AN OCTOBER GARDEN.

In my Autumn garden I was fain To mourn among my scattered roses; Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses To Autumn's languid sun and rain When all the world is on the wane!

Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June, Nor heard the nightingale in tune.

Broad-faced asters by my garden walk, You are but coa.r.s.e compared with roses: More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk, That least and last which cold winds balk; A rose it is though least and last of all, A rose to me though at the fall.

"SUMMER IS ENDED."

To think that this meaningless thing was ever a rose Scentless, colorless, _this!_ Will it ever be thus (who knows?) Thus with our bliss, If we wait till the close?

Though we care not to wait for the end, there comes the end Sooner, later, at last, Which nothing can mar, nothing mend: An end locked fast, Bent we cannot re-bend.

Pa.s.sING AND GLa.s.sING.

All things that pa.s.s Are woman's looking-gla.s.s; They show her how her bloom must fade, And she herself be laid With withered roses in the shade; With withered roses and the fallen peach, Unlovely, out of reach Of summer joy that was.

All things that pa.s.s Are woman's tiring-gla.s.s; The faded lavender is sweet, Sweet the dead violet Culled and laid by and cared for yet; The dried-up violets and dried lavender Still sweet, may comfort her, Nor need she cry Alas!

All things that pa.s.s Are wisdom's looking-gla.s.s; Being full of hope and fear, and still Brimful of good or ill, According to our work and will; For there is nothing new beneath the sun; Our doings have been done, And that which shall be was.

"I WILL ARISE."

Weary and weak,--accept my weariness; Weary and weak and downcast in my soul, With hope growing less and less, And with the goal Distant and dim,--accept my sore distress.

I thought to reach the goal so long ago, At outset of the race I dreamed of rest, Not knowing what now I know Of breathless haste, Of long-drawn straining effort across the waste.

One only thing I knew, Thy love of me; One only thing I know, Thy sacred same Love of me full and free, A craving flame Of selfless love of me which burns in Thee.

How can I think of thee, and yet grow chill; Of Thee, and yet grow cold and nigh to death?

Re-energize my will, Rebuild my faith; I will arise and run, Thou giving me breath.

I will arise, repenting and in pain; I will arise, and smite upon my breast And turn to Thee again; Thou choosest best, Lead me along the road Thou makest plain.

Lead me a little way, and carry me A little way, and listen to my sighs, And store my tears with Thee, And deign replies To feeble prayers;--O Lord, I will arise.

A PRODIGAL SON.

Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house, Which he kindled the night I went away?

I turned once beneath the cedar boughs, And marked it gleam with a golden ray; Did he think to light me home some day?

Hungry here with the crunching swine, Hungry harvest have I to reap; In a dream I count my Father's kine, I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep, I watch his lambs that browse and leap.

There is plenty of bread at home, His servants have bread enough and to spare; The purple wine-fat froths with foam, Oil and spices make sweet the air, While I perish hungry and bare.

Rich and blessed those servants, rather Than I who see not my Father's face!

I will arise and go to my Father:-- "Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace, Grant me, Father, a servant's place."

SOEUR LOUISE DE LA MISeRICORDE.

(1674.)

I have desired, and I have been desired; But now the days are over of desire, Now dust and dying embers mock my fire; Where is the hire for which my life was hired?

Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Longing and love, pangs of a perished pleasure, Longing and love, a disenkindled fire, And memory a bottomless gulf of mire, And love a fount of tears outrunning measure; Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Now from my heart, love's deathbed, trickles, trickles, Drop by drop slowly, drop by drop of fire, The dross of life, of love, of spent desire; Alas, my rose of life gone all to p.r.i.c.kles,-- Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

Oh vanity of vanities, desire; Stunting my hope which might have strained up higher, Turning my garden plot to barren mire; Oh death-struck love, oh disenkindled fire, Oh vanity of vanities, desire!

AN "IMMURATA" SISTER.

Life flows down to death; we cannot bind That current that it should not flee: Life flows down to death, as rivers find The inevitable sea.

Men work and think, but women feel; And so (for I'm a woman, I) And so I should be glad to die And cease from impotence of zeal, And cease from hope, and cease from dread, And cease from yearnings without gain, And cease from all this world of pain, And be at peace among the dead.

Hearts that die, by death renew their youth, Lightened of this life that doubts and dies; Silent and contented, while the Truth Unveiled makes them wise.

Why should I seek and never find That something which I have not had?

Fair and unutterably sad The world hath sought time out of mind; The world hath sought and I have sought,-- Ah, empty world and empty I!

For we have spent our strength for nought, And soon it will be time to die.

Sparks fly upward toward their fount of fire, Kindling, flashing, hovering:-- Kindle, flash, my soul; mount higher and higher, Thou whole burnt-offering!

"IF THOU SAYEST, BEHOLD, WE KNEW IT NOT."

--Proverbs xxiv. 11, 12.

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