WE bore to see the summer go; We bore to see the ruthless wind Beat all the golden leaves and red In drifting masses to and fro, Till not a leaf remained behind; We faced the winter’s frown, and said, “There comes reward for all our pain, For every loss there comes a gain; And spring, which never failed us yet, Out of the snow-drift and the ice Shall some day bring the violet.”
We bore – what could we do but bear? — To see youth perish in its prime, And hope grow faint, and joyance grieved, And dreams all vanish in thin air, And beauty, at the touch of time,
Become a memory, half believed; Still we could smile, and still we said, “Hope, joy, and beauty are not dead; God’s angel guards them all and sees — Close by the grave he sits and waits — There comes a spring for even these.”
We bore to see dear faces pale, Dear voices falter, smiles grow wan, And life ebb like a tide at sea, Till underneath the misty veil Our best belovèd, one by one, Vanished and parted silently. We stayed without, but still could say, “Grief’s winter dureth not alway; Who sleep in Christ with Christ shall rise. We wait our Easter morn in tears, They in the smile of Paradise.”
O thought of healing, word of strength! O light to lighten darkest way! O saving help and balm of ill! For all our dead shall dawn at length A slowly broadening Easter Day, A Resurrection calm and still.
The little sleep will not seem long, The silence shall break out in song, The sealèd eyes shall ope, – and then We who have waited patiently Shall live and have our own again.
CONCORD MAY 31, 1882
“FARTHER horizons every year!” Oh, tossing pines which surge and wave Above the poet’s just made grave, And waken for his sleeping ear The music that he loved to hear, Through summer’s sun and winter’s chill, With purpose stanch and dauntless will, Sped by a noble discontent, You climb toward the blue firmament, — Climb as the winds climb, mounting high The viewless ladders of the sky; Spurning our lower atmosphere, Heavy with sighs and dense with night, And urging upward year by year To ampler air, diviner light.
“Farther horizons every year!” Beneath you pass the tribes of men, Your gracious boughs o’ershadow them; You hear, but do not seem to heed Their jarring speech, their faulty creed. Your roots are firmly set in soil Won from their humming paths of toil; Content their lives to watch and share, To serve them, shelter, and upbear, Yet bent to win an upward way And larger gift of heaven than they, Benignant view and attitude, Close knowledge of celestial sign, Still working for all earthly good While pressing on to the Divine.
“Farther horizons every year!” So he, by reverent hands just laid Beneath your boughs of wavering shade, Climbed as you climb the upward way, Knowing not boundary or stay. His eyes surcharged with heavenly lights, His senses steeped in heavenly sights, His soul attuned to heavenly keys, How should he pause for rest and ease, Or turn his wingèd feet again, To share the common feasts of men? He blessed them with his word and smile, But still, above their fickle moods, Wooing, constraining him awhile, Beckoned the shining altitudes.
“Farther horizons every year!” To what immeasurable height, What clear irradiance of light, What far and all-transcendent goal Hast thou now risen, O steadfast soul! We may not follow with our eyes To where thy farther pathway lies, Nor guess what vision vast and free God keeps in store for souls like thee. But still the pines that bend and wave Their boughs above thy honored grave Shall be thy emblem brave and fit, Firm-rooted in the stalwart sod, Blessing the earth while spurning it, Content with nothing short of God.
HEREAFTER
WHEN we are dead, when you and I are dead, Have rent and tossed aside each earthly fetter And wiped the grave-dust from our wondering eyes, And stand together, fronting the sunrise, I think that we shall know each other better.
Puzzle and pain will lie behind us then; All will be known and all will be forgiven. We shall be glad of every hardness past, And not one earthly shadow shall be cast To dim the brightness of the bright new heaven.
And I shall know, and you as well as I, What was the hindering thing our whole lives through, Which kept me always shy, constrained, distressed; Why I, to whom you were the first and best, Could never, never be my best with you;
Why, loving you as dearly as I did, And prizing you above all earthly good, I yet was cold and dull when you were by, And faltered in my speech or shunned your eye, Unable quite to say the thing I would;
Could never front you with the happy ease Of those whose perfect trust has cast out fear, Or take, content, from Love his daily dole, But longed to grasp and be and have the whole, As blind men long to see, the deaf to hear.
My dear Love, when I forward look, and think Of all these baffling barriers swept away, Against which I have beat so long and strained, Of all the puzzles of the past explained, I almost wish that we could die to-day.
OUR DAILY BREAD
“GIVE us our daily bread,” we pray, And know but half of what we say.
The bread on which our bodies feed Is but the moiety of our need.
The soul, the heart, must nourished be, And share the daily urgency.
And though it may be bitter bread On which these nobler parts are fed,
No less we crave the daily dole, O Lord, of body and of soul!
Sweet loaves, the wine-must all afoam, The manna, and the honey-comb, —
All these are good, but better still The food which checks and moulds the will.
The sting for pride, the smart for sin, The purging draught for self within,
The sorrows which we shuddering meet, Not knowing their after-taste of sweet, —
All these we ask for when we pray, “Give us our daily bread this day.”
Lord, leave us not athirst, unfed; Give us this best and hardest bread,
Until, these mortal needs all past, We sit at thy full feast at last,
The bread of angels broken by thee, The wine of joy poured constantly.
SLEEPING AND WAKING
GOD giveth his beloved sleep; They lie securely ’neath his wing Till the night pale, the dawning break; Safe in its overshadowing They fear no dark and harmful thing; — What does he give to those who wake?
To those who sleep he gives good dreams; For bodies overtasked and spent Comes rest to comfort every ache; To weary eyes new light is sent, To weary spirits new content; — What does God give to those who wake?
His angels sit beside the beds Of such as rest beneath his care. Unweariedly their post they take, They wave their wings to fan the air, They cool the brow and stroke the hair, — God comes himself to those who wake.
To fevered eyes that cannot close, To hearts o’erburdened with their lot, He comes to soothe, to heal, to slake; Close to the pillows hard and hot He stands, although they see him not, And taketh care of those who wake.
Nor saint nor angel will he trust With this one blessed ministry, Lest they should falter or mistake; They guard the sleepers faithfully Who are the Lord’s beloved; but he Watches by those beloved who wake.
Oh, in the midnight dense and drear, When life drifts outward with the tide, And mortal terrors overtake, In this sure thought let us abide, And unafraid be satisfied, — God comes himself to those who wake!
THORNS
ROSES have thorns, and love is thorny too; And this is love’s sharp thorn which guards its flower, That our beloved have the cruel power To hurt us deeper than all others do.
The heart attuned to our heart like a charm, Beat answering beat, as echo answers song, If the throb falter, or the pulse beat wrong, How shall it fail to grieve us or to harm?
The taunt which, uttered by a stranger’s lips, Scarce heard, scarce minded, passed us like the wind, Breathed by a dear voice, which has grown unkind, Turns sweet to bitter, sunshine to eclipse.
The instinct of a change we cannot prove, The pitiful tenderness, the sad too-much, The sad too-little, shown in look or touch, — All these are wounding thorns of thorny love.
Ah, sweetest rose which earthly gardens bear, Fought for, desired, life’s guerdon and life’s end, Although your thorns may slay and wound and rend, Still men must snatch you; for you are so fair.
A NEW-ENGLAND LADY
SHE talks of “gentry” still, and “birth,” And holds the good old-fashioned creed Of widely differing ranks and station, And gentle blood, whose obligation Is courteous word and friendly deed.
She knows her own ancestral line, And numbers all its links of honor; But in her theory of right living Good birth involves good will, good giving, — A daily duty laid upon her.
Her hands are versed in household arts: She kneads and stirs, compounds and spices; Her bread is famous in the region; Her cakes and puddings form a legion Of sure successes, swift surprises.
A lady in her kitchen apron; Always a lady, though she labors; She has a “faculty” prompt and certain, Which makes each flower-bed, gown, and curtain A standing wonder to her neighbors.
Her days seem measured by some planet More liberal than our common sun is; For she finds time when others miss it The poor to cheer, the sick to visit, And carry brightness in where none is.
Behold her as, her day’s work over, Her house from attic to door-scraper In order, all her tasks completed, She sits down, calm, composed, unheated, To read her Emerson or her paper.
She hears the new æsthetic Gospel, And unconvinced although surprised is; Her family knows what is proper. She smiles, and does not care a copper, Although her carpet stigmatized is.
She does not quite accept tradition; She has her private theory ready; Her shrewd, quaint insight baffles leading; And straight through dogma’s special pleading She holds her own, composed and steady.
Kindness her law; her king is duty. You cannot bend her though you break her; As tough as yew and as elastic Her fibre; unconvinced, unplastic, — She clasps conviction like a Quaker.
Long live her type, to be our anchor When times go wrong and true men rally, Till aged Chocorua fails and bleaches Beside the shining Saco reaches, Monadnock by the Jaffrey valley.
UNDER THE SNOW
UNDER the snow lie sweet things out of sight, Couching like birds beneath a downy breast; They cluster ’neath the coverlet warm and white, And bide the winter-time in hopeful rest.
There are the hyacinths, holding ivory tips Pointed and ready for a hint of sun; And hooded violets, with dim, fragrant lips Asleep and dreaming fairy dreams each one.
There lurk a myriad quick and linkèd roots, Coiled for a spring when the ripe time is near; The brave chrysanthemum’s pale yellow shoots And daffodils, the vanguard of the year;
The nodding snowdrop and the columbine; The hardy crocus, prompt to hear a call; Pensile wistaria and thick woodbine; And valley lilies, sweetest of them all.
All undismayed, although the drifts are deep, All sure of spring and strong of cheer they lie; And we, who see but snows, we smile and keep The selfsame courage in the by and by.
Ah! the same drifts shroud other precious things, — Flower-like faces, pallid now and chill, Feet laid to rest after long journeyings, And fair and folded hands forever still.
All undismayed, in deep and hushed repose, Waiting a sweeter, further spring, they lie; And we, whose yearning eyes see but the snows, Shall we not trust, like them, the by and by?
SONNET FOR A BIRTHDAY
I WISH thee sound health and true sanity, Ripe youth, a summer heart in age’s snow, Abiding joy in knowledge, wealth enow That of the best thou ne’er mayst hindered be; Long life, love, marriage, children, faithful friends, Purpose in all thy doing, stintless zeal, Ambition, enthusiasm, the power to feel Thy country dearer than thy private ends; The threefold joy of Nature, books, and fun, To be thy solace in adversity, To keep thy father’s name as clean as he, And so transmit it stainless to thy son; And lastly, crown of glory and of strife, May honored death give thee Eternal Life.
Now count my wishes, and, the numbering done, You’ll find the enumeration – twenty-one.
“MANY WATERS CANNOT QUENCH LOVE.”
A LITTLE grave in a desolate spot, Where the sun scarce shines and flowers grow not, Where the prayers of the church are never heard, And the funeral bell swings not in air, And the brooding silence is only stirred By the cries of wild birds nesting there; A low headstone, and a legend, green With moss: “Leonora, just seventeen.”
Here she was laid long years ago, A child in years, but a woman in woe. Her sorrowful story is half forgot, Her playmates are old and bent and gray, And no one comes to visit the spot Where, watched by the law, was hurried away The youth cut short, and the hapless bloom Which fled from its sorrow to find the tomb.
Her mourning kindred pleaded in vain The broken heart and the frenzied brain; The church had no pardon for such as died Unblessed by the church, and sternly barred All holy ground to the suicide; So death as life to the girl was hard, And the potter’s field with its deep disgrace Was her only permitted resting-place.
So the friends who loved her laid her there With no word of comfort, no word of prayer, And years went by; but as, one by one, They dropped from their daily tasks and died, And turned their faces from the sun, They were carried and buried by her side, — Each gave command that such should be, “For love to keep her company.”
So the little grave, with the letters green, Of “Leonora, just seventeen,” Is ringed about with kindred dust, Not lonely like the other graves In that sad place, wherein are thrust Outcasts and nameless folk and slaves, But gently held and folded fast In the arms that loved her first and last.
O potter’s field, did I call you bare? No garden on earth can be more fair! For deathless love has a deathless bloom, And the lily of faithfulness a flower, And they grow beside each lowly tomb, And balm it with fragrance every hour; And with God, who forgiveth till seven times seven, A potter’s field may be gate of heaven.
UNEXHAUSTED
ARE all the songs sung, all the music played? Are the keys quite worn out, and soundless quite, Which since sweet fancy’s dawning day have made Perpetual melody for man’s delight, And charmed the dull day and the heavy night?
Must we go on with stale, repeated themes, Content with threadbare chords that faint and fail, Till all the fairy fabric of old dreams Becomes a jaded, oft-repeated tale, And poetry grows tired, and romance pale?
I cannot think it; for the soul of man Is strung to answer to such myriad keys Set and attuned and chorded on a plan Of intricate and vibrant harmonies, How shall we limit that, or measure these?
As free and urgent as the air that moves, As quick to tremble as Æolian strings, The soul responds and thrills to hates and loves, Desires and hopes, and joys and sufferings, And sympathy’s soft touch and anger’s stings.
How dare we say the breezes all are blown, The chords have no reserved sweet in store; Or claim that all is tested and made known, — That nightingales may trill, or skylarks soar, But neither can surprise us any more?
The world we call so old, God names his new; The thought we christen stale shall outlast men, While moons shall haunt the sky, and stars gleam through, While roses blossom on their thorny stem, And spring comes back again, and yet again;
While human things like blossoms small and white Are dropped on earth from unseen parent skies, The olden dreams shall please, the songs delight, And those who shape and weave fair fantasies Shall catch the answering shine in new-born eyes.
WELCOME AND FAREWELL
WHEN the New Year came, we said, Half with hope and half with dread: “Welcome, child, new-born to be Last of Time’s great family! All thy brethren, bent and gray, Aged and worn, have passed away To the place where dead years go, — Place which mortals cannot know. Thou art fairest of them all, Ivory-limbed and strong and tall, Gold hair blown back, and deep eyes Full of happy prophecies; Rose-bloom on thy youthful cheek. Welcome, child!” And all the while The sweet New Year did not speak, Though we thought we saw him smile.
When the Old Year went, we said, Looking at his grim gray head, At the shoulders burden-bowed, And the sad eyes dark with cloud: “Was he ever young and fair? Did we praise his sunny hair And glad eyes, with promise lit? We can scarce remember it. Treacherously he smiled, nor spoke, Hiding ’neath his rainbow cloak Store of grievous things to strew On the way that we must go. Vain to chide him; old and weak, He is dying; let him die.” And the Old Year did not speak, But we thought we heard him sigh.
LIFE
MORE life we thirst for, but how can we take? We sit like children by the surging sea, Dip with our shallow shells all day, and make A boast of the scant measure, two or three Brief drops caught from the immensity; But what are these the long day’s thirst to slake?
There is the sea, which would not be less full, Though all the lands should borrow of its flood; The sea of Life, fed by the beautiful Abounding river of the smile of God, Source of supply and fountain of all good, Boundless and free and inexhaustible.
There is the sea; and close by is our thirst, Yet here we sit and gaze the waters o’er, And dip our shallow shells in as at first. Just where the ripples break to wash the shore, And catch a tantalizing drop, nor durst The depth or distance of the wave explore.
Ah, mighty ocean which we sport beside, One day thy wave will rise and foam, and we, Lost in its strong, outgoing, refluent tide, Shall be swept out into the deeper sea, Shall drink the life of life, and satisfied Smile at the shore from far eternity.
SHUT IN
And the Lord shut him in. —Gen. vii. 16
WAS it the Lord who shut me in Between these walls of pain? Who drew between me and the sun The darkening curtains, one by one, Cold storm and bitter rain, Hiding all happy things and fair, The flying birds, the blowing air, And bidding me to lie, All sick of heart and faint and blind, Waiting his will to loose or bind, To give or to deny?
Was it the Lord who shut me in Within this place of doubt? I chose not doubt, my doubt chose me, Not unpermitted, Lord, of thee, — It had not dared without: What doubt shall venture to uprear And whisper in a human ear, If thou, Lord, dost forbid? Yet is it of thy blessed will That I sit questioning, grieving, chill, Nor joy as once I did?
Is it the Lord that shuts me in? Then I can bear to wait! No place so dark, no place so poor, So strong and fast no prisoning door, Though walled by grievous fate, But out of it goes fair and broad An unseen pathway, straight to God, By which I mount to thee. When the same Love that shut the door Shall lift the heavy bar once more, And set the prisoner free.
GOOD-BY
THE interlacing verdurous screen Of the stanch woodbine still is green, And thickly set with milk-white blooms Gold-anthered, breathing out perfumes; The clematis on trellis bars Still flaunts with white and purple stars; No missing leaf has thinner made The obelisks of maple shade; Fresh beech boughs flutter in the breeze Which, warm as summer, stirs the trees; The sun is clear, the skies are blue: But still a sadness filters through The beauty and the bloom; and we, Touched by some mournful prophecy, Whisper each day: “Delay, delay! Make not such haste to fly away!” And they, with silent lips, reply: “Summer is gone; we may not stay. Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!” Roses may be as fragrant fair As in the sweet June days they were; No hint of frost may daunt as yet The clustering brown mignonette, Nor chilly wind forbid to ope The odorous, fragile heliotrope; The sun may be as warm as May, The night forbear to chase the day, And hushed in false security All the sweet realm of Nature be: But the South-loving birds have fled, By their mysterious instinct led; The butterflies their nests have spun, And donned their silken shrouds each one; The bees have hived them fast, while we Whisper each day: “Delay, delay! Make not such haste to fly away!” And all, with pitying looks, reply: “Summer is fled; we may not stay. Summer is gone. Good-by! good-by!”
