SEVEN SONNETS

O broad-brow’d thinker, thou hast oft unroll’d The laws and prophets as of small avail, And Genesis as but an old-wives’ tale To check some grandchild, late grown overbold! Yet when, in brimming epic, all is told Of human hearts bleeding beneath their mail, Of human hands pierc’d by the pitiless nail Of sharpest sorrow: when thou shalt behold How godlike is this Woman who doth grieve, How kingly, too, this Man beneath the rod, How high their glance who with stretch’d hands receive The bitter cup, pouring upon the sod The sweeter drink: shalt thou not then believe That these were made in likeness of their God?

When unto that last jeweled Book I turn, Groping, in my dark hour, for some bright creed To save me, self from self,—alas, what heed Have I, familiar with the gems that burn In these my many tears, what heed to learn Of jasper, sapphire, chrysoprase indeed? Stones are they all! Not stones, but bread, my need! A cup, a loaf, a staff—for these I yearn. Yet hark! In that high tale the heralds bring Of vial, vision, pomp of precious stone, Paving the paths of Heaven, my spirit hears Twin messages for human comforting: “Her child was caught up unto God, His throne;” “God from their eyes shall wipe away all tears.”

A strong star sweeps illimitable space; One star of many, it shall fall and die, And there is no bewildering in the sky, No frown upon the firmament’s fair face: One wave of many, this wide wave shall pace, Ever irrevocable drawing nigh Heart-breaking boom and doom, yet scarce a sigh Shall stir the gray sea in his resting-place. Not so man’s griefs, unnumbered though they be, E’en as the stars and waves, and lovely leaves That give glad holiday! Fear not, for He Who counts the sparrows twittering from your eaves May not unmoved His myriad mourners see: Fear not, in each child’s grief a Father grieves!

O twilight, in thy magic robe of gray, The gray that in its deeps doth all-enfold Heart-chosen hues of sky and rose and gold! Speed now the ritual of closing Day, Nor welcome yet the radiant Night’s array, But linger with me! Let mine eyes behold A Shape more dear than morrows will have told, Or dreams of yesteryear might ever say: For with thy trailing garment I see pass The glory of my lost love’s shining hair; The singing silver of the fountain’s glass Shows me once more the eyes I knew most fair; And in the orchard, the mysterious grass Whispers the waiting trees, some one is there.

Let there be flowers where my love hath passed; Nay, never a mournful blossom, nor the shade Of any weeping tree! In yon glad glade, Star-whispering pines hold her bright memory fast, And echoes of her lovely laughter last: Let no sad vine, distraught and disarrayed, Cling sobbing to the garden gods for aid, Nor brow of jocund Pan be overcast: Rather in sunlit space a fountain rear, Where white doves dwell, delighting in its dews; Let spangled Columbine and Pansy here, In turn with Rose and Lily, smile, sing, pray; And passers-by shall pause awhile and muse, “What maiden beautiful once came this way?”

Fair guardian mount, beneath whose azure hold Our large yet lyric landscape seek its ends! Thou southward hill, in thee the far East blends With West, since thou, our Fuji, dost enfold In Orient outline, triple towers old, Traditional of Indian deed that lends For aye thy name, Three Brothers, or Three Friends; And me these oft have gladdened and consoled! But if, O dear and distant Brothers, ye Have wrought me magic, standing there apart In summer splendour and in winter stress, How tell what gifts these other brothers three, Far nearer kindred of my house and heart, Have brought of comforting and loveliness!

Leonardo—Luther—Lincoln—when we praise A name like theirs, illumed on Time’s vast scroll, We ponder; sighing, envious of their goal, “Alas, Fate’s high occasion never stays!” Let not the worshipper of vanished days Forget, the Present dwells beside the whole Of beauty’s truth; the Present still must roll From many a tomb, the stone that hides God’s rays! What angels’ task for men and women too, Ere Life’s immured irradiance shall rise, Ere all the soul’s dark chains be broken through, And all her freedom gained, with a great price!— Belovèd, while mine own brief part I do, Would thou wert here to-day, in earthly guise!