Imatges de pÓgina
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"Greeting!" "And may you speak, indeed?"

All in the dark her sense grew clearer; She knew that she had, for company, All day an angel near her.

"May you tell us of the life divine,

To us unknown, to angels given?" "Count me your earthly joys, and I May teach you those of heaven."

"They say the pleasures of earth are vain ; Delusions all, to lure from duty; But while God hangs his bow in the rain, Can I help my joy in beauty? "And while he quickens the air with song, My breaths with scent, my fruits with flavor,

Will he, dear angel, count as sin
My life in sound and savor?

"See, at our feet the glow-worm shines, Lo! in the east a star arises;

And thought may climb from worm to world

Forever through fresh surprises:

"And thought is joy. . . . And, hark! in the vale

Music, and merry steps pursuing; They leap in the dance,- a soul in my blood

Cries out, Awake, be doing!

"Action is joy; or power at play,
Or power at work in world or emprises:
Action is life; part from the deed,"
More from the doing rises."

"And are these all?" She flushed in the dark.

"These are not all. I have a lover; At sound of his voice, at touch of his hand, The cup of my life runs over.

"Once, unknowing, we looked and neared,

And doubted, and neared, and rested

never,

Till life seized life, as flame meets flame, To escape no more forever.

"Lover and husband; then was love

The wine of my life, all life enhancing: Now 't is my bread, too needful and sweet To be kept for feast-day chancing.

“I have a child." She seemed to change ; The deep content of some brooding creature

Looked from her eyes. "O, sweet and strange!

Angel, be thou my teacher:

"When He made us one in a babe,

Was it for joy, or sorest proving! For now I fear no heaven could win Our hearts from earthly loving.

"I have a friend. Howso I err,

I see her uplifting love bend o'er me; Howso I climb to my best, I know Her foot will be there before me.

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THE curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept

And strewn with rushes; rosemary and may

Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.

He leaned above me, thinking that I slept, And could not hear him; but I heard him say,

"Poor child! poor child!" and as he

turned away, Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold

That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Orruffle the smooth pillows for my head. He did not love me living: but once dead

He pitied me; and very sweet it is

To know he still is warm, though I am cold.

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THE SUNFLOWER.

TILL the slow daylight pale,

A willing slave, fast bound to one above, I wait; he seems to speed, and change, and fail;

I know he will not move.

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VESPERS.

ELIZABETH H. WHITTIER.

WHEN I have said my quiet say,
When I have sung my little song,
How sweetly, sweetly dies the day
The valley and the hill along;

How sweet the summons, “Come away,"
That calls me from the busy throng!

I thought beside the water's flow
Awhile to lie beneath the leaves,
I thought in Autumn's harvest glow
To rest my head upon the sheaves;
But, lo! methinks the day was brief
And cloudy; flower, nor fruit, nor leaf
I bring, and yet accepted, free,
And blest, my Lord, I come to thee.

What matter now for promise lost,
Through blast of spring or summer rains!
What matter now for purpose crost,
For broken hopes and wasted pains;
What if the olive little yields,
What if the grape be blighted? Thine
The corn upon a thousand fields,
Upon a thousand hills the vine.

Thou lovest still the poor; O, blest
In poverty beloved to be!
Less lowly is my choice confessed,
I love the rich in loving Thee!
My spirit bare before thee stands,
I bring no gift, I ask no sign,
I come to thee with empty hands,
The surer to be filled from thine!

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UNKNOWN.

WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME

WHEN the grass shall cover me, Head to foot where I am lying; When not any wind that blows, Summer bloom or winter snows, Shall awake me to your sighing: Close above me as you pass, You will say, "How kind she was," You will say, "How true she was," When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me, Holden close to earth's warm bosom; While I laugh, or weep, or sing, Nevermore for anything

You will find in blade and blossom, Sweet small voices, odorous, Tender pleaders of my cause, That shall speak me as I was, When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me! Ah, beloved in my sorrow, Very patient can I wait; Knowing that or soon or late, There will dawn a clearer morrow: When your heart will moan, "Alas, Now I know how true she was; Now I know how dear she was,' When the grass grows over me.

UNKNOWN.

AGAIN.

O, SWEET and fair! O, rich and rare! That day so long ago.

The autumn sunshine everywhere,

The heather all aglow,

The ferns were clad in cloth of gold,

The waves sang on the shore.
Such suns will shine, such waves will sing
Forever evermore.

O, fit and few! O, tried and true!
The friends who met that day.
Each one the other's spirit knew,

And so in earnest play

The hours flew past, until at last

The twilight kissed the shore.

We said, "Such days shall come again Forever evermore."

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LUCY LARCOM.

[U. s. A.]

A STRIP OF BLUE.

I Do not own an inch of land,
But all I see is mine, -
The orchard and the mowing-fields,
The lawns and gardens fine.
The winds my tax-collectors are,

They bring me tithes divine, Wild scents and subtle essences,

A tribute rare and free:
And more magnificent than all,
My window keeps for me
A glimpse of blue immensity,-
A little strip of sea.

Richer am I than he who owns
Great fleets and argosies;
I have a share in every ship
Won by the inland breeze
To loiter on yon airy road
Above the apple-trees.

I freight them with my untold dreams,
Each bears my own picked crew;
And nobler cargoes wait for them
Than ever India knew, -

My ships that sail into the East
Across that outlet blue.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes, -
The people of the sky,-
Guests in white raiment coming down
From Heaven, which is close by:
I call them by familiar names,
As one by one draws nigh,
So white, so light, so spirit-like,

From violet mists they bloom!
The aching wastes of the unknown
Are half reclaimed from gloom,
Since on life's hospitable sea

All souls find sailing-room.

The ocean grows a weariness

With nothing else in sight; Its east and west, its north and south, Spread out from morn to night: We miss the warm, caressing shore, Its brooding shade and light. A part is greater than the whole; By hints are mysteries told; The fringes of eternity,

God's sweeping garment-fold, In that bright shred of glimmering sea, I reach out for, and hold.

LUCY LARCOM.

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl,

Float in upon the mist;

The waves are broken precious stones, Sapphire and amethyst,

Washed from celestial basement walls
By suns unsetting kissed.

Out through the utmost gates of space,
Past where the gay stars drift,
To the widening Infinite, my soul
Glides on, a vessel swift;
Yet loses not her anchorage
In yonder azure rift.

Here sit I, as a little child:

The threshold of God's door
Is that clear band of chrysoprase;
Now the vast temple floor,
The blinding glory of the dome
I bow my head before :
The universe, O God, is home,

In height or depth, to me;
Yet here upon thy footstool green
Content am I to be;
Glad, when is opened to my need
Some sea-like glimpse of thee.

BY THE FIRESIDE.

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Whose presence, like the free air, could inspire

A winged life and boundless sympathies.

Eyes with a glow like that in the brown beech,

When sunset through its autumn beauty shines;

Or the blue gentian's look of silent speech, To heaven appealing as earth's light declines;

Voices and steps forever fled away From the familiar glens, the haunted hills,

Most pitiful and strange it is to stay Without you in a world your lost love fills.

Do you forget us, under Eden trees,
Or in full sunshine on the hills of

God,

Who miss you from the shadow and the breeze,

And tints and perfumes of the woodland sod?

Dear for your sake the fireside where we

sit

Watching these sad, bright pictures

come and go

That waning years are with your memory lit,

Is the one lonely comfort that we know.

And breath of violets sweet about their Is it all memory? Lo, these forest-boughs

roots;

And earthy odors of the moss and fern;

Burst on the hearth into fresh leaf

and bloom;

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