity it, shield it ! but dare not to say It were better to shorten its life by a day : BEYOND THE HOSPITAL. 69 For sweeter is Rest, won through danger and toil : And purer is Purity treasured through soil. The Doctor smiled softly : The longer our strife, The nobler is winning the heavenly life. And he turned his tear-dim eyes away To where a child complaining lay, Struggling and spent with incurable pain, While Death stood aloof, and science was vain. God forgive ! moaned the Doctor. The child, but for me, Had never awakened to life's cruelty. Speak soft, said the Angels. How mayest thou know What beautiful growth comes to Earth of his woe ? Oh pity him, love him ! but dare not to say It were better to shorten his life by a day : fO BEYOND THE HOSPITAL. For like flowers that spring but on sunless knolls, Some graces bloom only in tortured souls. And a hundred hearts, all for the sake of that one, Are learning the beauty of duties done ; Are learning unselfishness, thoughtfulness, care, By the side of that pain which they may not share. And the sufferer — Heaven deserteth such not ; God's arm is around him ; envy his lot. Amen ! said the Doctor. God stoops to the weak. 'T is they who are strongest have farthest to seek. Oh, blessed all lives, since for each God hath use, Despite of sin, sorrow, and wrong, and abuse ! I thank Thee, I thank Thee, O God, that those three Whose lives I deplored are yet living by me. BEYOND THE HOSPITAL. n Then low spoke the Angels : Now tell it in Heaven A glad soul the more to our fair Realm is given. And the sunlight fell soft as God's kiss on his head, And men stooped o'er him weeping, and said : He is dead. But his lips wore a smile of supremest content And of infinite calm. For he knew what Life meant. >$tj:mpailw~ CRIEND, art thou drown- ing ? So am I. Hold by my hand. Nearer is my vain help, than help From yonder land. Friend, art thou starving? So, too, I. Therefore I come To thee — not to the over-fed — To ask a crumb. Friend, hast thou nothing ? Less have I. Yet beggared ones Give more to those who beg than e'er Earth's richest sons. 72 s\ Letter CROM far away, from far away, It journeyed swiftly night and day. It rested not. With cruel haste It crossed the ocean's trackless waste. It swerved no moment in its flight Through mist and storm and deepest night. No mercy prompted it to stay, No pity moved it to delay. O'er seas that rose up to detain, Silent as Death it sped amain. Through cities crowding close and strong, Undazed, untired, it fled along. No voice cried out through all the land. Great Heaven saw, yet stirred no hand. No angel, kinder than the rest, Held his white shield before my breast. 73 74 MY LETTER. Across the land, across the sea, Straight, swift, and sure, it came to me ! Unlet, unhindered, undeterred, Straight, swift and sure, it brought me word ! CWEET Mother of my dreams, Come, come to-night ! How can I meet an added morrow, Till thou bring solace to my sorrow, Cleaving life's pain By night in twain ? Sweet Mother of my dreams, Bring love ! Bring peace ! As day is death by loss of thee, So night is life by gift of thee, Albeit I waken, Twofold forsaken. • 75 7 6 SWEET MOTHER OF MY DREAMS. Sweet Mother of my dreams, Thank God for thee ! Not all Christ's mercy is forsworn, While I, sometimes, twixt dusk and morn, Still touch thy hand, In slumber-land. YfOU will love me the day I lie dying. Oh love me then living, While yet from a full heart replying, I give to your giving. What gain hath my lifetime of loving, If you pass it all by, To give me back treble my loving In the hour I die ? All anguish, all maddest adoring Will be vain in that day. Though you knelt to me then with imploring, What word could I say ? 77 78 LOVE NOW. Oh love me then now, that it quicken My heart's failing breath ! Why wait, till to love is to sicken At the coldness of death ? QJn itk DUTTERFLIES, and treasure Of buds that crowd the green ; Sunshine without measure ; Silvern days of leisure ; Hearts too full of pleasure ; — April — and Thirteen. Books and half beginnings ; Rains, with lights between ; Pangs o'er fancied sinnings ; Toils, with rose-leaved innings ; Losses matched with winnings ; — Maytime — and Sixteen. 79 8o IN THE TEENS. Dreams, with dim regrettings ; Storms and blinding sheen ; Gains, with griefs for frettings ; Jewels, in crushed settings ; Wounds, salved with forgettings ;- June — July — Nineteen ! T LISTEN and I listen For one I long to greet, And I hear the ceaseless passing Of footsteps on the street. I hear them coming, coming, — So straight, so sure, so fast ; And I hush my heart to hearken. But all the feet go past. Will it be so forever ? As on my bed I lie, Counting the pleasures coming, Will every one go by ? • 81 82 LISTENING. Or may it one day happen, That when I hark no more, Some late lone joy, unnoticed, Will linger at my door ? 'M afraid of my shadow, it goes such a pace, As if to rush forward and look in my face If I turn the least bit ; or when for a space I take pains not to move, Then that queer thing above That is me, yet not me, grows so big on the wall, That I draw in my breath and don't like it at all What is it ? And why should it watch me by night ? Perhaps it 's the ghost of that me-by-daylight That I ran such a race with over the tan, And could n't outrun, though I raced like a man. It has followed me in from my play Right out of the heat of the day, And is cooling and cooling away 83 84 MASTER SHADOW. To be ripe and ready for fun With the dawn of to-morrow's sun. Oh my shadow and I, in the brilliant daylight, We are very close friends, — but I hate him by night ! I can't sleep a wink, It is so odd to think That I am down here in my snug little bed All the time I'm up there, too, above my own head. It 's excessively queer, And not very clear, If I am my shadow, or my shadow is me. But what makes it shake so ? Perhaps — can it be, That my shadow is really as frightened of me As I am of it ? Then why does it sit In this room where I am ? It need n't to stay. I shall not feel ready for frolic till day, And it 's perfectly welcome to go quite away MASTER SHADOW. 85 Downstairs to the rest, And indeed — 't would be best. Oh some one, do come ! Do put out the light ! He 's gone ! Oh, I 'm glad. Master Shadow, good-night. ,4^ 7 Lit %€ff v AGUE as the shadows neath April-leafed trees, Is Love's young Dream. Light as a thistledown tossed on the breeze, Is Love's young Dream. Frail as a fibre of frost-woven lace — Dim as the thought of a phantom face — Faint as the footprints of planets through space, Is Love's young Dream. Oh brilliant and cold as the moon on the snow, Is Love's young Dream ! Oh pulseless in bliss and unwounded in woe, Is Love's young Dream ! 86 LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 87 Shallow as brooklets that laugh as they run, And soulless as starlight when dawn is begun ! Oh unlike to Love as glowworm to sun, Is Love's young Dream ! 1VFEVER to want what one may not have, — Always to want what one may. Never to long for the love that is lost, Nor by night to remember the day. To be fonder of Winter than Summer or Spring. To be fonder of leaves than of flowers. To be fonder of toil than of riches and rest, And of pain than of pleasureful hours. To demand nothing more of the heart one loves best, Than the least one would grant to one's foe. 88 THE WA Y TO BE HAPPY. 89 To ask no return for the gift of one's all, Save the loan of a heartache or so. To believe there is purpose and beauty in woe. To believe that to fail is to win. To stand in Hope's graveyard alone, and prefer The Now to the What-might-have-been. \X/HEN I was born God stood in Heaven, and asked : What wilt thou, Soul ? I said : The Gift of Song ; I ask no more than this — that I may sing. God sighed, and lo, Grief fell From out high Heaven and smote me on the heart. I cried aloud for pain, and beat my breast. But all my cries were music, and men list, And feasted on the sweetness of my woe. While I, I hid my face, And knew not day from night for agony. Oh God, I cried, take back thy poisoned gift, The gift of Song ! Let me be dumb forever, only so My pain have ease ! 90 THE GIFT OF SONG. 91 Then God did hear again, and stooped Him down And drew the burning arrow from my side ; And silence fell on me ; my pulse stood still, My lips closed softly, and I sang no more. But men turned from me, saying : He is dead. \X7HAT help have I for thee, frail thing, Least of thy clan, Battling 'gainst fate with bruised wing ? Albeit I hold thee in my hand, Farther am I from thee than stand The stars from man. Dost thou cry out ? Dost thou make moan ? I hear thee not. Thy worst pain thou must bear alone. The utmost pity on my part Can drop no balsam to thy heart. It is thy lot. 92 TO A WOUNDED MOTH. 93 And yet, more merciful to thee Than Heaven to us Through year-long plaint of agony, — More kind than He, of whom in vain, Kneeling, we beg surcease of pain, I kill thee — thus. wmamy TTIGHER, higher, farther away, Swing me — swing me — swing me ! Up to the tree-top, up to the sky, So that none other has swung so high ! I will out-fly the bees and the birds and the winds. I will out-soar the song of the lark. I will reach to the clouds. I will shout in blue space. I will laugh in the shadowy silver face Of the moon, as she sits in the dark ! Oh higher, oh higher, oh farther away, Swing me — swing me — swing me ! See how I cleave the dim air in my flight, Like a dart from an unseen bow. 94 SWINGING. 95 See how I leap through the gloom of the night, Like a vision of sudden and sweetest delight Shot through a lifetime of woe ! Upward, upward, upward alway, Like a spirit set free from its prison of clay, That speeds through the ether away and away To a world that none else of us know ! Oh higher, oh higher, oh farther away Swing me — swing me — swing me. No higher ? No higher ? No higher ? Oh swing me — swing me — swing me ! Can I stop so far short of my nearest desire ? Is it so childish, so vain, to aspire ? Oh swing me, and swing me, and swing me ! I would soar far above me. Oh help if you love me ! Oh lend me the charm of love's powerful arm ! Nay, faster and faster ! Oh farther, I pray ! Can the dream end so soon ? I was more than half-way. Oh swing me ! Oh swing me ! Oh swing me ! A S erst with thee, oh Psyche, so me-seems My wandering hands touched Love once in my dreams. Asleep he lay. Around us drooped the night. No gracious starbeam lent revealing light. I saw his form not, nor his matchless grace. And yet, unlike to thee, Need was not I should look him in the face. By that one touch, all in a moment's space, I knew him for a God ! 96 \ v%jjAe Jena cf ^"£ tic (7c/clen ~rce/ (~\K not in the morning of ^^^ April or May, When the young light lies faint on the sod And the wind-flower blooms for the half of a day, — Not then comes the Golden- Rod ! But when the bright year has grown vivid and bold With its utmost of beauty and strength, Then it leaps into life, and its banners unfold Along all the land's green length. 97 98 THE SONG OF THE GOLDEN-ROD. It is born in the glow of a great high noon. It is wrought of a bit of the sun. Its being is set to a golden tune In a golden summer begun. No cliff is too high for its resolute foot, No meadow too bare or too low. It asks but the space for its fearless root, And the right to be glad and to grow. It delights in the loneliest waste of the moor, And mocks at the rain and the gust. It belongs to the people. It blooms for the poor. It thrives in the roadside dust. It endures though September wax chill and unkind. It laughs on the brink of the crag, Nor blanches when forests turn white in the wind. Though dying, it holds up its flag ! Its bloom knows no stint — its gold no alloy, And we claim it forever as ours, — God's symbol of Freedom and world-wide Joy — America's flower of flowers ! r^ OOD-NIGHT, Mother. Thou dost sleep, While my lonely watch I keep. Suns blaze brightly overhead ; Moons pass by with silver tread ; Night and day, and day and night Alternate with shade and light. But I know no change. To me All is dark apart from thee. My life lost its whole of light, When I bade thee, dear, good-night. Good-night, Mother dear, good-night. Soft thy slumbers be and light. Though I call thee through the years, — Call with passion of wild tears, — 99 100 GOOD NIGHT, MOTHER. May no dream of my unrest Cross the quiet of thy breast ; May no memory of me, Agonized on earth for thee, Come to grieve thee or affright. Good-night, Mother dear, Good-night. Good-night, oh my dearest. Sleep. God hide from thee that I weep. Sleep, sleep, Mother, while I wake Life's long night through for thy sake, Bound up heart and soul and brain In a timeless stretch of pain, — In a blank mid-night of sorrow That has neither moon nor morrow. God so wills. It must be right. Thine the Slumber, mine, the Night. BKANCE, jTlieson our life like the stars on the sea, Like the dew on the face of the flower, Like the shade on the sun- dazzled stretch of the lea, Like the snow on the storm-beaten boughs of the tree, Like the light on the wings of the shower. It comes as faith comes to the nun on her knees, As day dawns on the timorous sky. It thrills through our souls as in summer the breeze 101 102 REMEMBRANCE. Falls over the slumbering green of the trees, And stirs them to trembling reply. From the sunset-hued realm of the shadowy Past, Its wonderful flight it comes winging, With odors of blossoms that drooped in the blast, With starbeams that vanished when skies were o'er- cast, And music that hushed in the singing. And scars of old sorrows, ghosts of dead pain That left us all faint and weak hearted, With droppings of tears that were once as hot rain. These too doth it bring us, and bringing again, Reveals that their sting is departed. So it links the pale Past and the Present in one With a ladder of vacillant light, Along which, dim-footed and opal-robed, run Hand in hand with To-day all the days that are done, Crowned each with its crown of delight. REMEMBRANCE. IO3 Thus it gleams with a transient rainbow ray Through the clouds of Earth's tempest-torn places, And does for us, living, what Death does one day, When he stoops o'er us, dying, and kisses away Life's woe from our wearyful faces. A WIDE still valley, placid and deep, Where shadows, dream-like, gather and creep, And the sunlight lies like a smile asleep. A gleaming mass of yellow wheat, That runs through the green like a golden street, Trodden all day by light butterflies' feet. A silver stretch of quivering corn, That stands adroop in the sheeny morn Like hearts with secrets too great to be borne. 104 MIDSUMMER. I OS Far glimpses of flowers ; tangles of fern ; Dim dazzles of dew-drops that shiver and burn ; Wild brooks, like bright fancies that turn and return. Wide over the whole a suggestion of peace, As of life and of beauty too perfect to cease, Like the glamour lent by the Golden Fleece. Tl A S a flower that blooms for the many, Blooms richer in rain and in gloom, And though planted by rudest of hands, Rejoices the vale where it stands, Albeit it grow on a tomb, So a memory dear beyond any I lay on life's barren despair, That haply, unfolding apace, Its nobleness, courage, and grace May enshadow my soul unaware. 106 \17'ITH a forehead serene and the gait of a queen She is threading life's sorrowful maze. Of her blessed evangel is none other sign Than that lift of her head, and a courage divine In the exquisite calm of her gaze. But to walk where she leads is to hold by high creeds ; To feel stirrings of wings in the soul ; To make spurs of one's fetters and moons of mid- nights ; Of dim deserts make Pisgahs, — of falls eagle- flights That shall sweep at one stretch to the goal. 107 io8 MY FRIEND. And remembering her is afar to recur To vows made by her side unafraid ; To grow strong with her strength ; to be girt with her grace, And to pattern one's soul by the look in her face, To receive Truth's supreme accolade. AM sitting in my window-seat, And all the world is still ; Only the shadows 'neath my feet Are creeping up the hill, And the shadows above are stooping down As if to lay o'er the sleeping town The folded mantle, soft and brown, They have dropped to my window-sill. More dim, more dense the twilight grows ; A silence falls on Earth As if it waited for the throes Of some immortal birth, log IIO IN MY WINDO W-SEA T. The stars throb out with fitful light, Like a golden pulse in the veins of night, And across the heavens thin and white, Stretches the silver girth. Then out upon the quivering dark — The palpitating sky — Athwart the gloom that seems to hark A decree that bids it die, Dropped from a hand beyond our sight There falls the glittering long moonlight, Like a sword down-flashing through the night That it severs in passing by. And as if wakened at the touch To tremulous delight, Yet tinged with earthliness overmuch, Come the voices of the night. Now sad as notes of mortals are, Now sweet, mysterious and far As from seraphs poised on a distant star, But winged for nearer flight. IN MY WINDOW-SEAT. Ill My soul, borne upward with the sweep Of the solemn exultant lay, Borne on by the music grave and deep Is lost in the pathless grey. Around me are living thoughts astir. Above Truths interlace and blur. Beneath lie shadows of things that were, And dreams dreamed through by day. And as I watch, lo, over all, O'er sea, and hill, and wood, A wondrous presence seems to fall Out of the clouds that brood, — Something immeasurably grand, As if the shadow of God's hand An instant lay across the land, And near us Angels stood. And a holy murmur fills the air — A strange delicious thrill — 112 IN MY WIN DO W-SEA T. As if men's hearts awoke in prayer To listen to God's will, And, listening, heard a summons sweet Beyond compare, and ceased to beat. And I sit alone in my window-seat, And the world is very still. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 012 225 393 4 £