SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE.

I’ve a notion the clouds at sunset Sing chorals in the sky As they let down their billowy tresses And kiss The sun “Good-bye!” And the music comes in at the portals That Heaven has left in the heart, As the shine gets into the flower Where the leaves Have slipped Apart.

Sweet Zephyr from celestial isles That all the earth with joy beguiles, I would that thou wouldst blow to me, And blow to me thy purest breathing song; I would that thou wouldst come to me And tell to me whate’er is right and wrong; I would that thou wouldst lay thy hand And rest thy hand upon my throbbing brow, And that the words thou giv’st to me And tak’st from me would be received as thou.

The world is like a coach and four, And men as there you find ’em: For some must ride and some must drive And some hang on behind ’em. Or like the farmer’s ’tater cart,— The best on top to brag on: For some must rise and some must fall Like ’taters in the wagon.

Brother Grant, do you remember Days and years we spent together Thro’ the summer’s shiny weather Till apples dropped in late September? Nurtured where the warm suns shine in, We were dreamers then, my brother, As we lisped to one another, “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” Guess you haven’t forgotten that yet, Have you? I can shut my eyes and See the old tree where we sat yet,— Hear the rhythm of that thing rise and Fall like echoes of the distant brine in Some fair shell; and like it clinging To the past, my heart keeps singing, “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” I’ll be plagued if I can tell yet What that hitching nonsense jingle Meant, can you? I can smell yet, Tho’, the blossoms;—hear the lingle Of the bells of lolling kine in Slaughter’s grove;—see the pink of Fruit above us when I think of “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” I can taste those old Benoni Apples yet—(fall apples—mellow As the winds that kissed the bony Branches into blossom; yellow— Butter-yellow—and as fine in Taste as Flemish Beauty pears were)— For our burdensomest cares were, “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” Ah, my boy, you haven’t forgotten How with wooden men we pounded Them when green till almost rotten Just to get the juice out? Sounded Mighty tempting with that wine in There just squushing for the skin to Burst and let us both fall into “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” Ha! ha! ha! what little scheming Rascals we were then, my laddie!— Knock off apples just half-dreaming Ripeness, stain the stems that had a Fresh look with some dirt—divine in Innocence!—then run to mother, Each one chuckling to the other, “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” Tell her then we’d found them lying On the ground (we had, too!) asking If we might not have them, trying Every childish art, nor masking Mouths just watering to dine in Glory on them. When we’d got our “Yes!” all earth I’m certain, caught our “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” Oh the days and days together In the lazy days of childhood Through the shade and shiny weather Of the Long Agone’s deep wildwood When we clad our men of pine in Every phase of human action, Sang to them the old “attraction,” “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een”! Through my hazing, half-closed lashes As I watch the steady blazing Of my fangled oil-stove, plashes Of that olden rhythm come lazing From the lethy mists, and shine in Irised splendors where the tilting Timid Robin still is lilting, “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.” Oh the golden old Benonis With a heart as rich and yellow As the moon, no apple known is Half so high or half so mellow, For they’ve drunk the sun’s whole shine in And preserved our boyhood’s story With it’s olden, golden glory, “Ine-een tor-I fert-hi mine-een.”

Sleep, sleep, sleep and rest, sleep and rest, The wind is in the west And night is on the deep,— Sleep and rest, rest and sleep, Sleep, sleep. Dream, dream, dream and sleep, dream and sleep, The stars their vigils keep And skies with glories gleam. Dream and sleep, sleep and dream, Dream, dream. Sleep, rest, dream and rest, sleep and dream, The morning sun will beam And cares thy day infest,— Rest and sleep, sleep and rest, Rest, rest.

I am plodding down the little lane again With my trousers rolled above my sunburnt knees; And I whistle with the mocking-bird and wren As they chatter in the hedging willow-trees. And my foot as light and nimble as the airy wings they wear Trips along the little lane again to-day; And my bare feet catch the tinkle thro’ the silent summer air Of the jingle-langle-ingle far away.— Klangle-ling ke-langle, Klingle-lang ke-lingle Dingle-lingle-langle down the dell; Jingle-langle lingle, Langle-lingle r-r-angle, Ringle-langle-lingle of the bell. From the lane across the prairie o’er the hill Down a winding little path the cows have made, In my thought to-night I’m going, going still,— For the sinking Sun is lengthening its Shade! And I find them in the hollows—the hollows of the dell And I find the drowsy cattle in the dell, By the ringle-rangle-jingle,—the jangle of the bell, By the ringle and the jangle of the bell.— Klang-ke-link ge-lingle, Jangle-ling ke-langle, Klink ke-langle-lingle down the dell; Klangle-link ke-langle, K-link ke-lank ke-lingle, Lingle-link ke-langle of the bell. As the cows across the prairie homeward wind O’er the hill and toward the broadened sinking sun, Steals a silence o’er the wooded vale behind Where their shadows, lengthened, darken into one. And I whistle back the echoes,—the echoes left behind, That are wand’ring in the tangles of the dell; And in answer to the message—the message that I wind, Call the echoes of the klangle of the bell:— Langle-langle lingle, Lingle-langle lingle, Lingle-lingle-langle down the dell; D-r-r-ingle-langle-langle, R-r-angle-ringle-langle, Langle-lingle-r-r-angle of the bell. At the lighting of the Candles of the Night When my tangled locks have found the pillow’s rest, I can hear the langle-lingle, soft and light, Like the cradle-rocking lulling of the blest. And upon the ear of Fancy—of Fancy born of Sleep, Comes the klangle from a distant dreamy Dell; For the angels lull me dreaming—dreaming in their keep, To the klingle-langle-lingle of the bell.— Kling-ge-lang-ge-lingle, Klangle-lingle-langle, Langle-lingle-lingle from the dell; Kling-ge-ling-ge-langle, Ling-ge-lang-ge-lingle, Lingle-lingle-langle of the bell.

Not the binding of this book Nor its leaves with marble edge; But the poet’s heart and soul In each thought upon the page Makes the book of worth, Lifts us from the earth, From the common sod Nearer unto God. Not the gold that’s in the gift Nor the sense of doing duty; But the giver in the gold With a heart that’s full of beauty Makes the gift of worth, Lifts us from the earth, From the common sod Nearer unto God.

They’re withered—sorto’ withered now, They’ve got a musty smell; So I must shet the book up tight An’ set an’ wait a spell. They’re withered—sorto’ withered now, They’ve lost their red an’ green, An’ the leaves are crushed an’ crumpled up With crinkled buds atween. They’ve got a sorto’ musty smell That almost makes me sick, For they ’mind me o’ the days in June We got ’m ’long the crick. They wan’t no style about them tho’, Like city flowers is— They’s jist the good ol’-time Wil’-Rose That God set out fer His. I stuck ’em in this Good Ol’ Book Long ’fore they drooped an’ died, An’ here each day they’ve smiled at me When I have only cried. I touch ’em—an’ I touch her hand That put ’em here in mine! I see ’em—an’ I see her lips More temptin’er ’an wine. ’T’s a sorto’ played-out ol’ bouquet, Ol’-fashion’ roses too; But then it’s beautif’ler to me Than fresher ones to you. Jist let me look agin—’y jing! I see her smile there yet! Somehow it sorto’ all comes back, An’ I see her smile there yet. They’re withered—sorto’ withered now, They’ve got a musty smell; So I must shet the book up tight An’ set an’ wait a spell.

