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diff --git a/old/63790-0.txt b/old/63790-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 618966e..0000000 --- a/old/63790-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1609 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rosemary and Pansies, by Effie Smith - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: Rosemary and Pansies -Author: Effie Smith - -Release Date: November 17, 2020 [EBook #63790] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSEMARY AND PANSIES *** - - - - - Rosemary and Pansies - - EFFIE SMITH - - [Illustration: colophon] - - BOSTON - RICHARD G. BADGER - THE GORHAM PRESS - 1909 - - - Copyright, 1909, by Effie Smith - - All Rights Reserved - - THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A. - - - - - DEDICATION - - - TO THE MEMORY OF MY - BROTHER MARVIN - - - - -CONTENTS - - -At the Grave of One Forgotten 9 - -The Shepherds’ Vision 11 - -Heredity 12 - -The Wood Fire 13 - -A New Year’s Hope 14 - -To a Silver Dollar 15 - -Preparation 16 - -Ghosts 18 - -The Rainbow 19 - -Heroes 20 - -The Recompense 21 - -The Test 22 - -To a Dead Baby 23 - -Thanksgiving 24 - -Under Roofs 25 - -Forever 26 - -If Christ Should Come 27 - -Gifts 29 - -Benefaction 30 - -Historic Ground 31 - -A Mountain Graveyard 32 - -After the Last Lesson 34 - -The Road to Church 35 - -The Patchwork Quilt 38 - -My Brother 41 - -In Fuller Measure 42 - -October 43 - -Benignant Death 44 - -The Unreturning 45 - -When a Hundred Years Have Passed 46 - -Fallen Leaves 48 - -December Snow 49 - -Trust 50 - -Toward Sunrise 51 - -Good Night 52 - - - - - ROSEMARY AND PANSIES - - - - - AT THE GRAVE OF ONE FORGOTTEN - - - In a churchyard old and still, - Where the breeze-touched branches thrill - To and fro, - Giant oak trees blend their shade - O’er a sunken grave-mound, made - Long ago. - - No stone, crumbling at its head, - Bears the mossed name of the dead - Graven deep; - But a myriad blossoms’ grace - Clothes with trembling light the place - Of his sleep. - - Was a young man in his strength - Laid beneath this low mound’s length, - Heeding naught? - Did a maiden’s parents wail - As they saw her, pulseless, pale, - Hither brought? - - Was it else one full of days, - Who had traveled darksome ways, - And was tired, - Who looked forth unto the end, - And saw Death come as a friend - Long desired? - - Who it was that rests below - Not earth’s wisest now may know, - Or can tell; - But these blossoms witness bear - They who laid the sleeper there - Loved him well. - - In the dust that closed him o’er - Planted they the garden store - Deemed most sweet, - Till the fragrant gleam, outspread, - Swept in beauty from his head - To his feet. - - Still, in early springtime’s glow, - Guelder-roses cast their snow - O’er his rest; - Still sweet-williams breathe perfume - Where the peonies’ crimson bloom - Drapes his breast. - - Passing stranger, pity not - Him who lies here, all forgot, - ’Neath this earth; - Some one loved him--more can fall - To no mortal. Love is all - Life is worth. - - - - - THE SHEPHERDS’ VISION - - - Upon the dim Judean hills, - The shepherds watched their flock by night, - When on their unexpectant gaze - Outshone that vision of delight, - The fairest that did ever rise - To awe and gladden earthly eyes. - - From no far realm those shepherds came, - Treading the pilgrim’s weary road; - Not theirs the vigil and the fast - Within the hermit’s mean abode; - ’Twas at their usual task they stood, - When dawned that light of matchless good. - - Not only to the sage and seer - Life’s revelation comes in grace; - Most often on the toiler true, - Who, working steadfast in his place, - Looks for the coming of God’s will, - The glorious vision shineth still. - - - - - HEREDITY - - - Our dead forefathers, mighty though they be, - For all their power still leave our spirits free; - Though on our paths their shadows far are thrown, - The life that each man liveth is his own. - - Time stands like some schoolmaster old and stern, - And calls each human being in his turn - To write his task upon life’s blackboard space; - Death’s fingers then the finished work erase, - And the next pupil’s letters take its place. - - That he who wrote before thee labored well - Concerns thee not: thy work for thee must tell; - ’Tis naught to thee if others’ tasks were ill: - Thou hast thy chance and canst improve it still. - From all thy fathers’ glory and their guilt - The board for thee is clean: write what thou wilt! - - - - - THE WOOD FIRE - - - O giant oak, majestic, dark, and old, - A hundred summers in the woodland vast, - From the rich suns that lit thy glories past, - In thy huge trunk thou storedst warmth untold; - Now, when the drifted snows the hills enfold, - And the wild woods are shaken in the blast, - O’er this bright hearth thou sendest out at last - The long-pent sunshine that thine heart did hold. - - Like thee, O noble oak-tree, I would store - From days of joy all beauty and delight, - All radiant warmth that makes life’s summer bright, - So that I may, when