SOUND SLEEP.

Some are laughing, some are weeping; She is sleeping, only sleeping.

Round her rest wild flowers are creeping; There the wind is heaping, heaping Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping, By the cornfields ripe for reaping.

There are lilies, and there blushes The deep rose, and there the thrushes Sing till latest sunlight flushes In the west; a fresh wind brushes Through the leaves while evening hushes.

There by day the lark is singing And the gra.s.s and weeds are springing: There by night the bat is winging; There forever winds are bringing Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing.

Night and morning, noon and even, Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven: The long strife at length is striven: Till her grave-bands shall be riven Such is the good portion given To her soul at rest and shriven.

SONG.

She sat and sang alway By the green margin of a stream, Watching the fishes leap and play Beneath the glad sunbeam.

I sat and wept alway Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam, Watching the blossoms of the May Weep leaves into the stream.

I wept for memory; She sang for hope that is so fair: My tears were swallowed by the sea; Her songs died on the air.

SONG.

When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green gra.s.s above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.

DEAD BEFORE DEATH.

SONNET.

Ah! changed and cold, how changed and very cold!

With stiffened smiling lips and cold calm eyes: Changed, yet the same; much knowing, little wise; _This_ was the promise of the days of old!

Grown hard and stubborn in the ancient mould, Grown rigid in the sham of lifelong lies: We hoped for better things as years would rise, But it is over as a tale once told.

All fallen the blossom that no fruitage bore, All lost the present and the future time, All lost, all lost, the lapse that went before: So lost till death shut-to the opened door, So lost from chime to everlasting chime, So cold and lost forever evermore.

BITTER FOR SWEET.

Summer is gone with all its roses, Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers, Its warm air and refreshing showers: And even Autumn closes.

Yea, Autumn's chilly self is going, And winter comes which is yet colder; Each day the h.o.a.r-frost waxes bolder And the last buds cease blowing.

"THE MASTER IS COME, AND CALLETH FOR THEE."

Who calleth?--Thy Father calleth, Run, O Daughter, to wait on Him: He Who chasteneth but for a season Trims thy lamp that it burn not dim.

Who calleth?--Thy Master calleth, Sit, Disciple, and learn of Him: He Who teacheth wisdom of Angels Makes thee wise as the Cherubim,

Who calleth?--Thy Monarch calleth, Rise, O Subject, and follow Him: He is stronger than Death or Devil, Fear not thou if the foe be grim.

Who calleth?--Thy Lord G.o.d calleth.

Fall, O Creature, adoring Him: He is jealous, thy G.o.d Almighty, Count not dear to thee life or limb.

Who calleth?--Thy Bridegroom calleth, Soar, O Bride, with the Seraphim: He Who loves thee as no man loveth, Bids thee give up thy heart to Him.

REST.

SONNET.

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.

She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth Of all that irked her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise.

Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long.

THE FIRST SPRING DAY.

I wonder if the sap is stirring yet, If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate, If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun And crocus fires are kindling one by one: Sing, robin, sing!

I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.

I wonder if the spring-tide of this year Will bring another Spring both lost and dear; If heart and spirit will find out their Spring, Or if the world alone will bud and sing: Sing, hope, to me!

Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.

The sap will surely quicken soon or late, The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate; So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom, Or in this world, or in the world to come: Sing, voice of Spring!

Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.

THE CONVENT THRESHOLD.

There's blood between us, love, my love, There's father's blood, there's brother's blood; And blood's a bar I cannot pa.s.s: I choose the stairs that mount above, Stair after golden skyward stair, To city and to sea of gla.s.s.