TO J. H. AND E. W. H

 
  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 dust
  Of harder roads, which others tread, and must,—
 
 
  Your heritage of brightness, not a ray
  Of noontide sought you out, but straight away
  You 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.
 

PRELUDE

 
  Poems are heavenly things,
  And only souls with wings
  May reach them where they grow,
  May pluck and bear below,
  Feeding the nations thus
  With food all glorious.
 
 
  Verses are not of these;
  They bloom on earthly trees,
  Poised on a low-hung stem,
  And those may gather them
  Who cannot fly to where
  The heavenly gardens are.
 
 
  So I by devious ways
  Have pulled some easy sprays
  From the down-dropping bough
  Which all may reach, and now
  I knot them, bud and leaf,
  Into a rhymed sheaf.
 
 
  Not mine the pinion strong
  To win the nobler song;
  I only cull and bring
  A hedge-row offering
  Of berry, flower, and brake,
  If haply some may take.
 

COMMISSIONED

"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 ago
    Trod the same way-side dust with mine,
  And now up paths I do not know
    Speed, without sound or sign?
 
 
  What can I do? The perfect life
    All fresh and fair and beautiful
    Has 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 tenderness
    The heat of thy short day.
 
 
  Not much, but very sweet to give;
    And it is grief of griefs to bear
    That 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 not
    If I may give thee pleasure so):
  Out of my own dull, burdened lot
    I can arise, and go
 
 
  To sadder lives and darker homes,
    A messenger, dear heart, from thee
    Who wast on earth a comforter,
  And say to those who welcome me,
    I am sent forth by her.
 
 
  Feeling the while how good it is
    To do thy errands thus, and think
    It 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 love
    Nor 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 climb
    With following feet the heavenly stair
    Up which thy steps so lately sped,
  And, seeing thee so happy there,
    Come back half comforted.
 

THE CRADLE TOMB IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

 
  A little, rudely sculptured bed,
    With shadowing folds of marble lace,
  And quilt of marble, primly spread
    And folded round a baby's face.
 
 
  Smoothly the mimic coverlet,
    With royal blazonries bedight,
  Hangs, as by tender fingers set
    And straightened for the last good-night.
 
 
  And traced upon the pillowing stone
    A dent is seen, as if to bless
  The quiet sleep some grieving one
    Had leaned, and left a soft impress.
 
 
  It seems no more than yesterday
    Since the sad mother down the stair
  And 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 head
    Three centuries brood, and strangers peep
  And wonder at the carven bed,—
    But not unwept the baby's sleep,
 
 
  For wistful mother-eyes are blurred
    With sudden mists, as lingerers stay,
  And the old dusts are roused and stirred
    By the warm tear-drops of to-day.
 
 
  Soft, furtive hands caress the stone,
    And hearts, o'erleaping place and age,
  Melt into memories, and own
    A thrill of common parentage.
 
 
  Men die, but sorrow never dies;
    The crowding years divide in vain,
  And the wide world is knit with ties
    Of common brotherhood in pain;
 
 
  Of common share in grief and loss,
    And heritage in the immortal bloom
  Of Love, which, flowering round its cross,
    Made beautiful a baby's tomb.
 

"OF SUCH AS I HAVE."

 
  Love me for what I am, Love. Not for sake
  Of some imagined thing which I might be,
  Some brightness or some goodness not in me,
  Born of your hope, as dawn to eyes that wake
  Imagined 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 soon
  My hand would slip from yours, and by degrees
  The 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.
 

A PORTRAIT

 
  All sweet and various things do lend themselves
    And 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 world
    Of 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 shine
    And meaning of her brightly tranquil face.
 
 
  And like a tree, unconscious of her shade,
    She spreads her helpful branches everywhere
  For wandering bird or bee, nor is afraid
    Too 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!
 

WHEN?

 
  If I were told that I must die to-morrow,
             That the next sun
  Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow
             For 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 alter
             Aught that is gone;
  But rise and move and love and smile and pray
             For one more day.
 
 
  And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,
             Say in that ear
  Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping
             How 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 lie
  All the night long; and when the morning splendor
             Flashed 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 yonder
             Held out a scroll,
  On which my life was, writ, and I with wonder
             Beheld unroll
  To 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 miss
  The 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 revealeth
             Thy counsels wise;
  Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth,
             No voice replies
  To all my questioning thought, the time to tell,
             And it is well.
 
 
  Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing
               Thy will always,
  Through a long century's ripening fruition,
               Or a short day's.
  Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait
             If thou come late.
 

ON THE SHORE

 
    The punctual tide draws up the bay,
    With ripple of wave and hiss of spray,
  And the great red flower of the light-house tower
    Blooms on the headland far away.
 
 
    Petal by petal its fiery rose
    Out 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 dies
    On 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 light
    And 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 tower
    There still is place for a smile and a song.
 

AMONG THE LILIES

 
    She stood among the lilies
      In 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 her
      The buried lilies lie.
  They will awake at touch of Spring,
  And she, my fair and flower-like thing,
      In spring-time—by and by.
 

NOVEMBER

 
      Dry leaves upon the wall,
  Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape,
  A single frosted cluster on the grape
      Still 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 runes
      Of summer's whispering.
 
 
      Through balmy morns of May;
  Through fragrances of June and bright July,
  And August, hot and still, it hung on high
      And 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 thee
      Among the other grapes,
 
 
      Thou lonely tenant of the leafless vine,
  Granted the right to grow thy mates beside,
  To ripen thy sweet juices, but denied
      Thy place among the wine?
 
 
      Ah! we are dull and blind.
  The riddle is too hard for us to guess
  The why of joy or of unhappiness,
      Chosen or left behind.
 
 
      But everywhere a host