sunniest hours are o’er, - Still from my heart their treasured gleam outpour, - To cheer some spirit in its winter night. - - - - - A NEW YEAR’S HOPE - - - I dare not hope that in this dawning year - I shall accomplish all my dreams hold dear; - That I, when this year closes, shall have wrought - All the high tasks that my ambitions sought, - And that I shall be then the spirit free, - Strong, and unselfish, that I long to be. - - But truly do I hope, resolve, and pray - That, as the new year passes, day by day - My footsteps, howsoever short and slow, - Shall still press forward in the path they go, - And that my eyes, uplifted evermore, - Shall look forth dauntless to the things before; - And when this new year with the old has gone, - I still may courage have to struggle on. - - - - - TO A SILVER DOLLAR - - - Pale coin, what various hands have you passed through - Ere you to-day within my hand were laid? - Perchance a laborer’s well-earned hire you made; - Some miser may have gloated long on you; - Perhaps some pitying hand to Want outthrew; - And, lost and won through devious tricks of trade, - You may have been, alas! the full price paid - For some poor soul that loved you past your due. - - No doubt ’tis well, O imaged Liberty, - You see not where your placid face is thrust, - Nor know how far man is from being free, - Bound as he is by money’s fateful lust, - While to his anxious soul like mockery - Seem those fair, graven words: “In God we trust.” - - - - - PREPARATION - - - “I have no time for those things now,” we say; - “But in the future just a little way, - No longer by this ceaseless toil oppressed, - I shall have leisure then for thought and rest. - When I the debts upon my land have paid, - Or on foundations firm my business laid, - I shall take time for discourse long and sweet - With those beloved who round my hearthstone meet; - I shall take time on mornings still and cool - To seek the freshness dim of wood and pool, - Where, calmed and hallowed by great Nature’s peace, - My life from its hot cares shall find release; - I shall take time to think on destiny, - Of what I was and am and yet shall be, - Till in the hush my soul may nearer prove - To that great Soul in whom we live and move. - All this I shall do sometime but not now-- - The press of business cares will not allow.” - And thus our life glides on year after year; - The promised leisure never comes more near. - Perhaps the aim on which we placed our mind - Is high, and its attainment slow to find; - Or if we reach the mark that we have set, - We still would seek another, farther yet. - Thus all our youth, our strength, our time go past - Till death upon the threshold stands at last, - And back unto our Maker we must give - The life we spent preparing well to live. - - - - - GHOSTS - - - Upon the eve of Bosworth, it is said, - While Richard waited through the drear night’s gloom - Until wan morn the death-field should illume, - Those he had murdered came with soundless tread - To daunt his soul with prophecies of dread, - And bid him know that, gliding from the tomb, - They would fight ’gainst him in his hour of doom - Until with theirs should lie his discrowned head. - - To every man, in life’s decisive hour, - Ghosts of the past do through the conflict glide, - And for him or against him wield their power; - Lost hopes and wasted days and aims that died - Rise spectral where the fateful war-clouds lower, - And their pale hands the battle shall decide. - - - - - THE RAINBOW - - - Love is a rainbow that appears - When heaven’s sunshine lights earth’s tears. - - All varied colors of the light - Within its beauteous arch unite: - - There Passion’s glowing crimson hue - Burns near Truth’s rich and deathless blue; - - And Jealousy’s green lights unfold - ’Mid Pleasure’s tints of flame and gold. - - O dark life’s stormy sky would seem, - If love’s clear rainbow did not gleam! - - - - - HEROES - - - Men, for the sake of those they loved, - Have met death unafraid, - Deeming by safety of their friends - Their life’s loss well repaid. - - Men have attained, by dauntless toil, - To purpose pure and high, - The darkness of their rugged ways - Lit by a loved one’s eye. - - Heroes were they, yet God to them - Gave not the task most hard, - For sweet it is to live or die - When love is our reward. - - The bravest soul that ever lived - Is he, unloved, unknown, - Who has chosen to walk life’s highest path, - Though he must walk alone; - - Who has toiled with sure and steadfast hands - Through all his lonely days, - Unhelped by Love’s sweet services, - Uncheered by Love’s sweet praise; - - Who, by no earthly honors crowned, - Kinglike has lived and died, - Giving his best to life, though life - To him her best denied. - - - - - THE RECOMPENSE - - - O ancient ocean, with what courage stern - Thy tides, since time began, have sought to gain - The luring moon, toward which they rise in vain, - Yet daily to their futile aim return. - Like thee do glorious human spirits yearn - And strive and fail and strive and fail again - Some starlike aspiration to attain, - Some light that ever shall above them burn. - - Yet truly shall their recompense abide - To all who strive, although unreached their goal: - The ceaseless surgings of the ocean tide - Do cleanse the mighty waters which they roll, - And the high dreams in which it vainly sighed - Make pure the deeps of the aspiring soul. - - - - - THE TEST - - - “He fears not death, and therefore he is brave”-- - How common yet how childish is the thought, - As if death were the hardest battle fought, - And earth held naught more dreadful than the grave! - - In life, not death, doth lie the brave soul’s test, - For life demandeth purpose long and sure, - The strength to strive, the patience to endure; - Death calls for one brief struggle, then gives rest. - - Through our fleet years then let us do our part - With willing arm, clear brain, and steady nerve; - In death’s dark hour no spirit true will swerve, - If he have lived his life with dauntless heart. - - - - - TO A DEAD BABY - - - Pale little feet, grown quiet ere they could run - One step in life’s strange journey; sweet lips chilled - To silence ere they prattled; small hands stilled - Before one stroke of life’s long toil was done; - Uncreased white brows that laurels might have won, - Yet leave their spacious promise unfulfilled-- - O baby dead, I cannot think God willed - Your life should end when it had scarce begun! - - If no man died till his long life should leave - All hopes and aims fulfilled, until his feet - Had trod all paths where men rejoice or grieve, - I might have doubt of future life more sweet; - But as I look on you, I must believe - There is a heaven that makes this earth complete. - - - - - THANKSGIVING - - - Our Father, whose unchanging love - Gives soil and sun and rain, - We thank Thee that the seeds we sowed - Were planted not in vain, - But that Thy hand the year hath crowned - With wealth of fruits and grain. - - But more we thank Thee for the hope - Which hath our solace been, - That when the harvests of our lives - Have all been gathered in, - Our weary hearts and toil-worn hands - Thy welcoming smile shall win. - - We thank Thee for the cheerful board - At which fond faces meet, - And for the human loves that make - Our transient years so sweet; - We thank Thee most for hopes of heaven - Where love shall be complete. - - Though on some dear, remembered face - No more the hearth lights shine, - We thank Thee that the friends we loved - Are kept by love divine, - And though they pass beyond our gaze, - They do not pass from Thine. - - If at the harvest feast no more - Our words and smiles shall blend, - We thank Thee that, though sundered far, - Our steps still homeward tend, - And that our Father’s open door - Awaits us at the end. - - - - - UNDER ROOFS - - - Between us and the starred vasts overhead - Broad-builded roofs we spread, - Thus shutting from our view the wonders high - Of the clear midnight sky; - Yet all our roofs make not more faint or far - One ray of one dim star. - - Our souls build o’er them roofs of dread and doubt, - And think they shut God out; - Yet all the while, remembering though forgot, - That vast Love, changing not, - Abides, and, spite of all our faithless fear, - Shines nevermore less near. - - - - - FOREVER - - - We sigh for human love, from which - A whim or chance shall sever, - And leave unsought the love of God, - Though God’s love lasts forever. - - We seek earth’s peace in things that pass - Like foam upon the river, - While, steadfast as the stars on high, - God’s peace abides forever. - - Man’s help, for which we yearn, gives way, - As trees in storm-winds quiver, - But, mightier than all human need, - God’s help remains forever. - - Turn unto Thee our wavering hearts, - O Thou who failest never; - Give us Thy love and Thy great peace, - And be our Help forever! - - - - - IF CHRIST SHOULD COME - - - If Christ should come to my store to-day, - What would he think, what would he say? - If his eyes on my opened ledgers were laid, - Would they meet a record of unfair trade, - And see that, lured by the love of pelf, - For a trivial price I had sold myself? - Or would he the stainless record behold - Of perfect integrity, richer than gold? - - If Christ should come to my school-room to-day, - What would he think, what would he say? - Would he find me giving the self-same care - To stupid and poor as to rich and fair, - And striving, unmindful of praise or blame, - Through tedious tasks to a lofty aim, - Guiding small feet as they forward plod - In paths of duty that lead to God? - - If Christ should come to my workshop to-day, - What would he think, what would he say? - Would his eye, as it glanced my work along, - See that all its parts were stanch and strong, - Closely fitted, firm-welded, and good, - Of flawless steel and of unwarped wood, - As sound as I trust my soul shall be - When tried by the test of eternity? - - If Christ should come to my kitchen to-day, - What would he think, what would he say? - Would he find me with blithesome and grateful heart - And hands well-skilled in the housewife’s