There was no light below, above, To point my soul the way thereof,-- The way of hate that led to love.

REVISITED.

It was beneath a waning moon when all the woods were sear, And winds made eddies of the leaves that whispered far and near, I met her on the old mill-bridge we parted at last year.

At first I deemed it but a mist that faltered in that place, An autumn mist beneath the trees that sentineled the race; Until I neared and in the moon beheld her face to face.

The waver of the summer-heat upon the drouth-dry leas; The shimmer of the thistle-drift a down the silences; The gliding of the fairy-fire between the swamp and trees;

They qualified her presence as a sorrow may a dream-- The vague suggestion of a self; the glimmer of a gleam; The actual unreal of the things that only seem.

Where once she came with welcome and glad eyes all loving-wise, She pa.s.sed and gave no greeting that my heart might recognize, With far-set face unseeing and sad unremembering eyes.

It was beneath a waning moon when woods were bleak and sear, And winds made whispers of the leaves that eddied far and near, I met her ghost upon the bridge we parted at last year.

AT VESPERS.

High up in the organ-story A girl stands slim and fair; And touched with the cas.e.m.e.nt's glory Gleams out her radiant hair.

The young priest kneels at the altar, Then lifts the Host above; And the psalm intoned from the psalter Is pure with patient love.

A sweet bell chimes; and a censer Swings gleaming in the gloom; The candles glimmer and denser Rolls up the pale perfume.

Then high in the organ choir A voice of crystal soars, Of patience and soul's desire, That suffers and adores.

And out of the altar's dimness An answering voice doth swell, Of pa.s.sion that cries from the grimness And anguish of its own h.e.l.l.

High up in the organ-story One kneels with a girlish grace; And, touched with the vesper glory, Lifts her madonna face.

One stands at the cloudy altar, A form bowed down and thin; The text of the psalm in the psalter He reads, is sorrow and sin.

THE CREEK.

O cheerly, cheerly by the road And merrily down the billet; And where the acre-field is sowed With bristle-bearded millet.

Then o'er a pebbled path that goes, Through vista and through dingle, Unto a farmstead's windowed rose, And roof of moss and shingle.

O darkly, darkly through the bush, And dimly by the bowlder, Where cane and water-cress grow lush, And woodland wilds are older.

Then o'er the cedared way that leads, Through burr and bramble-thickets, Unto a burial-ground of weeds Fenced in with broken pickets.

Then sadly, sadly down the vale, And wearily through the rushes, Where sunlight of the noon is pale, And e'en the zephyr hushes.

For oft her young face smiled upon My deeps here, willow-shaded; And oft with bare feet in the sun My shallows there she waded.

No more beneath the twinkling leaves Shall stand the farmer's daughter!-- Sing softly past the cottage eaves, O memory-haunted water!

No more shall bend her laughing face Above me where the rose is!-- Sigh softly past the burial-place, Where all her youth reposes!

ANSWERED.

Do you remember how that night drew on?

That night of sorrow, when the stars looked wan As eyes that gaze reproachful in a dream, Loved eyes, long lost, and sadder than the grave?

How through the heaven stole the moon's gray gleam, Like a nun's ghost down a cathedral nave?-- Do you remember how that night drew on?

Do you remember the hard words then said?

Said to the living,--now denied the dead,-- That left me dead,--long, long before I died,-- In heart and spirit?--me, your words had slain, Telling how love to my poor life had lied, Armed with the dagger of a pale disdain.-- Do you remember the hard words then said?

Do you remember, now this night draws down The threatening heavens, that the lightnings crown With wrecks of thunder? when no moon doth give The clouds wild witchery?--as in a room, Behind the sorrowful arras, still may live The pallid secret of the haunted gloom.-- Do you remember, now this night draws down?

Do you remember, now it comes to pa.s.s Your form is bowed as is the wind-swept gra.s.s?

And death hath won from you that confidence Denied to life? now your sick soul rebels Against your pride with tragic eloquence, That self-crowned demon of the heart's fierce h.e.l.ls.-- Do you remember, now it comes to pa.s.s?

Do you remember?--Bid your soul be still.

Here pa.s.sion hath surrendered unto will, And flesh to spirit. Quiet your wild tongue And wilder heart. Your kiss is naught to me.

The instrument love gave you lies unstrung, Silent, forsaken of all melody.

Do you remember?--Bid your soul be still.

WOMAN'S PORTION.

I.

The leaves are shivering on the thorn, Drearily; And sighing wakes the lean-eyed morn, Wearily.

I press my thin face to the pane, Drearily; But never will he come again.

(Wearily.)

The rain hath sicklied day with haze, Drearily; My tears run downward as I gaze, Wearily.