There is no color on the tide, No color on the helpless sky; Across the beach,--a safe, small sound-- The gra.s.s-hid crickets cry.

And through the dusk I hear the keels Of home-bound boats grate low and sweet.

O happy lights! O watching eyes!

Leap out the sound to greet.

O tender arms that meet and clasp!

Gather and cherish while ye may.

The morrow knoweth G.o.d. Ye know Your own are yours to-day.

Forever from the Gloucester winds The cries of hungry children start.

There breaks in every Gloucester wave A widowed woman's heart.

THE TERRIBLE TEST.

Separate, upon the folded page Of myth or marvel, sad or glad, The test that gave the Lord to thee, And thee to us, O Galahad!

"Found pure in deed, and word, and thought,"

The creature of our dream and guess, The vision of the brain thou art, The eidolon of holiness.

Man with the power of the G.o.d, Man with the weaknesses of men, Whose lips the Sangreal leaned to feed, "Whose strength was the strength of ten,"

We read--and smile; no man thou wast; No human pulses thine could be; With downcast eyes we read--and sigh; So terrible is purity!

O fairest legend of the years, With folded wings, go, silently!

O flower of knighthood, yield your place To One who comes from Galilee!

To wounded feet that shrink and bleed, But press and climb the narrow way,-- The same old way our own must step, Forever, yesterday, to-day.

For soul can be what soul hath been, And feet can tread where feet have trod.

Enough, to know that once the clay Hath worn the features of the G.o.d.

MY DREAMS ARE OF THE SEA.

My dreams are of the Sea.

All night the living waters stepped Stately and steadily. All night the wind Conducted them. With forehead high, a rock, Glittering with joy, stood to receive the shock Of the flood-tide. I saw it in the mind Of sleep and silence. When I woke, I wept.

My dreams are of the Sea.

But oh, it is the Sea of Gla.s.s!

I met that other tide as I desired.

Alone, the rock and I leaned to the wave,-- A foolish suicide, that scooped its grave Within the piteous sand. Now I am tired.

It died and it was buried. Let me pa.s.s.

SONG.

The firelight listens on the floor To hear the wild winds blow.

Within, the bursting roses burn, Without, there slides the snow.

Across the flower I see the flake Pa.s.s mirrored, mystic, slow.

Oh, blooms and storms must blush and freeze, While seasons come and go!

I lift the sash--and live, the gale Comes leaping to my call.

The rose is but a painted one That hangs upon the wall.

AN INTERPRETATION.

CHOPIN.

Prelude in C Minor, Opus 28.

From whirlwind to shower, From noon-glare to shadow, From the plough to the vesper, A day is gone.

From pa.s.sion to purpose, From turmoil to rest, From discord to harmony, Life moveth on.

From terror and heartbreak, From anger of anguish, From vigil and famine, A soul has gone.

By mercy of mystery, Through trust which is best, To feasting and sleeping now, G.o.d calleth on.

THE SPHINX.[1]

O glad girls' faces, hushed and fair! how shall I sing for ye?

For the grave picture of a sphinx is all that I can see.

Vain is the driving of the sand, and vain the desert's art; The years strive with her, but she holds the lion in her heart.

Baffled or fostered, patient still, the perfect purpose clings; Flying or folded, strong as stone, she wears the eagle's wings.

Eastward she looks; against the sky the eternal morning lies; Silent or pleading, veiled or free, she lifts the woman's eyes.

O grave girls' faces, listening kind! glad will I sing for ye, While the proud figure of the sphinx is all that I can see.

[1] Written for a graduating cla.s.s at Abbott Academy.