art, - Bearing sordid cares with a spirit sweet, - And making the lowliest tasks complete? - - Cometh he not, who of old did say, - “Lo, I am with you, my friends, alway”? - O thought that our weary hearts must thrill, - In our toilsome ways he is present still! - At counter and forge, in office and field, - He stands, to no mortal eye revealed. - - Ah, if we only could realize - That ever those gentle yet searching eyes - Gaze on our work with approval or blame, - Our slipshod lives would not be the same! - For, thrilled by the gaze of the unseen Guest, - In our daily toil we would do our best. - - - - - GIFTS - - - Myrrh and frankincense and gold-- - Thus the ancient story told-- - When the seers found Him they sought, - To the wondrous babe they brought. - Let us--ours the selfsame quest-- - Bear unto the Christ our best. - - If to him, as to our King, - We the gift of gold would bring, - Be it royal offering! - Gold unstained by stealth or greed, - Gold outflung to all earth’s need, - That hath softened human woe-- - Helped the helpless, raised the low. - - Frankincense for him is meet, - Yet no Orient odors sweet - Are to him as fragrant gift - As white thoughts to God uplift, - And a life that soars sublime, - Sweet above ill scents of time. - - Last, from out the Magians’ store, - Myrrh, as for one dead, they bore; - While, perchance, their lifted eyes - Viewed afar the Sacrifice. - - Let us to the sepulcher - Bring a richer gift than myrrh: - Love that will not yield to dread - When all human hopes have fled; - Faith that falters not nor quails - When the waning earth-light fails, - Saying, “Shall I be afraid - Of the dark where Thou wast laid?” - - - - - BENEFACTION - - - If thou the lives of men wouldst bless, - Live thine own life in faithfulness; - Thine own hard task, if made complete, - Shall render others’ toil more sweet; - - Thy grief, if bravely thou endure, - Shall give men’s sorrow solace sure; - Thy peril, if met undismayed, - Shall make the fearful less afraid. - - Each step in right paths firmly trod - Shall break some thorn or crush some clod, - Making the way more smooth and free - For him who treads it after thee. - - - - - HISTORIC GROUND - - - No song lends these calm vales a deathless name; - No hero, to a nation’s honors grown, - Claims as his birthplace these rude hills unknown; - No pomp of hostile armies ever came, - Marring these fields with storied blood and flame; - And yet the darkest tragedies of time, - Of love and death the mysteries sublime - Have thrilled this tranquil spot, unmarked of fame. - - Here the long conflict between good and ill - Has been fought out to shame or victory, - Darkly and madly as in scenes renowned. - Ah, though unnamed in human records, still - Within the annals of eternity - This place obscure is true historic ground! - - - - - A MOUNTAIN GRAVEYARD - - - What a sleeping-place is here! - O vast mountain, grim and drear, - Though, throughout their life’s hard round, - To thy sons, in long toil bound, - Thou from stony hill and field - Didst a scanty sustenance yield, - Surely thou art kinder now! - Here, beneath the gray cliff’s brow, - Sleep they in the hemlocks’ gloom, - And no king has prouder tomb. - - Far above the clustered mounds, - Through the trees the faint wind sounds, - Waking in each dusky leaf - Sobs of immemorial grief; - And while silent years pass by, - Dark boughs lifted toward the sky - Like wild arms appealing toss, - As if they were mad with loss, - And with human hearts did share - Grief’s long protest and despair. - - No tall marbles, gleaming white, - Here reflect the softened light; - Yet beside the hillocks green - Rude, uncarven stones are seen, - Brought there from the mountain side - By the mourners’ love and pride. - - There, too, scattered o’er the grass - Of the graves, are bits of glass - That with white shells mingled lie. - Smile not, ye who pass them by, - For the love that placed them there - Deemed that they were things most fair. - - Now, when from their souls at last - Life’s long paltriness has passed, - The unending strife for bread - That has stunted heart and head, - These tired toilers may forget - All earth’s trivial care and fret. - Haply death may give them more - Than they ever dreamed before, - And may recompense them quite - For all lack of life’s delight; - Death may to their gaze unbar - Summits vaster, loftier far - Than the blue peaks that surround - This still-shadowed burial ground. - - - - - AFTER THE LAST LESSON - - - How wonderful he seems to me, - Now that the lessons are all read, - And, smiling through the stillness dim, - The child I taught lies dead! - - I was his teacher yesterday-- - Now, could his silent lips unclose, - What lessons might he teach to me - Of the vast truth he knows! - - Last week he bent his anxious brows - O’er maps with puzzling Poles and Zone; - Now he, perchance, knows more than all - The scientists have known. - - “Death humbleth all”--ah, say not so! - The man we scorn, the child we teach - Death in a moment places far - Past all earth’s lore can reach. - - