GOLDEN SILENCES.

There is silence that saith, "Ah me!"

There is silence that nothing saith; One the silence of life forlorn, One the silence of death; One is, and the other shall be.

One we know and have known for long, One we know not, but we shall know, All we who have ever been born; Even so, be it so,-- There is silence, despite a song.

Sowing day is a silent day, Resting night is a silent night; But whoso reaps the ripened corn Shall shout in his delight, While silences vanish away.

IN THE WILLOW SHADE.

I sat beneath a willow tree, Where water falls and calls; While fancies upon fancies solaced me, Some true, and some were false.

Who set their heart upon a hope That never comes to pa.s.s, Droop in the end like fading heliotrope, The sun's wan looking-gla.s.s.

Who set their will upon a whim Clung to through good and ill, Are wrecked alike whether they sink or swim, Or hit or miss their will.

All things are vain that wax and wane, For which we waste our breath; Love only doth not wane and is not vain, Love only outlives death.

A singing lark rose toward the sky, Circling he sang amain; He sang, a speck scarce visible sky-high, And then he sank again.

A second like a sunlit spark Flashed singing up his track; But never overtook that foremost lark, And songless fluttered back.

A hovering melody of birds Haunted the air above; They clearly sang contentment without words, And youth and joy and love.

O silvery weeping willow tree With all leaves shivering, Have you no purpose but to shadow me Beside this rippled spring?

On this first fleeting day of Spring, For Winter is gone by, And every bird on every quivering wing Floats in a sunny sky;

On this first Summer-like soft day, While sunshine steeps the air, And every cloud has gat itself away, And birds sing everywhere.

Have you no purpose in the world But thus to shadow me With all your tender drooping twigs unfurled, O weeping willow tree?

With all your tremulous leaves outspread Betwixt me and the sun, While here I loiter on a mossy bed With half my work undone;

My work undone, that should be done At once with all my might; For after the long day and lingering sun Comes the unworking night.

This day is lapsing on its way, Is lapsing out of sight; And after all the chances of the day Comes the resourceless night.

The weeping-willow shook its head And stretched its shadow long; The west grew crimson, the sun smouldered red, The birds forbore a song.

Slow wind sighed through the willow leaves, The ripple made a moan, The world drooped murmuring like a thing that grieves; And then I felt alone.

I rose to go, and felt the chill, And shivered as I went; Yet shivering wondered, and I wonder still, What more that willow meant;

That silvery weeping-willow tree With all leaves shivering, Which spent one long day overshadowing me Beside a spring in Spring.

FLUTTERED WINGS.

The splendor of the kindling day, The splendor of the setting sun, These move my soul to wend its way, And have done With all we grasp and toil amongst and say.

The paling roses of a cloud, The fading bow that arches s.p.a.ce, These woo my fancy toward my shroud; Toward the place Of faces veiled, and heads discrowned and bowed.

The nation of the awful stars, The wandering star whose blaze is brief, These make me beat against the bars Of my grief; My tedious grief, twin to the life it mars.

O fretted heart tossed to and fro, So fain to flee, so fain to rest!

All glories that are high or low, East or west, Grow dim to thee who art so fain to go.

A FISHER-WIFE.

The soonest mended, nothing said; And help may rise from east or west; But my two hands are lumps of lead, My heart sits leaden in my breast.

O north wind swoop not from the north, O south wind linger in the south, Oh come not raving raging forth, To bring my heart into my mouth;

For I've a husband out at sea, Afloat on feeble planks of wood; He does not know what fear may be; I would have told him if I could.

I would have locked him in my arms, I would have hid him in my heart; For oh! the waves are fraught with harms, And he and I so far apart.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Why has Spring one syllable less Than any its fellow season?

There may be some other reason, And I'm merely making a guess; But surely it h.o.a.rds such wealth Of happiness, hope and health, Sunshine and musical sound, It may spare a foot from its name Yet all the same Superabound.

Soft-named Summer, Most welcome comer, Brings almost everything Over which we dream or sing Or sigh; But then Summer wends its way, To-morrow,--to-day,-- Good-bye!

Autumn,--the slow name lingers, While we likewise flag; It silences many singers; Its slow days drag, Yet hasten at speed To leave us in chilly need For Winter to strip indeed.

In all-lack Winter, Dull of sense and of sound, We huddle and shiver Beside our splinter Of crackling pine, Snow in sky and snow on ground.

Winter and cold Can't last for ever!

To-day, to-morrow, the sun will shine; When we are old, But some still are young, Singing the song Which others have sung, Ringing the bells Which others have rung,-- Even so!

We ourselves, who else?

We ourselves long Long ago.

MARIANA.