Here we go hippety-hop, All for a stick of candy Down to the candy-man’s shop— Tell you what he’s a dandy. All for a stick of candy Hippety-hop we go. Tell you what he’s a dandy Givin’ us candy you know. Hippety-hop we go, Head-over-heels in our hurry. Givin’ us candy you know Sets us all in a flurry. Head-over-heels in our hurry Into the candy-man’s shop; Sets us all in a flurry Goin’ it hippety-hop. Into the candy-man’s shop Everybody just tumbles, Goin’ it hippety-hop, ’Cause, you see, he never grumbles. Everybody just tumbles Makin’ the candy-man grin, ’Cause, you see, he never grumbles, No matter how we come in. Makin’ the candy-man grin, Here we are crowdin’ and pushin’; No matter how we come in He knows the wush we’re a-wushin’. Return. L-l-lp! but that’s better’n ma’s jelly, Down to the candy-man’s shop! Hang to my hand now, Nellie,— Here we go hippety-hop.

It is life just to love With a heart’s true devotion: ’Tis the great law Above. It is life just to love,— For the soul just to move With a sweet, wild emotion. It is life just to love With a heart’s true devotion.

Come to the shadows of eve Falling like mantles around us; Come where the winds ever weave Songs in the tree-webs around us. Falling like mantles around us Sweet chime the vespers of love; Songs in the tree-webs around us Waft from some Idean grove. Sweet chime the vespers of love Borne by the zephyrs of even; Waft from some Idean grove Lydian measures of heaven. Borne by the zephyrs of even Love in his quiver bears Lydian measures of heaven, Softest of musical airs. Love in his quiver bears Aye when the star-flowers blossom Softest of musical airs, Night folding Day to his bosom. Aye when the star-flowers blossom Love sings the sweetest of themes; Night folding day to his bosom Lies down to rapturous dreams. Love sings the sweetest of themes Bidding my heart that yet never Lies down to rapturous dreams Fold thine own close to mine ever. Out ’mid the dew-loved flowers Come where the winds ever weave Love in the web of the hours, Come to the shadows of eve.

Out on the river that rolleth forever, Floweth forever and moaneth for aye, Floateth a sorrow that never shall borrow Peace to release it from me to the sea. Sorrow that ever my sad heart’s quiver, Sheathing alone this one arrow of woe, Binds as the billow that never shall pillow Crest on the breast of the moaning flow. O Stygian water, of heart-breakings fraughter, Far more aburdened of mournful commotion Than night is of stillness or Hell is of fellness, Knoll thou and toll my ocean devotion! Dash thy dread roll ’gainst my turbulent soul, Strike till its tones shall thy moanings control, Bearing emotion as deep as the ocean Unto the one who is soul of my soul!— Unto the maiden whom angels of Aidenn, Wandering over the strand of the blest, Enviously stole from the heart of my soul, Bore to thy shore and prest to thy breast. Let not thy plashing and turbulent dashing Grate on the ear of my radiant Love; Kiss her bright tresses with fondest caresses Controlling thy rolling with love from above. Her fair form enfold on thy bosom cold, Rowing her soft with thy Lethean oar; Whisper, oh whisper, as winds of the wold Unto the one whom they bore to thy shore. Farewell, fair Minevr! soft over the river Unto thy rest shall the waves gently roll, Where never forever death-rivers dissever Heart from fond heart, or thy soul from my soul.

Tell me not in great big numbers Facts can never lie; For no fact in muddled slumbers Lies so heavy as mince pie.

Tears are often liveries stolen From the equipage of grief; Nor in Anger’s red eyes swollen Do they e’er disguise the thief. Tears are often pettish, Darling, Like the foamy fretting run; Like the foam they sparkle, Darling, At the kisses of the sun. Tears, true tears, are sad and lonely Like the ocean’s music bars; Like the music, vanish only With the cycles of the stars. Tears are often pent-up gladness, Like the clouds that hold the bow; Like the clouds they use their sadness That their joys may better show. Tears may often be imploring Like the waves that kiss the skies; Like the waves, for’er adoring, They reflect their loved one’s eyes. Tears? They are but kin to laughter, Wedded as the night and day; Like the day and night, each after Each prepares the other’s way.

Oh my heart was light and airy Like the mist-wing of the fairy That I loved; And I sang with song enchanting, For the angel I was wanting Dwelt above. And I fain had clasped the maiden In her mist-winged robes of Aidenn With my love; But my eyes were blind with gleamings, And my hands, bound fast by dreamings, Would not move. Then my heart, with horror filling, Mid-leap froze with awful chilling Like to death; For upon her mist-wings thrilling Did a demon blow his chilling, Blasting breath. Where my Mist-Wing fair was ferried There my hope and heart lie buried, Turned to stone; There the dreams of bygones cheery Drone a dreary, ceaseless, weary Monotone. Where my fairy floats forever O’er the ripples of the river, Bound in sleep, There my fondest fancies follow And with haunting features hollow Vigils keep. From a star a light is streaming In her golden tresses gleaming Fair as Hope; Fade the phantoms faster, faster, From the Morning-star, life’s vaster Horoscope. She is waking, waking, waking, And my soul and body breaking Swift apart. Joy! my spirit soon shall hold her And forever more enfold her, Heart to heart.

Sweet bird, sitting so sad singing your song there on the limb alone, Why make all the sad world sympathize with every mournful tone? Ah yes! weep then, my dear, over the loss of the dear one you love: All hearts weep with you, dear, weep for some heart lured to the land above. Yet not even the deep river of tears rolls from the heart the stone; No, naught save the white-robed Angel of Hope born of the soul alone. O dove! mourning alone, croon to the moon over the one you love; O soul! Hope is thine own, throned in the white dome of thy home above!

Echo, be not heartless, I implore you, Listen to my woe; And I’ll evermore, as now, adore you (Tho’ that augurs that I sometimes bore you) For I fain would know What’s to be done. —“Be done!” Oh but, sir, I must beseech, entreat you That you hear me through.— If a rare and radiant maid should meet you And with smiles and wiles and pranks should greet you, Pray, what’s one to do When one sees her? “Seize her!” But I’m not quite well enough acquainted With her, don’t you see? Echo, when her lily face is painted (On my soul), and at my heart she’s feinted, And I’m blind as she, How can I seize her? “See, sir.” But alas! the laws of Love prohibit That his subjects see; And besides, explicitly inhibit Other sight than blindness to exhibit. What then? I can ne “See,” nor “seize her.” “Cease, sir.” But, friend Echo (for you are most truly Friend and counselor), Love’s commands must all be followed duly (Tho’ himself most blind and most unruly); Hence I can’t “see,” sir, “Cease,” nor “seize her.” “Cæsar!” Yes, that’s what I’ve been ejaculating, But it’s idle breath. Now, if this consuming passionating Doesn’t stop its wild peregrinating It’ll be my death. Must I let it? “Let it!” Friend should answer friend more seriously Nor play upon grave words. She’s affected quite as amorously As who wakens you thus clamorously With love’s scattered sherds, Seeking surcease— “Sir, cease!” Nay, I will not cease till satisfaction Is obtained from you. Tell me what to do in this distraction And I’ll vary from it not a fraction.— Truth is, there are two— Ann and Mary. “Marry!” Tell me, Echo, O sweet Echo, tell me, Oh and truly tell What sweet thralling charm should most impel me That no other wight may quite excel me When I choose my belle For matrimony— “Money.” Tell me then without equivocation If you value health, Swear it by the hills, your habitation, Whence you issue like an exhalation,— Which one has the wealth? Truly answer— “Ann, sir.” Thanks to thee, sweet Echo, Love’s pathfinder! We shall never part. Forthwith I will hie me forth and find her And the wealthiest jingling love-songs wind her Till I win her heart And earn her mine.— “Ann!—dern her mine!” [This last he hears in after years.

Hope and Love have gone away Closing every window-blind, Locking every door behind, Bearing off the key. Tenantless the musty house Throws on passers-by its gloom; Nor in any haunted room Dares a living mouse. Old and mouldy there it stands All mysterious and lone With its mosses overgrown— Ruin’s myriad hands. Useless grow the choking weeds While the winding eglantine And the morning-glory vine Scatter wild their seeds. Times there are when winds, hard pressed, Gibber at the ghosts within, Hollow-voiced with staring grin, Uninvited guests. Rumor, waking night and day, Sees strange sights through window-panes, Hears weird sounds of clanking chains Sounding far away. Rumor tells that Hope and Love Walk the ghosts of murdered selves When the midnight hour twelves: Empty rooms they rove. But malicious town-folk say Hope and Love are not away But art hiding day by day: Murderers are they! But alas! I would ’twere so!— Would that Hope and Love each might, Might return e’en tho’ at night, Tho’ at morn they go! For Despair and Hate hide there, Quiet thro’ the daytime quite, Ghosting sights and sounds by night, Demons of the air. Counterfeiters both are they, Coining only after night, Minting metal ghostly white, Holding revelry. Aye, ’tis haunted! Hate is wed, Wedded to his mate Despair, And they hold high revels there: Hope and Love are dead! Good my friends, remove the pile, Ere it fall to foul decay; Hope and Love have gone away, Ruin feeds the while. Hope and Love have gone away, Closing door and closing blind, Leaving Ruin lone behind, Bearing off the key.

A brilliant battle Darkness fought with Light, A brilliant battle all the living day; The Sun, awearied in the deadly fray, Sank vanquished ’neath his armored foeman’s might, But flung his arms far up the black’ning height, From the quiver of the planets joyously Drew forth his arrows, star-tipped, feathery, And pierced the iron-plated breast of Night With ten thousand starry-spangled blades of fire. Night, wounded by the arrows of the Sun, Poured out ten thousand streams of living blood That dripped from every fire-tipped arrow dire Down in the sorrowing sea; and the wounds each one And the arrows all lay skyed in the doming flood. II. Triumphant Darkness stretched his blackened height Along the ground of heaven; all bleeding lay Grim Night upon the heaving breast of Day, Exulting with a demon’s own delight. Reviving Sun again, with heaven-born might, Upflung his hands, far up the eastern gray, From the shining quiver of Divinity Drew forth his shafts, white-hot with God’s own light, And pierced the mail of Night, blood-rusting red, With countless dazzling fire-tipped darts of gold. Down into the Lethal power of Chaos dread Sank vanquished Night with all the damned dead! And ever over Darkness, ages old, Triumphant ruleth Light,—the great Godhead!

Heartless! heartless! Oh, I know! Tho’ your heart forget me And my own be turned to stone; Tho’ no day may let me Claim my loved one as my own, Still my heart is true To you, Still is true, Still is true! She (faithfully). Heartless?—heartless!—So? Ah no! Tho’ long years divide us With the burdened stream of care; Tho’ the waves deride us With a still unanswered prayer, Still my heart is true To you, Still is true, Still is true. He (joyously). Then not heartless?! No! No, no! If I’ve wronged you, Dearest, ’Tis because I’m mad for love; ’Tis that you are nearest When my thoughts in madness move. Still my heart is true To you, Still is true, Still is true. She (flippantly). Then not heartless? No! Not so! Tho’ you gave the treasure Of your very life to me, I thus at my pleasure Give it back to you, you see!— Still my heart is true To you, Still is true, Still is true. He (bitterly and sadly). Heartless! heartless! Oh ’Tis so! All the world is dreary: Stars and love have ceased to shine; Oh the weary, weary Night that endlessly is mine!— Still my heart is true To you, Still is true, Still is true. She (tauntingly). Ha! I’m heartless, tho’? No, no! I was only funning And I didn’t mean it once;— Never thought of running Into love, you great big dunce.— ’Course, my heart is true To you, Still is true, Still is true! He (in despair). Heartless! heartless! Flow, My woe! Oh this life is bitter!— Poison, river, rope, or gun— Any death is fitter Than two hearts thus dead in one.— Still my heart is true To you, Still is true, Still is true. She (in fear, imploringly). No! not heartless! No! No, no! I am true as ever;— Oh don’t take your precious life And I’ll be forever Your own darling little wife.— Still my heart is true To you, Still is true, Still is true.

Laughter is music and music is kin to laughter: The heart has forgotten its tears; For life is but death, and Death is the Life hereafter— God is revolving the years. Joy on Account of Birth. With a rose-bud goblet the Morning stands glowing and burning, Sipping the heart’s night dew; Through dream-laded lashes the flashes of joy are returning— God is letting them through. Sorrow on Account of Death. With a Spade all golden the Night of Sorrow is digging Deep in the heart’s confines: A Dream drifts out with a sable shroud and rigging— God is working the mines! Soul Passes Beyond. In the hands of the angels the cymballine stars are clinking A wealth of music untold: For the Rising of Life, as the sun, must follow its sinking— God has coined His gold! L’Envoy. Oh, laughter is music, and both are akin to sorrow,— The heart holds the songs of the spheres; For life is but death, and Death is the Life to-morrow— God is speeding the years.

In the depths of my ink bottle, With a fiery gleaming throttle Stood a fierce and ghoulish demon all the day; And the murky ink was lighted With a fiendish fire that blighted Every sprite of good that on its bosom lay. And my pen, from Love’s own quiver, Wrought of gold, began to shiver With a fearful quaking terror born of death As I touched the hellish-lighted Surface of the Ink that frighted Pluto’s self and stole Persephone’s sweet breath. Hour after fearful hour Stood that blasting, fiendish power In whose grasp my golden pen was ground to dust. Oh, the wasting, endless season Chilling heart and killing reason As the gloating demon glutted full his lust! “Golden Pen that Love had given, Wrought of gold from my heart riven, Thus my palsied, broken heart must bury thee In the fiendish ink, made blacker By the demon’s fiery lacquer On the surface of its dark uncertainty.” Then a shadow came before me And a loathing sickness o’er me As the demon sank below and out of sight; For I saw a stream of gold That the demon could not hold To the bottom of the darkness drip its light. Then I knew that never, never Would Love’s gold-illumined quiver Bind again the shaft the demon could not hold; For I saw a radiance shining ’Round the place, and angels twining Strange and all-eternal Beauty of the gold! Darkness reigned then, deep, unlighted, Silence sitting near, half-frighted By the demon’s disappointed distant wail And far-off mingled angel voices Tuned to music that rejoices In the glory of a love that cannot fail. Morning?—Thank God that all our seeing And our seeming is not being! Dear wife, let your warm cheek still against mine lie While your loving arms and kisses Doubly tell what loving bliss is.— Warning:—Before you go to bed, don’t eat mince pie!

“False womankind, false womankind!” Thus wails and rails a many a blind And foolish heart, too long confined Where light and love have never shined. E’en sweetest Shakespeare’s pen, embrined With biting bitterness of mind, “As false as woman’s love,” has whined. —Unkind the cut, the heart unkind. “False womankind, false womankind!”— I hurl the lie back from my mind To those who thus a wreath have twined Of roseless thorns to crown and bind A sister’s crown, or mother’s kind And sainted brow;—or twine and wind It, thorns and all, round heart and mind Of sweetheart-wife in love enshrined. False, false the charge and false the mind That ever says “False womankind!” For the pæan ages wind Unto me this truth they find In the heart of humankind, In the human heart enshrined:— “None so false and none so blind As whose loveless pens have lined “What the heart has undermined, ‘False womankind, false womankind!’ None so true as her we find: None so pure of heart and mind, None so sweet and so refined, None so great and good and kind, None so in the heart enshrined As womankind, as womankind!”

I am lonelier, lonelier, Dear, to-day Than ever I’ve been before: And the restless old ocean, foam-fretted alway, Moans only of days of yore. But somehow my heart is so sad in life’s whirl, And my life is so shut in its shell, Tho’ it heal every wound o’er with purest of pearl Of naught but the sea will it tell. Oh, lonely and lorn as the bittern’s boom, I haunt every solitude known, Only to find from the wide world’s room A nameless something has flown. I know not the reason, and fear nor I care; I only know I am lonelier, Dear, As over the well-wonted moorland I fare, Than ever the death-wept tear. How lonely, Dear! how long the time!— But I’ll bear it, I’ll bear it for thee, That at last I may join in the glad-voiced chime Far out on the crystal sea.

Oh I’se gittin’ ol’ an’ grizzled, An’ I haint got long to stay; My head hab got to noddin’ An’ I haint right well noway. Oh I’se gwine, gwine to leab you, An’ doan’ you chillun cry; Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you Caze I’se seen a light in de sky! Chorus. Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high, Oh yes! caze I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh I,— Oh I’se seen— I’se seen a light,— I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh I’se gwine away to leab you, An’ doan’ you chillun cry! Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you Caze I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh dat light am a-gittin’ brightah, An’ de cloud am a-comin’ nigh,— Oh I know hits de angels comin’ Fer to carry me home on high. Oh dese eyes dey’ll nebber see you,— Hoh my chillun doan’ you cry!— Twell dey wake in de happy mawnin, Caze I’se seen a light in de sky! Chorus. Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high, Oh yes! caze I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh I,— Oh I’se seen— I’se seen a light,— I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh I’se gwine away to leab you, An’ doan’ you chillun cry! Oh I know I’se gwine to leab you Caze I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh good-bye to de ol’ plantation, De mawnin’ am growin’ gray!— Oh good-bye, an’ stop yo’ weepin’,— De mawnin’ am breakin’ Day! Oh yes! in de heaben dat’s comin’ I’ll meet you by-an’-by!— Hoh yes! in de happy mawnin’, Caze you’ll see de Light in de sky! Chorus. Oh yes! in de white clouds floatin’ high! Oh yes! caze you’ll see de Light in de sky! Oh I,— Oh I’se seen— I’se seen a light,— I’se seen a light in de sky! Oh I’se gwine, gwine to leab you, But I’ll meet you by-an’-by! Oh I know I’se gwine to meet you, Caze I’se seen a light in de sky.

Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in, Where the convex surface of every eye, Even unto the night of the day we shall die in, Still perfectly fits in the concave sky! II. I wonder sometimes if the star-illusions We see at first glance in the infinite sky, Are not the suggestions, the far-intrusions, Of systems on systems beyond the eye. I wonder if ever the thought may confound them Who inhabit a silvery orb of mist, Seeing myriads of silvery others around them, That myriads on myriads more may exist. Oh say, do the sprites of each tiny frost-crystal That burns with the pent-up fire of suns Ever dream or imagine the same holy vestal Is burning in myriads of similar ones? Do the spirits that dwell in the dust of a sun-beam, As each in its course like a planet whirls, Ever know they are bathed in the light of but one beam From the sun of but one mighty system of worlds? III. Oh the narrowness man has been born to descry in, And the infinite bounds of his hopes and desires! Even unto the night of the day he shall die in Aspiring and falling he still aspires. But I know in my heart that in worlds elysian The convex surface of every eye, With a perfected soul and an infinite vision, Will range o’er a perfected, infinite sky. IV. For I dreamed a dream, in the midnight quiet, Of a golden day in a happy time; And my thoughts leaped up at the dream-god’s fiat And sang in my heart this golden chime:— O rise thou my soul, look beyond thy dark prison, The warder is shifting the mortal bars; An infinite sun in the east has arisen, There’s an infinite system beyond the stars.

I dreamed one night when the golden stars, Like an eastern maid o’er her soft kanoon, Leaned out of their skyey bowers above And sang in sweet measures an olden tune. I dreamed the sweetest of dreams that night;— And the portals of heaven seemed opening wide As the music grew sweeter and nearer each note And rose and fell like the swell of the tide. Ah the beautiful, beautiful stars of that night, And the beautiful music they left in my heart Shall brighten and brighten forever and aye And never forever my soul shall depart. At the soft dream-touch of the finger-tips On the harps of air by the heavenly throng, The deep silence merged into soft music-waves, And I heard in my heart this beautiful song:— Dream, dream, Youth and maiden, Beam, beam, Stars love-laden.— We are the beautiful portals of love, Beautiful, beautiful portals above Whence all the glories of heaven shine: Turn your eyes, turn, turn, turn your eyes, Turn them to the happy skies And drink with them sweet love divine. Dream, dream, Youth and maiden, Beam, beam, Stars love-laden.— Youth, in the depths of thy soul do thou pray, Pray for thy guidance in Love’s lighted way, Kneeling at radiant Love’s holy shrine: Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes, Turn them to the happy skies And drink with them sweet love divine. Dream, dream, Youth and maiden, Beam, beam, Stars love-laden.— Maiden, still not the sweet throbs of thy heart,— Throbs his caresses and words sweetly start,— When he is hoping and longing for thine: Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes, Turn them to the happy skies And drink with them sweet love divine. Dream, dream, Youth and maiden, Beam, beam, Stars love-laden.— Youth, seek the heart of the one at thy side And into thy sky shall a bright vision glide,— A star that shall ever for thee alone shine: Turn thine eyes, turn, turn, turn thine eyes, Turn them to the happy skies And drink with them sweet love divine. I woke from the dream at the tide of the morn, And beheld the sweet vision that filled my dreams.— That vision, My Star, thro’ a long, happy life Is guiding my steps with its golden beams. No longer, no longer a vision or dream, I clasp My Sweet Love to my heart all my own;— But still I can hear the sweet music that fell From the stars that night on our hearts alone.

I wonder sometimes if ever The music God has sent Will get into my heart and stay there As I think he surely meant. Can the voice of Laughter enter The form where Death has been?— Whence the spirit of Love has departed, Can Music’s charms come in? There’s an ache in my heart that daily Goes out in earnest quest Of the spirit of Love that has left me In the sadness of unrest. Oh, I wonder sometimes if ever That spirit of Love will return, And rekindle my heart’s dead ashes,— Inspirit the dust of the urn. I fear that the spirit would enter The ashes in ghostly quest, And set but the bones into motion, The ghost of Love at the best. Are the rivers, I wonder, ever Brought back by the clouds from the sea To flow in the same old channels Over the dregs and debris? The love of my heart has departed— The river has run to the sea;— And I wonder sometimes if its waters Will ever come back to me. Lo, there in my heart’s dead channels Lie the stagnant pools of Time; And I see the debris at the bottom, The dregs and the rotting slime. I wonder if ever the rivers, The rivers that run to the sea, Flow just as sweet on returning Over the dregs and debris? Somehow, a thought in my spirit Comes up from the stagnant fen That the music of Heaven shall never Be heard in its waters again! Yet I wonder each day as I wander Along where the stream used to be If the waters won’t sometime come back there And dredge out the dregs and debris. It may be! ’Tis a long time coming,— Too long, I fear,—too long!— For Love’s River must sing its music In hearts that have never gone wrong. Oh, will the Waters returning, Borne by the Clouds from the Sea, Run just as sweetly as ever Over the Dregs and Debris?

The New Year!—hark! the bell!—oh it Is at last here! A solemn hush! The world sits still With breath abated as the poet Of the New Year Takes an anti-bilious pill!

Sweeter than any sung My songs that found no tongue. Whittier: My Triumph. In the universe swept by the eyes of my soul, Swim a myriad luminous stars and suns; And swift through my brains burning æther they roll Like the infinite trains of the heavenly ones. In my dreams I outstretch my vain arms with delight For the forms of the angels that sing round my bed; But alas! for the chorus of seraphs take flight And beckon me whither but angels may tread. And I muse with my heart when my mind sits a-dream While vibrations of light from the heavenly cars Fleet swift thro’ the arms of my soul in bright gleam, And leave me upreaching for aye tow’rd the stars.

There’s the laugh of the fiend that shrivels the heart, That burns out the eyes from their sockets of fire, That crackles the skin and parches the breath And bellows and shrieks with demoniac ire. There’s the laugh of the hobgoblin, demon of night, That frightens the children to silence their sobs, That rings in their ears to the end of life, And at night in their hearts like the death-watch throbs. There’s the wild, screeching laugh from the madman’s lips When his eyes wildly start from his reechy brain, That haunts us, tho’ try to forget as we will, And pierces the heart with a dagger of pain. There’s the unearthly laugh and the sickening leer Of the idiot—wretched Unfortunate! dead Before born, the live sepulchre of unknown crimes, The tomb of the lives generations have led! There’s the blasting, blistering, withering laugh That blights e’en the heart wherein it is born, That bubbles and sputters and hisses and spits As it falls from the scorching lips of scorn. There’s a strange, weird laugh, even tho’ from a child, That gurgles and sticks in the sleeper’s thick breath, That startles the shivering silence with awe And dies in the throat like the rattle of death. There’s a laugh, like the wind’s cracked whistle, that creaks And squeaks on the worn-out pipes of old age; And a sigh heaves up from the heart full sad, For we know what the ominous sounds presage. There’s the free, wild laugh that bounds as the deer— As free as the leap of the hart and as wild— ’Tis the laugh that I love with my heart and my soul, The sweet, wild laugh of an innocent child. There’s the laugh that I love, the balm of tired hearts, That quiets the fluttering temples of care; ’Tis the soft, soothing laugh from the sweet lips of Love, And it falls like a blessing that answers prayer. There’s the sweetest of laughs full of music divine That gladdens the heart and the throbbing brain; I would give—oh what would I not, were it mine, But to hear the sweet laugh of my mother again.

Soft on thy breast Where the soul in oblivious quiet may dream While it sweeps up to heaven on a star-born beam, There would I rest, So peacefully rest, Oh rest, Rest!— Asleep on thy breast, Asweep to the blest In a dream On the gleam Of a star In the cradle-rocked billows of azure afar.

Spin: God will send thee flax.—Proverb. [Although differing slightly from his literal experience, nevertheless to the boy, long ago grown to manhood, who used to cling to his mother’s dress, and fretfully toddle back and forth as she patiently sent the big wheel whirring and then ran backwards with her lengthening thread, then forwards, and so on, hour after hour, spinning threads for the home-loom, this poem, with its application to life, has in it the pleasing scent of the roses of recollection, intoxicating even to sadness.]

“Spin, spin!” The warp is in And the shuttle never slacks: Let thy fingers never rest, Heed the weaver’s stern behest, “Spin, spin!” While the woof is weaving in, God will send thee flax. “Spin, spin!” The wheels begin, And the distaff never lacks: Let thy spindle’s endless thrum Fill the shuttles as they hum “Spin, spin!” While the woof is weaving in, God will send thee flax. “Spin, spin!”— Thy fingers thin Let the carded threads relax! Lo! the wheel is standing dumb, For the loom has ceased its grum “Spin, spin!”— Aye, the woof is woven in, God has sent thee flax!

Out of the Press of Penury The choicest wines have flowed To rouse a nation’s blood To statesmanship or poesy. (Nor less to hearts the poet’s cause Than statesman’s counseling:— If but a people sing, I care not who shall make the laws.) With every cycling sun that slips Through all its winding turns, Some Lincoln or some Burns Still lifts his spirit to our lips.

I wad na gang alane to-night An’ leave alane a lassie Where pixies, elves, an’ goblins fight An’ drink their bogie tassie. Sae come wi’ me an’ gang awa’ Where oufe nor spook nor bogle Hae ought o’ ill or guid to do But flichter, blink, an’ ogle. Oh we’ll be merry like the lave Tho’ Halloween be eerie, An’ crack an’ jauk an’ giddy ’have Wi’ Mrs. C—— till weary.

What is life?—’Tis a delicate shell Thrown up by Eternity’s flow On Time’s bank of quicksand to dwel. And a moment its loveliness show. Gone back to the elements grand Is the billow that cast it ashore: See! another is washing the strand, And the beautiful shell is no more! —D. A. What is life?—’Tis the billow of bells That the sea of eternity bears; And in rapturous music it swells As it kisses the sands of the years. But the ripples are breaking in foam,— And the billow has ceased to be! List! the billow, gone back to its home, Is tolling down deep in the sea!

“Lend me your brains, lend me your brains,” Screeched a highwayman goblin ’way down in his throat As deep as he ever could dig up a note. And his whole gang creaked and hoarsely screaked Like a hinge that was rusty, and constantly shrieked “Lend us your brains, lend us your brains,” As they seized my mare’s head at the bit by the reins And a long-haired loon with a razory spoon Clipped open my scalp just over my crown, And the skull the same place, running crosswise and down; And they hinged the two pieces with screechy brass bands Where they singed off my hair by the touch of their hands: And oh the pains, the pains, the pains, When they flapped down the cover just back o’ my brains. My mother came by with a heart-rending cry, And a wretch popped his eyes from the crown of his hat As he squealed, “You’ll never again do that!” And he sharpened his spoon on the sole of his shoon, Did the long-beard lout by the liquidy moon; And he severed her brain and her heart in twain While the rest held me there in my helpless pain. And the long-beard loons with their long-eared spoons Stood up on the top of my topless crown And then leaped to the depths of the hollow turned down. Oh they teetered and twinged on the part that was hinged, And they shrieked with delight till the very air cringed As they sang in their glee how smart they would be When they got all my brains in their noddles, you see. And they reached their long spoons, the reechy old loons, ’Way into the cavity made in my head, And scraped, and scraped till they thought I was dead. Oh the pains, the pains, the terrible pains When they spooned from my skull every speck of my brains, Then with spoons for their pries dragged both of my eyes Through that hole in my head of such terrible size. Oh they thought they would be such poets, you see, And such wonderful, marvelous scholars, you know, When they planted my brains in their noddles to grow! But my—oh—oh! what fools they were though! For poets, you know, are like underdone dough— And oh—my—oh! what fools they were though When they planted my brains in their noddles to grow! But they crammed every grain, their ill-gotten gain, Clear down in the pokes of their pocket-like ears, And turned over my eyes to their sages and seers. But they soon rued they had the brains I had had For they drove every one of them stark staring mad; For the goblins, you see, went crazy, like me, As mad as a March hare ever could be. To my greatest surprise they brought back my eyes And put them both back as they always had been. Since Thought made them crazy, as each one had seen, They restored me my brains with the greatest of pains, And handed me back my mare’s bridle-reins; Then away and up through the atmosphere flew And left me as sound and as solid as new! And there was no loon with a goblin spoon, And there never has been and never will be. Whether or not this happened to me, It needn’t at all happen this way to all: But whatever you do, or whatever befall, Un-less the gob-lins get your night-mare’s reins, Don’t ev-er nor ev-er go lend-ing your brains!

Dear Nurse that foldeth weary Nature to Thy heart, and from tired eyes shutteth out the light, E’en as a mother at the fall of night Doth take her child upon her lap to undo The snarls and tangles of the day, and woo Away the sun-bred ills, and balm the sight With visions of another world all bright, Dear soothing healing Sleep! ’tis thee I sue. Come, fold your arms about my Sweetheart-Wife; Balm up her eyes that stare at staring Night; Seal down her lids with sweet, refreshing gleams, Or visions, rather, of the happy life We’ve planned together; and leave her not till the light Of morn, with me, shall kiss her from her dreams.

Wild roses down the lane Sweet Laeda gave in June, To glad me And to sad me, Like shine and mingled rain Atween the clouds aboon.

Merrily, merrily over the wave We’ll laugh and we’ll sing as we’re bounding along, Merrily, merrily, joyous and brave We’ll echo the music of waves in our song:— Roll, roll, break, break, Over the merrily musical waves, Roll, roll, wake, wake All the glad echoes that hide in their caves. Rocking and rolling the sea is our home And joyous we shout from our billow-rocked boat; Cleaving the breakers white-feathered with foam We’ll set the sweet echoes of ocean afloat:— Roll, roll, break, break, Over the merrily musical waves, Roll, roll, wake, All the glad echoes that hide in their caves. Merrily, merrily out of their caves We’ll call the glad echoes sweet laughing along; Merrily, merrily out on the waves We’ll mingle the musical sea with our song:— Roll, roll, break, break, Over the merrily musical waves, Roll, roll, wake, wake All the glad echoes that hide in their caves.

Oh come to the woodland where joys reign supreme, Where the zephyr’s soft kiss lightly touches the brow, And the sun gently drops thro’ the leaves in a dream And sleeps in the shade of the wide-spreading bough. Let the world plod along with its stern, solemn face, With its brow deeply wrinkled with thought and with care; Let the pleasures of life to-day’s business replace While we list to the charm of its wild, joyous air. The murm’ring of brooks, the singing of birds, The whisper of winds and the leaves soft reply, The bleating of flocks and the lowing of herds, The breathing of nature from earth to the sky— All combine to make music with cadence as sweet To the ear of the mortal, as the music of spheres, Gentle wooed from the harp at Infinity’s feet And as softly let fall on angelical ears. Like the soft flakes of snow as they fall on the deep, The rhythmical notes adown tremblingly go On the listening air, and as silently sleep In the ocean of joys, where they melt as the snow.

Let me not look on the dear, dead face, I would not remember her so; For her eyes are closed, and her hands are still, And her lips can’t speak, you know! Let me remember her just as she lived, And just as I’ll meet her above— With eyes that could talk and a touch that could soothe, And a heart that was full of love. Let me remember her not as one dead, But as one that has fallen asleep; She will wake in the morning, I know, at my call, Awake in the angels’ keep!

Thought alone is eternal.—Young. ’Tis the whisp’ring of angels, the brush of their wings; ’Tis the flight of a soul from its fetters of clay To the lighthouse of gold where the seraph Hope sings And flings out its notes on life’s billowed bay. ’Tis the touch of Christ’s hand that upraiseth the dead; ’Tis the breath breathed of God in the nostrils of man;— The stream that shall rise from its mould-made bed And join with the clouds whence in rain-drops it ran. Tinged with sadness of mortals, it smells of the grave; But the Childhood of Faith and the Mother of Hope, It beckons to fields where the palm-groves wave And the joy-studded gates of Jerusalem ope.

White roses, sweet white roses Fair Leda smiles atween, No soul your lily-light encloses So pure as hers, I ween. Here lie and dream, sweet, pure white roses That blessed the heart of June, And ope the budding love that closes Around her soul aboon.

I passed along a wilding lane Where weeds and straying flowers grew, Where clover-blooming meadows threw Sweet love upon the winds in vain. Lonely by the wayside wild Where the earth all trodden lay, There peeped a wild rose, one bright day, And stretched its palms like a pleading child. Day after day, day after day It drank of love from heaven and earth And lifted itself from a timid birth To a beautiful soul in sweet array. It breathed from out of its opening soul The breath that heaven has given the rose, The sweetest by far that mortal knows, And drank sweet love from the night’s dew-bowl. The tint of the fleecy clouds of morn Came out of the flushing tide of its heart, And lay on its cheek with artless art— The fairest blush that ever was born. ’Twas when the rose was full in bloom I passed along that wilding lane When love upon the winds was vain, The desert air its deathless tomb. I loved the flower and said, “Alas! ’Tis sad to know such love must die, Such sweetness with the mould must lie, Such beauty into death must pass!” I plucked the flower from off its stem And said, “Sweet Flower! Life were Death Without thy beauty and thy breath— The heart must wither else for them.” I plucked the flower—blest wild rose!— I set it blooming in my heart, And said, “Should my sweet rose depart To-day—the night its dear life close, “The love it leaves shall ever live, Shall ever grow, and bloom and bloom, Shall go with me thro’ Death’s dark gloom, And hope of glad reunion give.” The flower, blooming, lived and grew;— That sweet wild rose is blooming still; Its beauties every corner fill That life and love and heart e’er knew. And should my fond heart ever break, That sweet wild rose would never die;— ’Twould spring from the mould where it might lie And the fairest bloom immortal take!

May the twenties yet triple, And then add their half, Still preserving the ripple And ring of your laugh. And may every bright twinkle That falls from your eye Serve to smooth out each wrinkle, The track of a sigh. When the twenties shall twinkle And ten more shall run, I hope every cute wink’ll Still shine out with fun. Oh the triple of twenty Plus none less than ten! May you be the same dainty Sweet girly-girl then!

Oh ’tis May, Beautiful May, Month of beautiful May, Beautiful month of May. Wild flowers blooming, Grasses growing, Wild brooks flowing, Pheasants booming— Oh ’tis May, Beautiful May Lovelier far than month of June, Beautiful May! And every day Is putting the strings of life in tune. May-buds peep At robins chattering To their mates And those asleep, Always flattering With nodding pates And promises free The farmer asnooze That they will keep From others the news That cherries are in the tree. The playful dawn Is after the moon, And the moon is running away. Oh the stars like sheep are all running away After the moon, Away from the dawn, Away from the dawn of the month of May, Away, away, away. With skip and play They dance away After the dizzy moon That pales with the pallor of fright so soon At the brightening sight, Affright of the light Of the morn of a lovelier month than June, So soon, soon, soon. Oh sweet May, Beautiful May Thus brightens her face each day, And lets the light of her tresses stray Into each part Of the earth’s dark heart Where flashes like lashes from diamonds play —Astray each day at play. The light from her eyes In the spring’s emprise Sinks deep in the soul of the sands; And with glittering, flying hands Every one Of the sands doth run And lift into life the clod from its bonds That climbs to a soul like man’s. She breathes on the air, And the sweet winds wear Her blooms in their billowy hair, And pour out their perfumes and nectars rare Distilled in the cup That the goddesses sup For the beautiful dutiful May so fair, So rare and fairy fair. She drinks of the stream, And the glad waters gleam With delight as they leap to her lips. She creeps up the mountains and merrily sips Of the fountains that spring From the snows as they string Up their bows for a shot at the lower rock-crypts Where the sun like the dew-drop drips. She skims to the plain And frightens the train That the winter has left on guard. She whistles her bird-notes soft and hard And calls from retreat The bickering feet Of the green that the winter in prison has barred, —Sweet, te-weet, wheat.

Oh the bounding of the billows of the sea Rolls the rhythm of their music unto me; And a footstep that has fallen on the lea Seems to echo from the boundless, soundless deep. But the breaking of the billows—the billows as they leap, Makes the silence of my sorrow with them weep; While the echoes of the grottoes—the grottoes wildly start, Ever throbbing to the music of my heart;— Throbbing to the threnode, Rocking to the rhythm, Moaning to the music of my heart,— Threnode throbbing ever, Rhythm rocking ever, Music moaning ever in my heart. Oh my Love is on the billows of the sea, Sending messages along the waves to me; And the ever-singing shells along the lea With my longing heart a constant chorus keep. But the breaking of the message—the message from the deep, Makes the silence of my sorrow inly weep; While the moaning shells intoning, intoning griefs impart Ever sobbing to the silence of my heart;— Sobbing to the silence, Intoning to the moaning, Breaking to the breaking of my heart,— Silent sobbing ever, Grief intoning ever, Breaking, breaking ever in my heart.

There was once a little humpty-dumpty idiotic chap, Who had both a mug an’ muzzle most remarkable to see. An’ he couldn’t do a solitary thing but grin an’ gap, But he done that simply awful an’ he done it constantly. His tater head was sorto’ meller like a punkin over-ripe An’ his yaller face was puckered like a lemon with the gripe; An’ his front teeth like stalites—or what you call ’em—always gave To the cavity behind them the appearance of a cave,— Jist forever an’ forever from life’s earliest beginnin’ Simply nachelly a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin an’ a-grinnin’. Well, you see, he couldn’t help it, couldn’t help it not a bit, ’Cause for some peculiar reason he was born jist that-a-way. An’ if Nater marks a feller he had better jist submit, ’Cause she wants that mark for somepm, an’ she’s goin to have it stay. Caint no doctor make a rose-bud of a busted-thistle mouth, Nor he caint turn north a foot that’s got to growin’ sorto’ south. Spect this chap inside him knowed it wa’n’t no earthly kind o’ use To be squeezin’ on a lemon that didn’t have a bit o’ juice; —Maybe ’lowed his ugly mug ’ould be a doin’ less of sinnin’ If he’d leave it jist a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’. ’Course he didn’t reason on it, cause he didn’t have no sense; But I kindo’ sorto’ reckon that he done like others do— Jist set down up where he’d clum on top o’ Nater’s ol worm-fence An’ let the sun bile down onto him an’ soak him clean plum thro’ an’ thro’ While with busy boom an’ buzz the plunder’n’ bug an’ bumble-bee Went a-nosin’ thro’ the clover where the rosy-posies be. An’ with one eye squinted up an’ t’other squinted down plum shet, Up on top the fence, I spect, twixt brute an’ human there he set, An’ jist let the whirly-gigy world whirl off its spindle spinnin’ While he joyed hisself a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’. Hope he did enjoy hisself, ’cause he didn’t have enough Sense to know what trouble was,—he was a idiotic chap. An’ he couldn’t tell to save him if a voice was soft or gruff For he couldn’t talk, nor hear, nor—nothin’ only grin an’ gap. An’ his eyes that kept a winkin an’ a squintin up an’ down Never let the glorious sunlight paint no picter in his crown. Plum stone deef an’ dumb an’ blind—a hunch-backed idiot at that! Oh ’t’ould ’most-a broke your heart, as mine, to see him sittin’ flat On the floor in sich an awful fix as he was dyin’ in an’ Rockin back an’ forth, a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’ an’ a-grinnin’.

Infant. Good-night, good-night!—the brightest day must fall, The sweetest joys, alas! must fade the sight; Sad Night shall weep her silent tears o’er all— Good-night, good-night, sweet babe, good-night. Child. The day has kissed thy happy heart to sleep And left thy lips apart in sweet delight; But oh the Night, I know, must slowly creep— Good-night, good-night, my child, good-night. Youth. Good-night, good-night!—thy care and day is done. The stars thy camp, the Deity thy light, Thy soldier hand and heart at rest sleep on,— Good-night, good-night, my boy, good-night! Man. Or griefs or joys thy lot, the past be past!— The star of hope is on the mountain height, For sun and life must sleep and rise at last,— Good-night, good-night, worn heart, good-night. All. Good-night, Sad Heart, to Light and Darkness born! The sun is sunk—but Stars and Hope are bright;— And all that sleep at night will wake at Morn!— Good-night, good-night, Dear Heart, good-night!

Light and gay Flight away Over the rolling sea, Night and day Bright my fay Bringing sweet music to me. Deep in the sea Leap with glee Braiding the mermaiden’s hair; Leap the sea, Sweep to me, Bearing her kisses rare. O my fay, Row away Out in a nautilus shell, Glowingly, Flowingly, Its rhythmical story to tell. Greet the morn Fleetly borne Over the foam of the sea, Meet the morn, Sweet return Bringing its beauties to me. Lie and dream By the beam Thrown from the rolling moon, Lie and dream Night its gleam Asleep in some deep lagoon. Far enskyed Star-like ride Down in the doming deep, Where the wide Bar and tide Croon to the moon asleep.

Good-night, good-night! Thy dreams to-night, Thy dreams, thy silent dreams, Be sweet as love, as chaste as light, Thy dreams be sweet and deep. Oh dream, my Love, And sleep, my Love, While star-laced moon-light beams Above so bright with love and light, Good-night, good-night, my Love.

To-night I saw her. Strange indeed My faint heart should thus fail me;—strange That after such transporting love In me three days should work such change. Not more than three?—Nay, barely three; And yet, within that raptured time I’ve lived, it seems, a century Of hope in Love’s own blissful clime. ’Tis strange, this love of mine, so strange; So strange I fear sometimes I do Not love, but only dream I love, And sleep the mid-life watches through. How many, many is the time I’ve looked upon some face, some form, And felt the sudden thrill of some Fair hand awake the passion-storm! But only momentary; and then That old, old longing for the real And soul-enlighted face of her Whose image is my heart’s ideal. Ah yes! to-night as I sit and write Sweet visions come before my eyes. Sweet visions only! and like lights Along the shore they fall and rise. Who are they? Friends of my happy days, The friends of my childhood, boyhood, youth, And later age. Yet none there are, I fear, I ever loved in truth. I’ve often wondered what love is. I’ve heard men speak of it,—ah yes! I’ve heard fair women, too! but what It is, I wonder did they guess? I’ve read of love; I’ve thought of love; I’ve read and thought that in that hour When love should truly come to one, ’Twould come an all-possessing power; ’Twould smite upon the chord of self, And break the faulty string in twain; ’Twould touch a more melodious chord And wake a glad, harmonious strain. And so I wonder what love is; And if I ever knew before A few short, happy days ago How love can rise, and sing, and soar. Too sacred for my heart to hold, To me a woman is divine— As far above me as the stars That I adore because they shine. I can but stand and gaze above, I can but worship and adore, Nor dream that I could reach her height— I could but drag her down; no more. Yet other men have loved. Must I, Must I alone throughout the night Stand gazing at a star that shines For me alone upon the mountain height? Ah yes! I fear me that all night I’ll watch the silent waning star Adoring and revering till It sinks behind some rugged scar. I fear I do not love; I hold The fairer sex too high, I fear; And bowed with awe and humbleness, Instead of loving I revere. Among the noisy human crowd, I stand as stands the silent stone; And like it, too, I dumbly pray To whom I love, and inly moan. And thus it is my reverence brings Me woe. As silent as the tomb, My heart bowed down with sacred awe Still wanders thro’ Love’s trackless dome. Men call me cold. Alas! could they But feel the half, the tenth I feel, Could they but look thro’ reverent eyes, They might my sealed heart unseal. Too deep the mighty river flows; Too deep the silent waters are; I catch the image, not the form, Embrace the vision, not the star. Can heart of man pluck down a star And wear it on his breast? or dip Its gleam from out the soundless sea And press it to his loving lip? No more, no more indeed can I, No more can I pluck down the love That like an angel day and night Still wanders through the dome above. Oh could I ask a woman’s love? I could not, would not drag her down! I could not gratify a thought So selfish—wed her to a clown! No! no! my only hope must be To rise above this selfish self; To grow more pure in heart and hope, To lose myself in her sweet self. To-night, I say, I saw her; her Who wakes in me such thoughts as these; I felt her hand as I sometimes feel An angel’s hand in the dreamy breeze. She seemed far off—so far away! And yet, I knew and saw her near: I touched her hand; I heard her voice, And oh the music thrilled my ear. When here alone within my room, I feel most brave; but when before The one I love, my heart grows faint, I can but silently adore. I talk to her? Ah yes, sweet hours! Tho’ every act and word I know Must say my heart is full of love, I dare not, can not tell her so. Some day, perhaps,—some bright, sweet day!— My tongue may tell her as my song The struggle of my striving soul To rise to her above the throng. Great God, lift up my failing soul, And purify this heart of mine. Oh lead me through the realms of love With that unfailing hand of Thine. I ask nor wealth, nor fame, nor power; I ask a pure and loving heart That I may join that heart to hers Forever nevermore to part. And oh then peace, peace, the peace of love For that old, old longing; and the real And soul-enlighted face of her, The image of my heart’s ideal.

“Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November,” etc.,