But now when the colours are almost blinding, Burning and blending on bush and tree, And the rarest fruits are mine for the finding, And the year is ripe as a year can be, My soul complains in the same old fashion; Crying aloud in my troubled breast Is the same old longing, the same old pa.s.sion.

O where is the treasure which men call rest?

"ARTIST'S LIFE"

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote, Mad with melody, rhythm--rife From the very first to the final note.

Give me his "Artist's Life!"

It stirs my blood to my finger-ends, Thrills me and fills me with vague unrest, And all that is sweetest and saddest blends Together within my breast.

It brings back that night in the dim arcade, In love's sweet morning and life's best prime, When the great bra.s.s orchestra played and played, And set our thoughts to rhyme.

It brings back that Winter of mad delights, Of leaping pulses and tripping feet, And those languid moon-washed Summer nights When we heard the band in the street.

It brings back rapture and glee and glow, It brings back pa.s.sion and pain and strife, And so of all the waltzes I know, Give me the "Artist's Life."

For it is so full of the dear old time - So full of the dear old friends I knew.

And under its rhythm, and lilt, and rhyme, I am always finding--YOU.

NOTHING BUT STONES

I think I never pa.s.sed so sad an hour, Dear friend, as that one at the church to-night.

The edifice from bas.e.m.e.nt to the tower Was one resplendent blaze of coloured light.

Up through broad aisles the stylish crowd was thronging, Each richly robed like some king's bidden guest.

"Here will I bring my sorrow and my longing,"

I said, "and here find rest."

I heard the heavenly organ's voice of thunder, It seemed to give me infinite relief.

I wept. Strange eyes looked on in well-bred wonder.

I dried my tears: their gaze profaned my grief.

Wrapt in the costly furs, and silks, and laces, Beat alien hearts, that had no part with me.

I could not read, in all those proud cold faces, One thought of sympathy.

I watched them bowing and devoutly kneeling, Heard their responses like sweet waters roll But only the glorious organ's sacred pealing Seemed gushing from a full and fervent soul.

I listened to the man of holy calling, He spoke of creeds, and hailed his own as best; Of man's corruption and of Adam's-falling, But naught that gave me rest:

Nothing that helped me bear the daily grinding Of soul with body, heart with heated brain; Nothing to show the purpose of this blinding And sometimes overwhelming sense of pain.

And then, dear friend, I thought of thee, so lowly, So una.s.suming, and so gently kind, And lo! a peace, a calm serene and holy, Settled upon my mind.

Ah, friend, my friend! one true heart, fond and tender, That understands our troubles and our needs, Brings us more near to G.o.d than all the splendour And pomp of seeming worship and vain creeds.

One glance of thy dear eyes so full of feeling, Doth bring me closer to the Infinite Than all that throng of worldly people kneeling In blaze of gorgeous light.

INEVITABLE

To-day I was so weary and I lay In that delicious state of semi-waking, When baby, sitting with his nurse at play, Cried loud for "mamma," all his toys forsaking.

I was so weary and I needed rest, And signed to nurse to bear him from the room.

Then, sudden, rose and caught him to my breast, And kissed the grieving mouth and cheeks of bloom.

For swift as lightning came the thought to me, With pulsing heart-throes and a mist of tears, Of days inevitable, that are to be, If my fair darling grows to manhood's years;

Days when he will not call for "mamma," when The world, with many a pleasure and bright joy, Shall tempt him forth into the haunts of men And I shall lose the first place with my boy;

When other homes and loves shall give delight, When younger smiles and voices will seem best.

And so I held him to my heart to-night, Forgetting all my need of peace and rest.

THE OCEAN OF SONG

In a land beyond sight or conceiving, In a land where no blight is, no wrong, No darkness, no graves, and no grieving, There lies the great ocean of song.

And its waves, oh, its waves unbeholden By any save G.o.ds, and their kind, Are not blue, are not green, but are golden, Like moonlight and sunlight combined.

It was whispered to me that their waters Were made from the gathered-up tears That were wept by the sons and the daughters Of long-vanished eras and spheres.

Like white sands of heaven the spray is That falls all the happy day long, And whoever it touches straightway is Made glad with the spirit of song.

Up, up to the clouds where their h.o.a.ry Crowned heads melt away in the skies, The beautiful mountains of glory Each side of the song-ocean rise.

Here day is one splendour of sky-light - Of G.o.d's light with beauty replete.

Here night is not night, but is twilight, Pervading, enfolding, and sweet.

Bright birds from all climes and all regions, That sing the whole glad summer long, Are dumb, till they flock here in legions And lave in the ocean of song.

It is here that the four winds of heaven, The winds that do sing and rejoice, It is here they first came and were given The secret of sound and a voice.

Far down along beautiful beeches, By night and by glorious day, The throng of the gifted ones reaches, Their foreheads made white with the spray, And a few of the sons and the daughters Of this kingdom, cloud-hidden from sight, Go down in the wonderful waters, And bathe in those billows of light.

And their souls evermore are like fountains, And liquid and lucent and strong, High over the tops of the mountains Gush up the sweet billows of song.

No drouth-time of waters can dry them.

Whoever has bathed in that sea, All dangers, all deaths, they defy them, And are gladder than G.o.ds are, with glee.

"IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN"