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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: The Ring of Amethyst - - -Author: Alice Wellington Rollins - - - -Release Date: September 25, 2020 [eBook #63289] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RING OF AMETHYST*** - - -E-text prepared by Charlene Taylor, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images -generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/ringofamethyst00rollrich - - -Transcriber’s Note - - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - - - - - -THE RING OF AMETHYST. - -by - -ALICE WELLINGTON ROLLINS - - - “He but only kissed - The fingers of this hand wherewith I write. - A ring of Amethyst - I could not wear here plainer to my sight - Than that first kiss.” - - --_Mrs. Browning._ - - - - - - -New York -G. P. Putnam’s Sons -182 Fifth Avenue -1878 - -Copyright by -Alice Wellington Rollins -1878 - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - THE RING AND THE BOOK: - - THE RING:--TO GEORGE ELIOT v - THE BOOK:--TO D.M.R. vi - TO THE CRITIC vii - NARCISSUS viii - PROEM ix - - JOY 1 - - PAIN 3 - - A STUDY 5 - - “MANY THINGS THOU HAST GIVEN ME, DEAR HEART” 7 - - BRUTUS AT PHILIPPI 8 - - “VINO SANTO” TO H. H. 9 - - CHARM 12 - - A FACE 14 - - LOVE WILL FIND OUT A WAY 17 - - SUMNER 18 - - SIGHT 29 - - PURITY 30 - - A ROSE 32 - - RUE WITH A DIFFERENCE 33 - - TO MAY H. R----. 34 - - CYCLES 35 - - EXPERIENCE 37 - - A TRUST IN GOD 38 - - FORESIGHT 41 - - TO FRANK S. R----. WITH A VIOLIN 42 - - “THE EAGER SUN COMES GLADLY FROM THE SEA” 43 - - RESERVE 44 - - A SONG OF SUMMER 47 - - THOUGHT 50 - - A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 51 - - A REMEMBERED CRITIC. TO J. R. D. 52 - - DAWN 53 - - WITH AN ANTIQUE 55 - - DOUBT 56 - - “I KNOW MYSELF THE BEST BELOVED OF ALL” 58 - - OCTOBER 59 - - SERENITY 61 - - “A YEAR AGO TO-DAY, LOVE” 62 - - STEADFAST 63 - - WITH A CRYSTAL LION. FOR L. R. W. 64 - - ABSENT-MINDED 66 - - ANSWERED PRAYER 68 - - EXPRESSION 69 - - FULFILLMENT 71 - - “THERE WILL BE SILENCE HERE, LOVE” 73 - - FAITH IN WORKS 74 - - “NO. 33--A PORTRAIT.” FOR R. H. L. 75 - - LONGING 76 - - THE NEW DAY 78 - - CONFESSION 79 - - “AMONG THOSE JOYS FOR WHICH WE UTTER PRAISE.” 82 - - BECAUSE 83 - - IVY 85 - - INFLUENCE 86 - - MIRACLE 88 - - “SHE CAME AND WENT” 89 - - DREAMERS 91 - - ANDROMEDA 93 - - LOVE SONG 97 - - CLOSED 98 - - BABY-HOOD. M. W. R. 100 - - “IF I COULD KNOW, LOVE.” 102 - - THE DIFFERENCE 103 - - INDIAN SUMMER 104 - - LAST--AN AMETHYST 108 - - - - -“THE RING AND THE BOOK.” - - -THE RING.----TO GEORGE ELIOT. - - As she, thy Dorothea, loved of thee, - Refused to wear in careless ornament - The amethysts and emeralds that lent - Their charm to other women;--even as she, - Turning one day by chance the golden key - Of their close casket, started as they sent - Swift, glowing rays to greet her, and then bent - To lift them in her white hands lovingly;-- - - * * * * * - - O great of heart, so calmly dost thou stand - In the proud splendor of thy fame, and bring - Thy glorious gifts to all the listening land,-- - Thou canst not greatly care what I may sing! - Yet since I hold to thee my amethyst ring, - Take it one little moment in thy hand! - - -THE BOOK.----To D. M. R. - - Dear, if this little book of thine and mine - Could bring me fame as glorious and rare - As that whose splendid laurels shine so fair - For Dorothea,----it were less divine - A gift than this most priceless love of thine. - Since, then, that came to me, why now despair - Of laurel? though I may not hope to wear - Laurel or myrtle as the precious sign - Of any proud desert. Yet if I might - Not find that love could keep its holy tryst - With fame, how quickly would I yield the bright - New dream, to keep my ring of amethyst: - The memory of that day when love first kissed - The fingers of this hand wherewith I write! - - -Ἀμέθυστος - -TO THE CRITIC. - - I know full well I cannot pour for you - The nectar of the gods;--no epic wine - Is this I bring, to tempt you with its fine - Poetic flavor, as of grapes that grew - In the young vineyards when the world was new, - And only poets wrote;--a slender vine - You scarce will care for, bore these grapes of mine, - From which frail hands have crushed the purple dew. - Yet if from what I bring you, there is missed - The lyric loveliness of some who write, - The passionate fervor and the keen delight - Of eloquent fire in some to whom you list,-- - Think it may be, not that the gift is slight, - But that my cup is rimmed with amethyst! - - -NARCISSUS. - -TO THE READER. - - If haply in these pages you should read - Aught that seems true to human nature, true - To heavenly instincts;--if they speak to you - Of love, of sorrow, faith without a creed, - Of doubt, of hope, of longing,--or indeed - Of any pain or joy the poet knew - A heart could feel,--think not to find a clue - To his own heart--its gladness or its need. - From a deep spring with tangled weeds o’ergrown - The poet parts the leaves; if they who pass, - Bending to look down through the tall wild grass, - By winds of heaven faintly overblown, - Should start to see there, dimly in a glass, - Some face,----’tis not the poet’s, but their own! - - -PROEM. - - I wonder, little book, if after all - I greatly care whether with praise or blame - Men turn your leaves. Once, the fair hope of fame - Had made me wonder what fate should befall - My first faint singing; now I cannot call - The singing mine; I gave it him who came - To place my joy where no harsh touch can maim - Its safe, secure, bright beauty. Like a wall - Of strong defence to me this blessedness: - That of his love I am so proudly sure, - Though the whole world should bend to my success, - I think he could not love me any more! - And though the whole world say my book is poor, - I know he will not love me any less! - - - - -JOY. - - - My heart was like a flower once, - That from its jewel-tinted cup - The generous fragrance of its joy - To all the world sent floating up. - But now ’tis like a humming-bird, - That in the cup his bright wing dips, - And with most dainty selfishness - Himself the choicest honey sips, - With eager, thirsty, longing lips! - - And once my heart was like a gem, - Set in a fair betrothal ring; - Content to light the happy darks - That shield love’s shy self-wondering. - But now I think my heart is like - The lady fair who wears the ring; - Pressed closely to her lips at night - With love’s mysterious wondering - That hers should be the precious thing! - - And once my heart was like a nest, - Where singing-birds have made their home; - Set where the apple-boughs in bloom - Fleck the blue air with flower-foam. - But now it is itself a bird; - And if it does not always sing, - The Heavenly Father knows what thoughts,-- - Too strangely sweet for uttering,-- - Stir faintly underneath its wing! - - - - -PAIN. - - - My heart was once a folded flower, - Within whose jewel-tinted cup,-- - Still hidden even from itself,-- - A wealth of joy is treasured up. - But now my heart is like a flower - From which a dainty humming-bird - Has rifled all the choicest sweets, - And left without one last fond word - The flower-soul so deeply stirred. - - And once my heart was like a gem, - Set in a rich betrothal ring; - Unconscious in its darkened case - How fair it lies there glittering. - But now I think my heart is like - The lady who has worn the ring, - And draws it from her finger slight - With love’s bewildered wondering - That love should be a poor bruised thing. - - And once my heart was like a nest, - High in the apple branches hung; - Where in the early April dew - No happy birds have ever sung. - Now ’tis itself a wounded bird; - And though sometimes you hear it sing, - The Heavenly Father knows what pain - It tries to hide by uttering - The same sweet notes it used to sing. - - - - -A STUDY. - - - I think, indeed, ’twas only this that made - Her seem peculiar: namely, she had no - Peculiarity. The world to-day - Is disappointed if we are not odd, - And hold decided views on some one point, - Or else unsettled views on all. But she - Was living simply what she wished to live: - A lovely life of rounded womanhood; - With no sharp, salient points for eye or ear - To seize and pass quick judgment on. Not quite - Content was she to let the golden days - Slip from her fingers like the well-worn beads - Of some long rosary, told o’er and o’er - Each night with dull, mechanical routine; - But yet she had no central purpose; no - Absorbing aim to which all else must yield; - And so the very sweetness of her life, - Its exquisite simplicity and calm, - Musical in its silence, smote the ear - More sharply than the discords of the rest. - So do we grow accustomed far at sea - To jar and clang of harsh machinery, - And sleep profoundly in our narrow berths - Amid the turmoil; but if suddenly - The noisy whirr is silent, and the deep - Low murmur of the moonlit sea is all - That stirs the air, we waken with a start, - And ask in terror what has happened! Then - Sink back again upon the pillows; strange, - That silence should have wakened us! - Alas! - The world has grown so feverishly hot - With restless aims and poor ambitious dreams, - That lives which have the cool and temperate flow - Of healthful purpose in their veins, will seem - Peculiar! - - - - -“MANY THINGS THOU HAST GIVEN ME, DEAR HEART.” - - - Many things thou hast given me, dear heart; - But one thing thou hast taken: that high dream - Of heaven as of a country that should seem - Beyond all glory that divinest art - Has pictured:--with this I have had to part - Since knowing thee;--how long, love, will the gleam - Of each day’s sunlight on my pathway stream, - Richer than what seemed richest at the start? - Make my days happy, love; yet I entreat - Make not each happier than the last for me; - Lest heaven itself should dawn to me, complete - In joy, not the surprise I dreamed ’twould be, - But simply as the natural and sweet - Continuance of days spent here with thee. - - - - -BRUTUS AT PHILIPPI. - - - Rome, for whose haughtier sake proud Cæsar made - His legions hers, to win her victories, - Denied him when her gods let Casca’s blade - Pierce him who learned to make her legions his. - Still he is mighty; with unchanging dread - Her people murmur for great Cæsar slain; - Nor value, at the price of Cæsar dead, - Their greater cause lost on Philippi’s plain. - If haply there are fields, as some pretend, - Beyond the silent Styx, where vaguely grim - Souls of dead heroes, shadowy and dim, - Awake,--I may find entrance at life’s end, - Not as a hero who freed Rome from him, - But as a man who once was Cæsar’s friend! - - - - -“VINO SANTO.” - -TO H. H. - - - I taste the cup of sacred wine, - Nor count with you the cost too great - For those who steadfastly can wait; - Though grapes of fragrance so divine - Should ripen to their vintage late. - - Gathered when only richest suns - Pour down a wealth of golden fire; - Pressed while the holy heart’s desire - Breathes grateful for these perfect ones, - And solemn prayer floats high and higher;-- - - Type of a love that lets no stain - Of doubt or dullness mar its creed; - But patient through its own great need - Of loving, wins its sure domain,-- - Such love, such wine, is pure indeed. - - Yet as I turn to pour for you,-- - Vivid and sparkling at your gaze,-- - My own heart’s vintage,--let me praise - This glowing wine as holy, too; - Since love may come in many ways. - - And mine came to me as a star - Shines suddenly from worlds apart; - And suddenly my lifted heart - Caught the rare brightness from afar - And mirrored its swift counterpart. - - Love born of instant trust and need, - Each heart of each; a love that knew - No test of time to prove it true, - No fostering care; without a seed - It seemed as if the flower grew! - - And you whose tender love was nursed - In strong sweet patience, till the wine - Of joy became for you divine, - Ripened in sunlight from the first,-- - Will not refuse to this of mine - - A sacredness; remembering,-- - By miracle changed instantly,-- - The holy wine of Galilee;-- - Even so the wine of joy I bring - For you to taste, was changed for me! - - - - -CHARM. - - - One day in June a crimson-breasted bird - Flitted from Heaven through the golden air, - And lit upon an apple-bough, that stirred - With rapture of delight to hold her there; - And finding at the same time on its breast - A wealth of flowers, rose-red lined with snow, - Believed in joy its graceful little guest - Had brought them with her, and so murmured low - In greeting,--“Little bird, a poor old tree - Scarce can breathe worthily its thanks to thee, - For these sweet flowers thou hast brought to me!” - - And then the pretty bird whose restless feet - Danced in and out among the blossoms there, - For very joyousness sent rippling sweet - A carol of bright laughter through the air. - Flushing with joy, the blooming sprays swung high, - Responsive to the quiver of her wings; - As light of heart beneath the summer sky - Her voice ceased suddenly its twitterings, - To murmur back, “Thou foolish, dear old tree, - It is not I who bring the flowers to thee, - But thy most tempting flowers that bring me!” - - - - -A FACE. - - - We have known - Of many a man whose features were not carved - By his own soul to their high nobleness, - But handed down by some far ancestor. - Strange, that a man a generation long - Should do good deeds that mould his generous lips - To noble curves, and then should die and leave - His son the curves without the nobleness. - We’ve known of many a woman, many a man, - Whose own soul leaped in passionate high flames; - But locked behind the fatal prison bars - Of cold ancestral dignity of face, - No glimmer of the light and warmth within - Creeps to the surface. - - But this face of hers - Is not a face like those we’ve analyzed; - True to its wearer, it is justly proud - With her own pride and not her ancestors. - Were you to chide her gently for some fault, - Or promise that whatever grand mistakes - Her woman’s impulses might lead her to, - You would judge all with Christian charity, - Tis not impossible that she would say, - “Sir, I make no mistakes; I have no faults; - I thank you, but I need no charity!” - Well, what of that? I would that there were more - Of us, who, bidden to confess our sins, - Could say Job’s litany: “May God forbid - That you be justified! my righteousness - Will I hold fast and will not let it go; - My heart shall not reproach me while I live!” - Humility’s a grace at thirty-nine, - But scarce a virtue in the very young, - Who bend to us from fear, not reverence. - Nor truly humble is the violet - That keeps its face quite upturned to the sun - And would grow higher if it could; it cannot. - Better for our young friend the haughtiness - Of strong white lilies that refuse to bloom - Near the dark earth they rose from; eagerly - They push aside the lazy weeds that hide - The upper air; and keeping in their breasts - The fair white secret of their blossoming, - Rise to the heaven they worship. Suddenly, - Awed at the vast immensity of light - That wraps the earth as with a garment; awed - By the deep silence of that upper air, - They bend their stately heads, to breathe to earth - A murmured penitence for olden pride. - The fair white bells they kept so jealously - Lifted to heaven, now they overturn, - And let the cherished fragrance of their souls - Swing censer-like upon the general air. - - You’ll look at it again? - No, I have put it back; it’s not a face - I like to argue over with a friend. - It is a woman’s face; and what is more, - A face I care for! - - - - -“LOVE WILL FIND OUT A WAY.” - - - That Love should find a way through iron bars - And close-drawn bolts--this does not seem so strange;-- - More strange I count it that with wider range, - With naught to mark its course beneath the stars, - Love finds its sure, swift way. That day when we - First parted, Love, how dangerously near - The chance we never met again! though clear - In the broad daylight, unrestrained and free - As breeze from heaven, naught between us lay - But the wide, shining, trackless fields of air - That gave no sign; the lonely vastness, where - Love saw no clue to guide it, or to stay - Its course;--well might the lover in despair - Yield up his search;--and yet Love found a way! - - - - -SUMNER. - - -I. - - Dead! - But not where the flashing guns - Bring in a moment’s glittering space - Death,--and heaven--and deathless fame-- - To Victory’s sons. - Dead! - But not where the crimson flame, - Leaping fierce in a cruel grace, - From the earthly clod - Burns away all pitiful dross - Till a martyr’s soul on fiery cross - Ascends to God. - Whose life was martyrdom - Shall be spared a martyr’s death - In winning a martyr’s crown. - No struggle for restless breath;-- - A life laid calmly down;-- - Eloquent lips grown dumb;-- - Only for us the pain, - And the agony of loss; - Only for us the test; - For him, the wonderful gain, - For him, a longed-for rest. - - -II. - - Dead! - And the mother state, - Mother of noble sons, - Reaches her yearning arms. - Give him back to her now! - Cold is the kingly brow, - Noblest of noble ones! - He cannot serve you now; - Unheeding earthly things, - The royal soul, so great - To shield from threatening harms, - Has passed through a silent gate - That never outward swings. - Living, the world had need - Of him and his deathless name;-- - Living, the world had need - Of him and his stainless fame;-- - Living, we knew her need - Of him, and confessed her claim;-- - Dead, he is only ours! - Cover his bier with flowers; - Give him back to us now! - - -III. - - Nay! - Let Massachusetts wait! - In the capitol of the great - Let the statesman lie in state. - Let the house be draped in woe; - Let the sentinel below - Pace solemnly to and fro. - All night let the tireless street - Echo the sad, slow feet - Of those who come and go. - All day let the voiceless street - In silence then repeat - The name we honor so. - Let the Senate chamber ring - Once more with his eloquence, - The eloquence of his death! - Let choicest flowers bring, - Delicate and intense, - Tribute of fragrant breath. - For ever the gentlest thing - With strongest love will cling - To one so grandly great. - Let Massachusetts wait! - Honored by every land, - Around him there shall stand - The noblest of each state! - And a nation’s tears be shed - For our Massachusetts’ dead! - - -IV. - - Living, there was none so poor - That he need to hesitate - Loftiest aid from him to claim;-- - Dead, there is not one so great, - Standing now at his right hand, - But may tremble so to stand; - Lest the touchstone of that pure - Stainless soul and deathless fame - Prove all poor who seem so great! - - -V. - - Now, - To his mother where she stands, - Envied by the childless lands, - Bring him back with reverent hands. - Lonely mother, it is well - That your sorrowing lips should tell - Once again repentant woe - For the wound of long ago, - For rebuke that hurt him so! - No reproof could alienate - Patriot soul from patriot state;-- - Grandly patient, he could wait, - Cancelling reproachful past, - Words that almost came too late! - “You were right and we were wrong!” - Strong and clear they came at last; - And his sovereign spirit, great - In forgiveness for the long - Silent strain so gently borne, - Hearing Massachusetts mourn - For the wrong that she had done - Turned to her, her reverent son. - Ere her last word met his ear, - He had answered--he is here! - - -VI. - - Here! - At the city gates! - And the long procession waits - To bear him to his bier. - No sound of muffled drums - Tells that a hero comes; - No volleying cannon roll - The loss of a leader’s soul; - Not with the aid of these - Had he won his victories; - He never loved such voice;-- - Let not these be our choice - To give this pain relief; - For the people’s hearts are mute - With the passion of their grief. - Break not upon his peace - With Massachusetts guns! - Only a tolling bell - To the sorrowing state shall tell - That the noblest of her sons,-- - Highest in the world’s repute, - Lowliest in the toil he gave,-- - Given of God this swift release, - Comes at last from her to crave - For the service that he gave - The guerdon of a grave! - - -VII. - - Dark - Over all, - Falls the twilight like a pall. - Kindle not the restless flare - Of the midnight torches’ glare; - Let the restful stars look down, - Silent through the clear, cold air, - High and pure as his renown! - Pale against the evening sky - Burns the banner that ye drape - With the heavy folds of crape; - And ye have no need to tie - All its fluttering crimson back - With those heavy folds of black;-- - For the very winds to-day - Droop with sadness, nor would care - With their crimson toy to play! - - -VIII. - - He is here! - Massachusetts called him back, - And he answered--he is here! - Let the walls be hung with black, - Yet let roses richly red - On the casket of the dead - Be in bright profusion spread; - And all night with solemn tread - Let the dusky sentinel, - Guarding what he loved so well, - Guarding what he held so dear, - Pace beside the quiet bier! - - -IX. - - O beautiful sad day! - All of earthly must we lay - In the silent grave away. - And the very Winter, pale - At the sight of so much grief, - From her harshness will relent; - Stoop to brush away the snow - From the frozen earth below - Where the noble dead shall lie. - Let no glorious dome less high - Than the over-arching sky - Bend above that royal grave; - And for living monument, - Over it shall rise and wave - Living flower and living leaf. - Lay your costly roses down, - Civic wreath and cross and crown; - These are frail! - Spring shall be your sentinel; - Guarding now untiring here - All of what we held so dear, - All of what we loved so well! - Lay your costly roses down, - Civic wreath and crown and cross; - Turn away with hearts made great - By the greatness of your loss! - Spring shall wait;-- - To her sacred care entrust - All of what is left us here:-- - Dust to dust! - Lay your costly roses down, - Civic wreath and cross and crown; - These are frail! - In the dim, unwonted shade, - These will fade! - But when next ye come this way, - Ye shall find the Spring still here; - And a grave with violets set; - Purple, living violet, - With the tears of heaven wet. - - - - -SIGHT. - - I try to make the baby on my knee - Look at the sunset; pointing where it glows - Beyond the window-pane in tints of rose - And violet and gold; when suddenly - He dimples with responsive baby-glee, - I think how wonderfully well he knows - Its beauty; till the changing child-face shows - He had not seen the sky, but laughed to see - The sparkle of my rings;--O baby dear, - This world of lovely gems and sunsets, bright - With children’s faces,--is perhaps the near - Though lesser glory, dazzling our poor sight, - Until we cannot see, for very light, - The heaven that shines for us, revealed and clear. - - - - -PURITY. - - - Some souls are white - With perfectness, like stars full-orbed in heaven, - Silently moving through the stainless blue; - Seeming naught of their nature to have drawn - From contact with the earth; and some are white - With innocence, like daisies that too near - The ground their fair leaves fearlessly unfold. - This woman’s soul - Is white with purity; the snowy bloom - Of a camelia, that feels no disdain - In drawing from this common earth of ours - The sources of its beauty and its life; - Yet with a wise and lofty self-control, - Refuses long to blossom to the sun; - Spreading its glossy leaves to light and air; - Winning a deep, sure knowledge of the world; - Rising with quiet dignity and grace - Into a higher air; and when at last - Its stately petals open to the day, - Not with the daisy’s foolish trustfulness, - But with the confidence of slow-won strength, - To the world’s gaze it silently unfolds - The perfect flower of a royal soul, - Not innocent, and yet forever pure. - - - - -A ROSE. - - - Last night a little rose of love was laid - Softly in this poor hand, by one who knew - Not what most gracious breeze from heaven blew - The blossom in his path; but since, he said, - All loveliest things he summoned to his aid - To win me,--let the fragrant flower that grew - Surely in Paradise to help him woo - And gain his wish,--be mine; then half afraid, - Here on my breast I laid it, where it glows - With such rich sudden beauty, that my eyes, - Quickened by some new instinct, recognize - What is indeed my own; for the fair rose,-- - The rose of love bewilderingly sweet-- - From my own heart had fallen at his feet! - - - - -RUE WITH A DIFFERENCE. - - - It is said - That women are more curious than men;-- - I should not put it so: they are more frank. - A woman who would like to know if this - Or that be so or so, makes no disguise, - But lifts her clear eyes candidly to yours - And asks directly, “_Is this true?_” a man, - More wise and quite as curious, simply states - A fact: “_This is so_;” knowing well indeed - That if it is not, no true woman needs - A sharper challenge instantly to arm - Her soul with weapons to defend herself, - Her country, or her friends; and so he gains - The knowledge that he wished, and yet has shown - No idle curiosity! - - - - -TO MAY H. R----. - - - Many a lovely dream a poet might - Weave into fancies round thy lovely name, - Sweetheart; yet I, who surely have no claim - To be a poet,--(save the holy right - Love gives me to write poems at the sight - Of a young face whose eager brightness came - As part of life’s best gift to me,--) can frame - No fitter reason why in such delight - I hold the one sweet syllable, than this: - Not for its visions of the field or wood, - But for its wealth of possibilities; - Its hint of undefined, ideal good, - Suggesting all thy soul can scarcely miss, - That _May_ one day crown thy rich womanhood. - - - - -CYCLES. - - - Sing cheerily, O bluebird from on high! - Earth will be blue with violets by-and-by, - More blue than those you came from in the sky. - - Haste, butterflies! for radiant Summer brings - A crimson rose to match your sunlit wings, - Brighter than violets the blue-bird sings. - - Croon, happy insects; violet and rose - Have faded; yet the autumn corn-field glows - Where in the golden grain the poppy grows. - - Hush, eager voices! for in dreamless sleep, - Wrapped in cool snow, the restless earth would keep - Forevermore serenity so deep. - - Forevermore? nay, tired earth, not so; - Sweet as the violets of long ago - The pink arbutus rises from the snow. - - Gathered too eagerly, it fades too soon; - Then large white lilies open wide in June - Their golden hearts up to the golden noon. - - And when the perfect lily in the gleam - Of too much sunlight, fades like a fair dream, - The crimson cardinals fringe the brightening stream. - - Then once again the softly falling snow; - While bright above the ivy green below - The scarlet berries of the holly glow. - - - - -EXPERIENCE. - - - A child laid in the grave ere it had known - Earth held delight beyond its mother’s kiss;-- - A fair girl passing from a world like this - Into God’s vast eternity, alone;-- - A brave man’s soul in one brief instant thrown - To deepest agony from highest bliss;-- - A woman steeling her young heart to miss - All joys in life, one dear one having flown;-- - These have I seen; yet happier these, I said, - Than one who by experience made strong, - Learning to live without the precious dead, - Survive despair, outlive remorse and wrong, - Can say when new grief comes, with unbowed head, - “Let me not mourn! I shall forget ere long!” - - - - -A TRUST IN GOD. - - - She knew - She was not wise; was conscious in herself - Of eager impulses that would have wrecked - Her whole heart’s happiness a thousand times, - Had not some Power from without herself - Shut down the sudden gates, and with its stern - “_Thou shalt not!_” left her, stunned perhaps, but saved. - For she was but a woman, and her will - Hung poised upon her heart, and swayed with each - Quick-passing impulse, like a humming-bird - Lit tremulous on some rich-tinted flower. - Rich-tinted, truly; no forget-me-not, - Placid with blue serenity; nor yet - That regal flower, stately in its calm - Fair dignity, that hoards its loveliness - From common gaze, with instinct to discern - The presence of unworthy worshippers. - Not till the twilight shadows have shut out - The common crowd that would have rifled all - Its queenly beauty,--does it condescend - For him who with a patient reverence - Has waited, to unfold with lovely grace - The royal petals; and it droops and dies - Before the garish day has ushered in - Again the curious crowd. - This woman’s soul - Was not so snowy in its purity, - And not so keen in its fine instincts; nay, - But tinted with all splendid hues, intense - With high enthusiasms, and yet indeed - Not passionate, but pure as lilies are. - Transparent flames are surely just as pure - As icicles; and something of the rich - And brilliant glow of her own nature fell - On everyone about her, till they stood - Transfigured in her eyes, with glory caught - From her own loveliness. She was not keen - To judge of human nature; she believed - All men were noble; and a thousand times - The poor heart would have offered up its all - On some unworthy shrine, had not the fates - Kindly removed the shrine. How could she help - Believe that God had stooped from highest heaven, - To save her from herself? - - - - -FORESIGHT. - - - Unbar, O heavy clouds, the gated West! - That this most weary day, beholding so - Her goal, may hasten her sad steps; I know - She comes without fair gifts; upon her breast - Close-clasped, the pale cold hands together pressed - Hold nothing;--then let some red sunset glow - Tempt her to seek the unknown world below - The far horizon where she hopes for rest! - - At last the day, like some poor toil-worn slave, - Passes, and leaves in sooth no gift for me;-- - Yet I, who thought my heart could be so brave - To bear what I had wisdom to foresee, - Sob in despair, as this poor day that gave - Me nothing, sinks behind the western sea! - - - - -TO FRANK S. R----. - -WITH A VIOLIN. - - - The stately trees that in the forest grow - Are not all destined for the same high thing; - Some burn to useless cinders in the glow - Of the hearth-fire; while some are meant to sing - - For centuries the never-dying song - Once caught from wandering breeze or lingering bird - So clearly and so surely, that the strong - Firm wood was quickly seized by one who heard, - - To fashion his dear violin;--even so - Our human souls are fashioned; some will fade - Away to useless ashes, others grow - Immortal through the sweetness they have made. - - - - -“THE EAGER SUN COMES GLADLY FROM THE SEA.” - - - The eager sun comes gladly from the sea; - Remembering that one short year ago - He rose from unknown worlds of light below - Those same far waves, to shine on you and me - Standing together on the shore;--but we - Are strangely far apart to-day; and so - The saddened sun with lingering step and slow - Climbs the horizon, wondering not to see - Your face beside mine; nor can understand - As we do, dear, that you and I to-day,-- - Though million miles of ocean or of land - And centuries of time between us lay,-- - Are nearer to each other than when hand - Touched hand, before we gave our hearts away! - - - - -RESERVE. - - - I hear you praise - What you are pleased to call unsounded depths - Of character; a nature that the world - Would call reserved; tempting you while it hides-- - Or you suspect it hides--a richer wealth - Deep in some far recesses of the soul. - As if, indeed, you should approve the host - Who with most admirable courtesy - Should throw wide open to your curious gaze - His drawing-room, his green-house and his hall; - Yet should not hesitate to let you see - Certain close-bolted doors of hardest oak, - Upon whose thresholds he informed you, “Here, - Alas! I cannot let you enter.” - You - At once are filled with curiosity - To listen at the keyhole. - So am I; - Yet much I doubt if after all those deep - Recesses of the soul are filled with aught - But emptiness. Too thick the cobwebs hang; - The master of the house can scarce himself - Feel tempted to draw back such heavy bolts; - Although he take an honorable pride, - Leaning at ease in comfortable chair, - To know there are some chambers in his soul - Unentered even by himself. - But him - I call reserved, whose clear eyes seem a well - Of frank sincerity; whose smiling lips, - Curving with hospitable gayety, - Bid you most welcome to his house and home; - Throwing wide open to your curious gaze - Each nook and corner; leaving you at ease - To wander where you will; and if at times - You half suspect some hidden sweet retreat - Where hyacinths are blossoming unseen, - ’Tis not because cold iron-bolted doors - Whisper of secrets you would fain explore; - But that the tapestries upon the wall - So lightly hang, that swaying to and fro, - They half betray a fragrance from within. - You never once suspect that secret doors - Are sliding in the panels underneath; - But when you go, the master of the house - Lifts easily the soft and shining silk, - To find there sacred silence from you all. - ’Tis easier - To read the secrets of a dark, deep pool - That coldly says, “You cannot fathom me,” - With unstirred face turned blankly to the sky, - Than catch the meaning of a silver spring, - Though crystal-clear, above whose bright full heart - Delicate vine-leaves flutter in the sun. - - - - -A SONG OF SUMMER. - - - Laden with gifts of your giving, - O summer of June! - With the rapturous idyl of living - In perfect attune; - With the sweetness of eve when it closes - A day of delight; - With the tremulous breath of the roses - Entrancing the night; - With the glow of your cardinal flowers - On lips that had paled; - And the coolness of silvery showers - For hands that had failed; - With geraniums vivid with fire - To wear on my breast, - Where the lilies had paled with desire - To bring to me rest; - With the joy that was born of your brightness - Still thrilling my soul, - And a heart whose bewildering lightness - I cannot control; - Ah! now that your idyl of living - Is over too soon, - What gifts can compare with your giving, - O summer of June? - - Then a wraith of the winter said gently, - “I will not deceive; - Of the brightness you prize so intently - No trace shall I leave. - The glow of the cardinal flowers - Shall pass from the field, - And the softness of silvery showers - To ice be congealed; - The geraniums vivid with fire - Shall curl at the heart; - And the lily forget the desire - Its peace to impart; - Pale as the rose that is dying, - Your whitening cheek; - Faint as its tremulous sighing, - Words you would speak; - For a joy that was born of their brightness - I tremble with you, - When the gleam and the glory and lightness - Shall pass with the dew. - Ah! now that your idyl of living - Is over so soon, - What gifts will be left of your giving, - O summer of June?” - - - - -THOUGHT. - - - A palace richly furnished is the mind, - In whose fair chambers we may walk at will; - And in its cloistered calm, serene and still, - Continual delight and comfort find. - Not only fretful cares we leave behind, - But restless happiness, and hopes that fill - The eager soul with too much light, until - Eyes dazzled see less wisely than the blind. - So perfect is the joy we find therein, - No pleasures of the outer world compare - With the divine repose so gladly sought; - When from the wearying world we turn to win - High mental solitude, and cherish there - Silent companionship with lofty thought. - - - - -A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE. - - - I thought to hold thy memory as the sea - Holds in its heart a pale reflected moon, - Lost when the sunny radiance of noon - Dissolves the moonlight’s tender mystery. - - Lo! thou art not her semblance in the seas, - But the fair moon herself, that near or far, - Orbed high in heaven as a shining star - Or hid from sight at love’s antipodes;-- - - Still sways the waters with love’s restless tides; - Not by her own will; no coquette is she,-- - The lovely moon to whom I liken thee;-- - For high above our earthly air she glides, - - Unconscious as the waves that rise to greet - Her coming, of the mystery of God’s law - Compelling her those far-off waves to draw - Forever towards her whom they never meet. - - - - -A REMEMBERED CRITIC. - -TO J. R. D. - - - Kind words, that greater kindness still implied - From one unused to praise, for one unknown - To him and to the world where he had grown - Less wont to cheer the artist than to chide; - And always in my heart I thought with pride - Some day to know him, and for him alone - Bring the fair finished work, that he might own-- - “O friend, behold my full faith justified!” - Now he is dead! a man severe, they said - Who knew the critic; but around the spot - We call his grave, by some sweet memory led - Of kindred sweetness, violets have not - Refused to bloom; and one he had forgot - Wept suddenly to hear that he was dead. - - - - -DAWN. - - - Wake, happy heart, O awake! - For the mists are flitting away; - And the hawthorn boughs for thy sake - Are eager and longing to break - Into garlands of blossoming spray. - Sing, sing it, O gay little linnet! - And hasten, O glad lark, to bring it, - The beautiful Day! - - O Dawn, I am hungry with yearning - For gifts thou canst give;-- - The proud soul within me is burning - With new life to live. - I am strong with the strength of long sleeping; - Fill full now each vein - With rich crimson wine thou art keeping - For glad hearts to drain! - O hush! for the clouds break asunder; - Her delicate feet - Touch the hills with a reverent wonder - If earth will be sweet. - And the heart that within me was breaking - With longing for her, - Breaks utterly, now that awaking - I hear her low stir. - So frail and so dainty and tender; - What heart could foresee - That the goddess it longed for, a slender - Young fairy would be? - Empty-handed, she dreads my displeasure, - And turns half away; - ’Tis for me then to give of my treasure, - O beautiful Day! - Appealing, she waits till I greet her, - With no gifts for me; - Dear Day, after all it is sweeter - For me to crown thee! - If I am not a happier maiden - Because of thy stay, - Thou shalt be with bright gifts from me laden, - A happier Day! - - - - -WITH AN ANTIQUE. - - - The old, old story men would call our love; - One cannot think of any time so old - That some “I love you” was not gladly told - To some one listening gladly; each remove - Of the long lingering centuries does but prove - Its deathlessness;--and we to-day who hold - Each other dear as if young Love had sold - To us alone his birthright from above,-- - Love’s secret ours alone,--turn back to seek - In the rich types of Roman art or Greek - Some fitting gift wherewith to fitly speak - A love that each heart to the other drew;-- - An old, old story it may seem to you; - To us, each year more beautiful, more new. - - - - -DOUBT. - - - Tell me, my friend; - Across your faith (which, pardon me, I know - To be sincere and honest; else, indeed, - I had not spent this hour with you here;) - Across your faith, then, does there never creep - A haunting doubt it may not all be true? - For me, although my life were spanned above - With faith as honest as your own, if once - On the horizon there had dawned a doubt - No bigger than a pigmy’s little hand, - Then heaven would be always overcast - With possible untruth, and I should think - The stars I saw were but poor will-o’-the-wisps - Created in my brain, beyond which rolled - The eternal darkness of a blank despair. - Whereas now, living underneath a sky - Continually clouded,--when a rift - Shows me a tender heavenly blue beyond, - I fancy then the darkness overhead - May be a gathered mist of my poor brain, - Beyond which rolls, immortal and unstained, - The glory of the everlasting Truth! - - - - -“I KNOW MYSELF THE BEST-BELOVED OF ALL.” - - - I know myself the best-beloved of all - The many dear to him; yet not indeed - Because of his swift thought for every need - Of my love’s craving; I could scarcely call - My very own the power to enthrall - Such chivalry as his, that turns to heed - Each slightest claim, nor thinks to ask the meed - Of love returned where love’s sweet offerings fall. - Not then because of all he is to me; - But by this surer token; when he earns - The right to his own happiness, or yearns - For some sweet, sudden, answering sympathy, - Ah me! with what quick-beating heart I see - For his own joy it is to me he turns! - - - - -OCTOBER. - - - The very air - Has grown heroic; a few crimson leaves - Have fallen here; yet not to yield their breath - In pitiful sighing at so sad a fate, - But royally, as with spilt blood of kings. - The full life throbs exultant in my veins, - Till half ashamed to wear so high a mood, - Not for some splendid triumph of the soul, - But simply in response to light and air, - Slowly I let it fall. - And later, steal - Down the broad garden-walk, where cool and clear - The sharp-defined white moonlight marks the path. - Not the young moon that shy and wavering down - Trembled through leafy tracery of the boughs - In happy nights of June; the peace that wraps - Me here is not the warm and golden peace - Of summer afternoons that lull the soul - To dreamy indolence; but strong white peace, - Peace that is conscious power in repose. - No fragrance floats on the autumnal air; - The white chrysanthemums and asters star - The frosty silence, but their leaves exhale - No passion of remembrance or regret. - The perfect calmness and the perfect strength - My senses wrap in an enchanted robe - Woven of frost and fire; while in my soul - Blend the same mingled sovereignty and rest; - As if indeed my spirit had drained deep - Some delicate elixir of rich wine, - Ripened beneath the haughtiest of suns, - Then cooled with flakes of snow. - - - - -SERENITY. - - - Her days are as a silver-flowing stream;-- - Above, the rippling sunbeams flash and gleam; - Beneath, strong currents noiseless as a dream. - - Her heart is like the lilies that bloom wide - In restful beauty on the restless tide, - Asking not where the eager waters glide. - - Her thoughts are white-winged birds, that from below - To the high heavens soar and vanish so-- - Alas! mine cannot follow where they go. - - Her joys are bright-winged birds that from on high - Come singing down, and tempt the stream to try - And sing with them as they flit singing by. - - Her sorrows--she has none her heart will own; - The air is silent when the birds have flown; - But the poor stream still sings the song, alone. - - - - -“A YEAR AGO TO-DAY, LOVE.” - - - A year ago to-day, love, for the space - Of a brief sudden moment, richly fraught - With deeper meaning than our light hearts thought, - You held my hand and looked into the face - Which, poor in gifts, has since by God’s good grace - Grown dear to you;--and the full year has brought - Friendship--and love--and marriage; yet has taught - My heart to call you in its sacred place - Still by the earliest name; for you who are - My lover and my husband, and who bring - Heaven close around me, will not let me cling - To that near heaven; but tempt my soul afar - By your ideals for me; till life end, - My calm, dispassionate, sincerest _friend_. - - - - -STEADFAST. - - - Not like the stars that high in heaven - Shine so serenely with unchanging rays - That marveling at their calmness, you believe - Of their “firm-fixed and lasting quality” - There is no type upon the earth beneath. - A few weeks hence look up, and you shall find - Each steadfast planet steadfastly has moved - Across the midnight azure of the sky - With silent rays still tranquil and serene. - Not steadfast like the stars is she I love, - But as this gem I wear upon my breast; - Whose rich rays wander from me through the room, - Sparkling and fading with capricious gleam - Of light and color, like the varying moods - Of my beloved one; those who turn to praise - The beauty of the gem, admire most - The changefulness of its most restless rays; - Yet I feel no uneasiness or doubt; - Knowing full well whenever I look down - Upon my breast, the jewel will be there. - - - - -WITH A CRYSTAL LION. - -For L. R. W. - - - Keep watch and ward, - In stately guard, - Around my Una’s wayward feet; - Not lest she tread - False ways instead - Of higher paths, serenely sweet;-- - - But lest in care - For all who share - Her tender ministry, too late - Her frail strength yield;-- - Be thou her shield; - They also serve who sometimes wait! - - Of crystal, clear - As in its sphere - Her lofty spirit moves alway;-- - Of massive strength - As all at length - Will find who make her soul their stay;-- - - With flowers and buds - Whose sweetness floods - The air even when we cannot see;-- - This gift I send - My earliest friend;-- - Dear type of all she is to me! - - - - -ABSENT-MINDED. - - - You chide me that with self-absorbed, rapt eyes - I seem to walk apart, nor care to clasp - Familiar hands once dear; like one whose house - Filled with the guests of her own choosing, rings - With sounds of gladness, yet who steals away - Up to some silent chamber of her own, - Forgetful of the duties of a host. - But is not she - The truest and most hospitable friend - Who, noting suddenly among her guests - An unexpected comer, one to whom - She fain would show high honor and respect, - Hastens away with busy feet awhile - To throw wide open to the sun and air - Some long-untenanted fair chamber, rich - With storied heirlooms of her ancestors, - Bright with long windows looking towards the sun, - Waiting but for an occupant? - Even so - Have I but stolen quietly away, - Within the happy silence of my heart - A lovely, sunny chamber to prepare - For a new-comer. - - - - -ANSWERED PRAYER. - - - Father, whose tenderness has wrapped me round - In a great need,--to what shall I compare - Strength thou hast sent in answer to my prayer? - Not to the help some falling vine has found, - That trailing listless on the frozen ground - Clings suddenly to some high trellis there, - Lifting itself once more into the air - With timid tendrils on the lattice wound. - Rather to help the drooping plant has won, - That weary with the beating of the rains - Feels quickening in its own responsive veins - The sudden shining of a distant sun. - When from within the strength and gladness are, - My soul knows that its help comes from afar. - - - - -EXPRESSION. - - - A wave - Throbs restless in the darkness on the sea. - Glorious in heaven shines a strong white star, - Sending long slender lines of level light - Serenely through the stillness; and the wave - Takes to its heart the beautiful bright thing, - Unconscious that it now stands self-revealed - In its own palpitating restlessness. - “How very strange,” it murmurs to itself, - “That a great radiant star should tremble so, - Even as I do; and more strange it seems, - That it should be so willing to betray - Itself by shining.” - And meanwhile in heaven - The star, with eyes fixed only upon God, - Sweeps through the stately circles of the skies - In motion grand as silence; undisturbed - And self-contained; not dreaming that below, - A little wave whose tremulous young heart - Has caught a little of its brightness, thinks - To read and to interpret for itself - The heavenly mysteries. - Even so I hear - Men call it strange that poets should reveal - The sacred secrets of their inmost souls - To every idlest reader. - - - - -FULFILLMENT. - - - Burn bright, O sunset sky, with tints like wine! - From all the west let the glad tidings shine, - So beautiful a joy is to be mine. - - O little lily, lean into the gloom! - Pour from thy deep cup all its rare perfume, - Sweeter will be my joy when it shall bloom. - - Sing gayly, that the richer world with me - May so rejoice in joy that is to be, - O little birds upon the Maple tree! - - O happy heart, send up to eyes and cheek - The gladness that I have no words to speak; - The fairest ones too powerless and weak. - - Nay, burning sky, hide thy too brilliant glow! - I would not that the curious world should know - The sacred joy that now has blessed me so. - - O little lily, leaning from the gloom, - Hold thy too fragrant breath, that there be room - In the deep stillness for my heart to bloom. - - Hush, little birds upon the Maple tree! - I cannot hear, ye sing so noisily, - The sweeter song my soul would sing to me. - - O happy lids, droop over happy eyes, - Lest all the marvel of their dear surprise - Escape once more to the far Paradise, - - From which joy came so gently to my breast, - Forevermore to be its cherished guest; - Not seeking there, but bringing, heavenly rest. - - - - -“THERE WILL BE SILENCE HERE, LOVE.” - - - There will be silence here, love, in the slow - Long summer months when there are none to break - The stillness with the laugh of those who wake - New-born each day to joy; and yet I know - The stillness cannot be so still, or grow - So deeply soundless, but that for my sake - The memory-haunted, lonely rooms will take - Some echo of my vanished voice;--even so, - Amid the scenes to which I have no choice - But go without thee, dearest, there will be - No gayety so gay, no glad light glee - Wherein with others I, too, must rejoice, - But through it all my heart will make for me - Silence, wherein I shall but hear thy voice. - - - - -FAITH IN WORKS. - - - My faith begins where your religion ends: - In service to mankind. This single thread - Is given to guide us through the maze of life. - You start at one end, I the other;--you, - With eyes fixed only upon God, begin - With lofty faith, and seeking but to know - And do His will who guides the universe, - You find the slender and mysterious thread - Leads down to earth, with God’s divine command - To help your fellow-men; but this to me - Is something strangely vague; I see alone - The fellow-men, the suffering fellow-men. - Yet with a cup of water in my hand - For all who thirst, who knows but I one day, - Following faithfully the slender thread, - May reach its other end, and kneel at last - With you in heaven at the feet of God? - - - - -“No. 33--A PORTRAIT.” - -FOR R. H. L. - - - With careless step I wander through the hall - Scarce heeding many a work of lovely art; - Till with a sudden thrill my listless heart - Leaps up to greet upon a stranger’s wall - Those dear remembered eyes;--her face, with all - The dreamy charm that made so sweet a part - Of my life once;--and tender memories start - To meet her at her unexpected call. - True portrait of the unforgotten face, - How do I thank thee, that dost give me here - Tidings from her, so distant yet still dear - To me;--for as I bid the painting tell - If all be well with her, its pictured grace - Answers beyond all doubting, “_It is well!_” - - - - -LONGING. - - - Not high above us with the pitiless stars, - Nor deep below us in the soundless sea, - Nor far away to east or westward, lie - The little things we long for. - Here they are; - Close to our hands, the eager, restless hands - That fain would grasp them; and no fetters bind - The wistful fingers; no relentless fate - Tells us we must not; we are wholly free - To take them if we choose. - And yet--and yet-- - We dare not! lest the soul should wake some day, - Years hence, perhaps, to sense of other needs. - God save us ever from those sudden moods - When all life narrows to a single point, - And when the poor heart seizes its desire. - Only to wake to deeper restlessness. - But after all, what matter? would it be - Harder to wake years hence to sense of thirst - Than to stand thirsty now? for sunny wine - Sparkles before us, and a precious pearl, - Eager to lose its life upon our lips, - Waits but our instant grasping to dissolve - Its costly beauty in the nectar. - Nay! - We have no right to the white lovely pearl. - God give us strength not to stretch out our hands! - See! they are slipping slowly from our reach-- - Fading into the darkness-- - They are gone-- - The little things we longed for! - - - - -THE NEW DAY. - - - Supreme through all the hours of the day - I hold one sweetest: not the day or hour, - Dear, when you came to me; nor yet the flower - Of perfect days, though that is sweet alway, - When your love came to me; I cannot say - Why these are not divinest in their power; - Yet as each new day comes, it brings for dower - One moment whose rich gladness will outweigh - All others: that first moment when the night - Yields to the daylight’s clear and vivid blue; - And waking to things real from things that seem, - My eager eyes unclose to the fair light, - Still undeceived; to find their visions true, - And that your love for me was not my dream. - - - - -CONFESSION. - - - The eager year - Is passing, with its triumphs and defeats. - Alike earth rests from labor and from joy; - Hushing each tiniest insect, wearing now - No careless ornament of flower or leaf; - Reaching her pleading arms up to the sky - In longing for its silent chrism of snow - In benediction; like a weary heart, - That worn with spent emotion, sinks at last - Into exhaustion that almost seems rest. - Not brooding over her lost violets, - High in her hands upon the leafless trees - She holds the woodbine, swaying in the wind, - A crimson rosary of remembered sins. - - How shall we keep this solemn festival, - Thou, O my heart, and I? have we no sins - It would be well, confessing here to-night, - To know forgiven? Not to some gentle friend - Whose tenderness ere half the tale were told - Would silence it with kisses; but before - A more severe tribunal in my own - Exacting soul, that could endure no blot - Upon the scutcheon of its spotless truth. - Not without hope of pardon; for the soul - Is sponsor to the heart; if she can tell - Of purest purpose loftily upheld, - We need not be so sad, my heart and I, - To wear a little while upon our breast - The crimson rosary. - And when the soul - Shall speak at last the full “_Absolvo te_,” - Then will we lay forevermore aside - These memories of fault. Earth does not wear - Her scarlet woodbine all the year, to pain - Her beating heart with constant self-reproach. - Content with frank and full confession once, - The trembling vine, with sighing of the wind, - Drops slowly, one by one, its deep red leaves. - So having won forgiveness from myself, - Listening I hear the far-off harmonies - Of solemn chant in heaven: “_Though thy sins - Had been as scarlet, they shall be like wool._” - God’s benediction calms my troubled heart, - Pained with its consciousness of frailty, - Even as upon the fading crimson leaves - Fall tenderly the first white flakes of snow. - - - - -“AMONG THOSE JOYS FOR WHICH WE UTTER PRAISE.” - - - Among those joys for which we utter praise - That were not in our lives, one year ago;-- - (No need to name them, dearest; for you know - Each one that came, our ignorant hearts to raise - To love’s high level;) let us count the days - Before we knew each other; days when no - Sweet premonition of love’s full rich glow - Gleamed on the darkness of our separate ways. - All preludes should be simple; that no dream - Or hint of this new beauty came to fill - The unconscious hours with meaning, does but seem - Fit introduction to the joys that thrill - Our glad souls now, from love that knew no still - Awaking,--but dawned instantly supreme. - - - - -BECAUSE. - - - Not because you are gentle of speech, - O brave knight of mine! - Nor because in the chivalrous list - With the brightest you shine; - Nor because when you pass on the street - All the world turn to praise - The wonderful charm of your look - And grace of your ways; - Nor because in your presence I know - I have but to command, - And the coveted treasures at once - Will fall from your hand; - Nor because by the glance of your eyes - That so tenderly drew - My whole heart unto yours, I may know - I am perfect to you; - - But because in your presence, dear, _I_ - Grow gentle of speech; - The haughty young maiden who once - Was so wilful to teach; - And because when I pass on the street - All the world turn to praise - A certain new charm in _my_ look - And grace in _my_ ways; - And because in your presence I lose - The proud wish to command; - Contented, nay eager, dear love, - To be led by your hand; - And because your eyes full of reproach - At some things that I do, - Still show the belief I shall grow - To be worthy of you;-- - Do I love you? ’twere idle indeed - To refuse now to yield; - Quite useless for lips to deny - What the eyes have revealed; - Yet not, (let me say it, for fear - That too vain you should be--) - Not so much for what you are yourself, - As for what you make me! - - - - -IVY. - - - Threading its noiseless way among fair things - Love-chosen to make beautiful my room, - The ivy spreads its tender living gloom, - Darkening and brightening the wall; now clings - Closely around some picture, and now swings - Some airy shoot of tremulous young bloom - Into the freer sunlight; till the doom - Of their slow silent fate together brings - At last the branches that for long years went - Their single, separate ways. Did no swift thrill - Of subtle recognition flash, and fill - Their veins? Oh Ivy, still must we lament - Thou canst not with our joy in thee have part, - And thyself know how fair a thing thou art! - - - - -INFLUENCE. - - - Hearts that are glad - Beat quicker for the smiling of her lips; - Even as the summer air that seems o’ercharged - With fragrance, will grow even sweeter still - At sudden blossoming of one more rose. - But the rose, too, - Has her own secret. From the heavenly blue, - Regnant upon his throne of light, the sun - Sends her his glances; till the timid rose - Slowly, leaf after leaf, unveils to him - Her beauty; and the summer air at once - Takes to itself the soft and fragrant sigh, - Nor dreams she offered to a distant sun - The incense of her soul. - Even so I hear - You praise a sudden sweetness in her ways, - Grown strangely kind and tender to us all; - For me, I recognize the o’erfull heart, - Trembling and faint with effort to express - Surcharge of beauty that her soul has drawn - From one who stood above her. - - - - -MIRACLE. - - - If love had found me in cold cheerless ways - And led me forth into the light;--if bloom - Of sweet and sudden flowers, instead of gloom - In the long nights and unillumined days, - Thy love had brought me;--then at love’s high praise - I had not so much wondered;--if the doom - Of pitiless destiny had given room - To thy bright presence,--then in swift amaze - I were less awed than now. No life could be - More sweet than that past life of mine, I thought; - And when the changing years in fulness brought - Another life enriched by love and thee, - That all my beautiful past should seem as naught,-- - This is the miracle Love wrought for me! - - - - -“SHE CAME AND WENT.” - - - As a shy bird that startled from her nest - Wings her far way into the highest blue, - Nor dreams that she has left us any clue - To find which elm tree had been loved the best; - - Though all the while its light boughs, fluttering - In the deep noonday silence, softly beat - Their soundless echoes to her flying feet - Now swiftly in the blue air vanishing:-- - - So haply you would keep a secret, dear, - Your unseen presence in my little room, - That glorified into unwonted bloom - Betrays to me what fair guest has been here. - - Who else, dear, in my absence would have thought - To close the favorite book, left open here - Where a disputed passage was made clear - By a few words with tedious patience sought;-- - - Then with a sudden and repentant grace - That all the mischief of its fault bereft, - Have found the very page again, and left - A rose in the shut book to mark the place. - - - - -DREAMERS. - - -I. - - I saw her, though with earnest eyes bent low, - Unheedful of the violets at her feet, - That clustering in purple fragrance sweet - Touched her white dress; absorbed in revery so, - She knew not that the morning sunshine’s glow - Was for her sake; and robins, fain to greet - So fair a lady with a love-song meet, - No recognition won from her below. - O dreamer of a dream thy heart shall see - Crowned with fulfillment when the dawn of day - Has deepened into noontide’s richer gleam,-- - Lest I too rudely should awaken thee, - With hushed and reverent step I steal away, - Praying God bless the dreamer and the dream! - - -II. - - I saw her with her tearful eyes raised high, - Unheedful of the whirling flakes of snow, - That flitting through the sad air to and fro - Flecked her dark dress; cold from the leaden sky, - The autumn winds came sobbing restless by, - Wailing to find it still so cold below; - While faded violets of a year ago, - Pressed to her lips, hushed her own rising cry. - O lonely dreamer of a dream long flown, - I come to waken thee! for dying day - In purple twilight shrouds the noontide gleam; - And when the lovely visions that have grown - So fair and dear flit vanishing away, - God blesses dreamers who no longer dream. - - - - -ANDROMEDA. - - - Loosen my arms! leave me one poor hand free, - That I may shut one moment from my sight - The dreadful heaving of the shuddering sea! - For as it creeps back slowly from my feet, - Rise from its inky depths swift-coming waves - Big with the terrible and nameless thing - That soon along the shrinking sands will crawl - To wrap me in its hideous embrace. - I will not struggle! leave me but one hand - To shield the poor eyes that refuse to close; - For stretched and wide the fascinated lids - Deny their office, and I needs must look! - What have I done, that these fair limbs of mine, - (Nay, nay; I meant not fair; the gods forbid - That I should boast!) but young and piteous - And tender with soft flesh--O mother, take - Your proud words back! O nymphs, be pitiful! - The green waves part, and poisonous is the air! - Red the fangs glitter! save me, O ye gods! - - Nay, what is this that wraps my shuddering limbs - With sudden coolness?--Can it be that now - The merciless tall cliff which all day long - Refused its wonted shadow to protect - My burning body from the dazzling sun, - Relents, and spreads its gentle shade around - To calm my reeling senses? Nay, for more - It seems to me like white o’ershadowing wings, - Circling above my head. Alas! so dim - My poor eyes are with tears, I cannot see - What this may be so near me; yet it seems - Like some young, gallant knight. Alack, good sir, - If thou art come to free my quivering limbs, - Know that against the gods contend in vain - The bravest knights. And yet how like a god - Himself he stands! See how he spurns the ground, - Poised with sustaining wings upon the air, - And deals the monster a sharp, sudden blow - That sends him reeling from the trembling shore! - Shattered, I hear the chains fall to my feet; - Yet much I fear another gentler fate - Fetters my heart anew. O valiant knight, - If in thy sight this tearful face was fair,-- - (Fair dare I call it now; since thou art near - To shield me ever from the envious hate - Of those less fair!) if worth it seemed to thee - The dreadful daring of the doubtful fight, - Surely that best should be thy dear reward - Which prompted thee to struggle; all is thine! - The dim eyes, dull with weeping bitter tears, - Shall brighten at the sound of thy strong voice; - The frail hands, red with struggling to be free, - Once more shall turn to lilies in thy clasp; - Rose-red for thee shall flush with happiness - The poor, pale cheeks, still white with sickening fear; - The tired feet sustained and strong shall grow, - Walking beside thee; nay, dear love, not yet; - For still they tremble, still I seem to need - Thy firm supporting arm around me thrown. - Fold me then, dearest, in thy close embrace; - Bear me across the treacherous, yielding sands, - To that far country which must needs be fair, - Since thou hast followed from its chivalry, - Where I may now forget all else but thee. - - - - -LOVE SONG. - - - Dreaming of love and fame, sweetheart, - I dreamed that a sunbeam shone - For a wavering instant, and where it played - A hundred flowers had grown. - The sunshine flitting so soon away - Was a smile thou hadst given me; - And the flowers that bloomed in the world for aye, - Were the songs I wrote for thee. - - Waking to love and life, sweetheart, - I saw fair flowers fade; - While still from the measureless heavens above - The flickering sunshine played. - The flowers fading from all men’s sight - Were the songs they had heard from me; - And the light that illumined the world to them, - Was a single smile from thee! - - - - -CLOSED. - - - Within her soul there is a sacred place, - Forever set apart to holy thought; - There once a miracle divine was wrought, - And common things grew fair with heavenly grace. - Think not to know the secret of that room;-- - Closed is the door, even to herself; no more - She lingers there, though well our hearts are sure - It is no spot of shadowy, haunted gloom. - The violets that blossom there unseen - Were never gathered, and so never fade; - Breathing serenely through the gentle shade - Their memories of all that once had been. - When in the thoughtful twilight we, her friends, - Walk with her, and in spirit dimly feel - A strange, rare fragrance o’er the senses steal, - Let us speak softly of a Past that sends - Through the closed crevice of its silent door, - No bitterness in those remembered hours; - But in the delicate breath of such fair flowers - Only the sweetness of the days of yore. - - - - -BABY-HOOD. - -M. W. R. - - - Dear bird of mine, with strong and untried wing, - Ignorant yet of restless fluttering, - How long will you be so content to sing - - For me alone? when will the world be stirred - By notes that even I have scarcely heard, - Since you are still only a mocking-bird? - - My little Clytie with the constant eyes - Turned to me ever, though the true sunrise - Burns far above me in God’s holy skies,-- - - How can you know, my sweet unconscious one, - In the bright days for you but just begun, - That I am worthy to be held your sun? - - My little loyal worshipper, the bloom - Of whose fair face makes bright the midnight gloom, - Turned ever steadily to my near room, - - Knowing so well, with instinct fine and true, - The one glad door through which I come to you, - Caring for naught but what that hides from view,-- - - How long, dear one, how many precious years, - Will this fair chamber where I hush your tears - Be the one Mecca for your hopes and fears? - - Not long, alas! not long; the mother heart - Knows well how quickly she will have to part - With all this wonder;--she who tries each art - - To lure him on; the first to coax and praise - Each added grace; then first in sore amaze - To mourn that he has lost his baby ways! - - - - -“IF I COULD KNOW, LOVE.” - - - If I could know, love, that some single prayer - From my full heart’s supreme desires for thee, - With rich fulfillment would be granted me - By Him who gave us to each other,--where - Could I find truer wish than this: “O spare - My life to him!” For surely love should be - Love’s best interpreter; an argosy - Freighted with all earth’s joy, wert thou not there,-- - Beside me always--how could I be glad - In aught of this? my own great speechless need, - Not only of the love I once have had, - But of thy presence, teaches me to read - The deep, unspoken prayer thy heart would add - To mine, if highest heaven could lean to heed! - - - - -THE DIFFERENCE. - - - One day I heard a little lady say, - “O morning-glory, would that I were you! - Twining around the porch that lovely way, - Where you will see my dear one coming through. - So fair you are, he’ll surely notice you, - And wait perhaps a moment, just to praise - The clinging prettiness of all your ways, - And tender tint of melting white and blue. - O morning-glory, would that I were you!” - - I heard the little lady’s lover say, - “O rose-white daisy, dying in the dew, - Breathing your half-crushed, fainting life away - Under her footstep,--would that I were you! - For when how cruelly she wounded you, - She turns to see in pitying distress, - With murmured words of sorrowing tenderness - Close to her lips your bruised leaves she will press;-- - O drooping daisy, would that I were you!” - - - - -INDIAN SUMMER. - - - Linger, O Day! - Let not thy purple haze - Fade utterly away! - The Indian Summer lays - Her tender touch upon the emerald hills; - Exquisite thrills - Of delicate gladness fill the blue-veined air. - More restful even than rest, - The passionate sweetness that is everywhere. - Soft splendors in the west - Touch with the charm of coming changefulness - The yielding hills. - O linger, Day! - Let not the dear - Delicious languor of thy dreamfulness - Vanish away! - Serene and clear, - The brooding stillness of the delicate air, - Dreamier than the dreamiest depths of sleep, - Falls softly everywhere. - Still let me keep - One little hour longer tryst with thee, - O Day of days! - Lean down to me, - In tender beauty of thy amethyst haze! - Upon the vine - Rich, clinging clusters of the ripening grape - Hang silent in the sun; - But in each one - Beats with full throb the quickening purple wine - Whose pulse shall round the perfect fruit to shape. - Too dreamy even to dream, - I hear the murmuring bee and gliding stream; - The singing silence of the afternoon - Lulling my drowsy senses till they swoon - Into still deeper rest; - While soul released from sense, - Passionate and intense, - With quick, exultant quiver in its wings, - Prophetic longing for diviner things, - Escapes the unthinking breast;-- - Pierces rejoicing through the shining mist, - But shrinks before the keen, cold ether, kissed - By burning stars: delirious foretaste - Of joys the soul--(too eager in its haste - To grasp ere won by the diviner right - Of birth through death)--is far too weak to bear! - Bathed in earth’s lesser light, - Slipping down slowly through the shining air, - Once more it steals into the dreaming breast, - Praying again to be its patient guest; - And as my senses wake, - The beautiful glad soul again to take, - The twilight falls;-- - A lonely wood-thrush calls - The Day away. - Thou needst not linger, Day! - My soul and I - Would hold high converse of diviner things - Than blossom underneath thy tender sky. - Unfold thy wings! - Wrap softly round thyself thy delicate haze, - And gliding down the slowly darkening ways, - Vanish away! - - - - -“LAST--AN AMETHYST.” - - - O thou in whom, not knowing, I believe, - If in these uttered phrases there is naught - Of that supreme, deep language of Thy thought - Men call religion--yet wilt Thou receive - The finished task; though I have dared to leave - Unseen, but not unfelt, though best unsought, - As Thou thyself to my own heart hast taught, - The solemn truths that so will strongest cleave - Unto men’s souls. My hand would fain forget - Its eager cunning, ere the fingers kissed - By one whose love Thou gavest me, should yet - Yield all to joy, uncaring if they list,-- - Thy angels--from the heavenly parapet - Of precious stones: “the twelfth, an amethyst!” - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber’s note - -Hyphenation in the Table of Contents was made consistent with -hyphenation in the titles of the poems. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RING OF AMETHYST*** - - -******* This file should be named 63289-0.txt or 63289-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/3/2/8/63289 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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