It lacks all force, and life's best truths perverts: For I believe we have, and reach, and win, Whatever our deserts.

IF.

Dear love, if you and I could sail away, With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled, Across the waters of some unknown bay, And find some island far from all the world;

If we could dwell there, ever more alone, While unrecorded years slip by apace, Forgetting and forgotten and unknown By aught save native song-birds of the place;

If Winter never visited that land, And Summer's lap spilled o'er with fruits and flowers, And tropic trees cast shade on every hand, And twined boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers;

If from the fashions of the world set free, And hid away from all its jealous strife, I lived alone for you, and you for me-- Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.

But since we dwell here in the crowded way, Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold, And all is common-place and work-a-day, As soon as love's young honeymoon grows old;

Since fashion rules and nature yields to art, And life is hurt by daily jar and fret, 'Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart And go our ways alone, love, and forget.

GETHSEMANE.

In golden youth when seems the earth A Summer-land of singing mirth, When souls are glad and hearts are light, And not a shadow lurks in sight, We do not know it, but there lies Somewhere veiled under evening skies A garden which we all must see-- The garden of Gethsemane.

With joyous steps we go our ways, Love lends a halo to our days; Light sorrows sail like clouds afar, We laugh, and say how strong we are.

We hurry on; and hurrying, go Close to the border-land of woe, That waits for you, and waits for me-- Forever waits Gethsemane.

Down shadowy lanes, across strange streams Bridged over by our broken dreams; Behind the misty caps of years, Beyond the great salt fount of tears, The garden lies. Strive as you may, You cannot miss it in your way.

All paths that have been, or shall be, Pa.s.s somewhere through Gethsemane.

All those who journey, soon or late, Must pa.s.s within the garden's gate; Must kneel alone in darkness there, And battle with some fierce despair.

G.o.d pity those who can not say, "Not mine but thine," who only pray, "Let this cup pa.s.s," and cannot see The _purpose_ in Gethsemane.

DUST-SEALED.

I know not wherefore, but mine eyes See bloom, where other eyes see blight.

They find a rainbow, a sunrise, Where others but discern deep night.

Men call me an enthusiast, And say I look through gilded haze: Because where'er my gaze is cast, I see some thing that calls for praise.

I say, "Behold those lovely eyes-- That tinted cheek of flower-like grace."

They answer in amused surprise: "We thought it such a common face."

I say, "Was ever scene more fair?

I seem to walk in Eden's bowers."

They answer with a pitying air, "The weeds are choking out the flowers."

I know not wherefore, but G.o.d lent A deeper vision to my sight.

On whatsoe'er my gaze is bent I catch the beauty Infinite;

That underlying, hidden half That all things hold of Deity.

So let the dull crowd sneer and laugh-- Their eyes are blind, they cannot see.

"ADVICE."

I must do as you do? Your way I own Is a very good way. And still, There are sometimes two straight roads to a town, One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way, That the prudent choose each time; And you think me reckless and rash to-day, Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine.

We are not like peas in a pod, Compelled to lie in a certain line, Or else be scattered abroad.

'Twere a dull old world, methinks, my friend, If we all went just one way; Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end, Though they lead apart to-day.

You like the shade, and I like the sun; You like an even pace, I like to mix with the crowd and run, And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm and strife, You like a peaceful time; I like the pa.s.sion and surge of life, You like its gentle rhyme.

You like b.u.t.tercups, dewy sweet, And crocuses, framed in snow; I like roses, born of the heat, And the red carnation's glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend, For so it was written down; We must follow our given paths to the end, But I trust we shall meet--in town.

OVER THE BANISTERS.

Over the banisters bends a face, Daringly sweet and beguiling.

Somebody stands in careless grace, And watches the picture, smiling.

The light burns dim in the hall below, n.o.body sees her standing, Saying good-night again, soft and slow, Half way up to the landing.

n.o.body only the eyes of brown, Tender and full of meaning, That smile on the fairest face in town, Over the banisters leaning.

Tired and sleepy, with drooping head, I wonder why she lingers; Now, when the good-nights all are said, Why somebody holds her fingers.

He holds her fingers and draws her down, Suddenly growing bolder, Till the loose hair drops its ma.s.ses brown Like a mantle over his shoulder.

Over the banisters soft hands, fair, Brush his cheeks like a feather, And bright brown tresses and dusky hair, Meet and mingle together.

There's a question asked, there's a swift caress, She has flown like a bird from the hallway, But over the banisters drops a "yes,"

That shall brighten the world for him alway.