Some souls there are who love their woes and tears, Gaining their joy by contrast, but for thee And me, Beloved, peace is ecstasy.

It was not always so, there was a time When I would choose the rocky mountain way, And climb the hills of doubt to find the day.

Fresh effort brought fresh zest, and winter's rime Chilled not but crowned endeavor, and the heat Of summer thrilled, and made the pulses beat.

But now I am so weary that I turn From labor with a shudder, and from pain As from an enemy; I see no gain In suffering, and cleansing fires must burn As keenly as desire, so let me know Quiet with thee, and twilight's afterglow.

I, who have boasted of my strength and will, And ventured daring flights, and stood alone In fearless, flushed defiance, I have grown Humble, and seek another hand to fill Life's cup, and other eyes to pierce the skies Of Wisdom's dear, sad, mighty mysteries.

Ah! I will lie so quiet in thine arms I will not stir thee; and thy whisperings Shall teach me patience, and so many things I have not learned as yet. And all alarms Will melt in peace when, safe from tempest's rage My wind-tossed ship has found its anchorage.

A Song of Rest.

The world may rage without, Quiet is here; Statesmen may toil and shout, Cynics may sneer; The great world--let it go-- June warmth be March's snow, I care not--be it so Since I am here.

Time was when war's alarm Called for a fear, When sorrow's seeming harm Hastened a tear; Naught care I now what foe Threatens, for scarce I know How the year's seasons go Since I am here.

This is my resting-place Holy and dear, Where Pain's dejected face May not appear.

This is the world to me, Earth's woes I will not see But rest contentedly Since I am here.

Is't your voice chiding, Love, My mild career?

My meek abiding, Love, Daily so near?

"Danger and loss" to me?

Ah, Sweet, I fear to see No loss but loss of _Thee_ And I am here.

Death.

If days should pa.s.s without a written word To tell me of thy welfare, and if days Should lengthen out to weeks, until the maze Of questioning fears confused me, and I heard.

Life-sounds as echoes; and one came and said After these weeks of waiting: "He is dead!"

Though the quick sword had found the vital part, And the life-blood must mingle with the tears, I think that, as the dying soldier hears The cries of victory, and feels his heart Surge with his country's triumph-hour, I could Hope bravely on, and feel that G.o.d was good.

I could take up my thread of life again And weave my pattern though the colors were Faded forever. Though I might not dare Dream often of thee, I should know that when Death came to thee upon thy lips my name Lingered, and lingers ever without blame.

Aye, lingers ever. Though we may not know Much that our spirits crave, yet is it given To us to feel that in the waiting Heaven Great souls are greater, and if G.o.d bestow A mighty love He will not let it die Through the vast ages of eternity.

But if some day the bitter knowledge swept Down on my life,--bearing my treasured freight To founder on the shoals of scorn,--what Fate Smiling with awful irony had kept Till life grew sweeter,--that my G.o.d was clay, That 'neath thy strength a lurking weakness lay;

That thou, whom I had deemed a man of men Faulty, as great men are, but with no taint Of baseness,--with those faults that shew the saint Of after days, perhaps,--wert even then When first I loved thee but a spreading tree Whose leaves shewed not its roots' deformity;

I should not weep, for there are wounds that lie Too deep for tears,--and Death is but a friend Who loves too dearly, and the parting end Of Love's joy-day a paltry pain, a cry To G.o.d, then peace,--beside the torturing grief When honor dies, and trust, and soul's belief.

Travellers have told that in the Java isles The upas-tree breathes its dread vapor out Into the air; there needs no hand about Its branches for the poison's deadly wiles To work a strong man's hurt, for there is death Envenomed, noisome, in his every breath.

So would I breathe thy poison in my soul, Till all that had been wholesome, pure, and true Shewed its decay, and stained and wasted grew.

Though sundered as the distant Northern Pole From his far sister, I should bear thy blight Upon me as I pa.s.sed into the night.

Didst dream thy truth and honor meant so much To me, Dear Heart? Oh! I am full of tears To-night, of longing, love and foolish fears.

Would I might see thee, know thy tender touch, For Time is long, and though I may not will To question Fate, I am a woman still.

Battle Song.

Clear sounds the call on high: "To arms and victory!"

Brave hearts that win or die, Dying, may win; Proudly the banners wave, What though the goal's the grave?

Death cannot harm the brave,-- Through death they win.

Softly the evening hush Stilling strife's maddened rush Cools the fierce battle flush,-- See the day die; A thousand faces white Mirror the cold moonlight And gla.s.sy eyes are bright With Victory.

Content.

I have been wandering where the daisies grow, Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow From timothy and yellow b.u.t.tercup, So by their fearless beauty lifted up.

Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will, Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep Or, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creep Over the meadows and adown the hill.

So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow, Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.

So beautiful is it to live, so sweet To hear the ripple of the bobolink, To smell the clover blossoms white and pink, To feel oneself far from the dusty street, From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret Of living, and the fever of regret.

I have grown younger; I can scarce believe It is the same sad woman full of dreams Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems I am a child again, and can deceive My soul with daisies, plucking one by one The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.

Almost with old-time eagerness I try My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup,"

Then, lower, "pa.s.sionement, pas du tout;"

Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."

I can remember how, in childish days, I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall Must love me "pa.s.sionately" or "not at all."

Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays It knows not what, and heedlessly demands The best that life can give with out-stretched hands!

Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize Peace above pa.s.sion, and the summer life Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.

Sea-Song.

A dash of spray, A weed-browned way,-- My ship's in the bay, In the glad blue bay,-- The wind's from the west And the waves have a crest, But my bird's in the nest And my ship's in the bay!

At dawn to stand Soft hand to hand, Bare feet on the sand,-- On the hard brown sand,-- To wait, dew-crowned, For the tarrying sound Of a keel that will ground On the sc.r.a.ping sand.

A glad surprise In the wind-swept skies Of my wee one's eyes,-- Those wondering eyes.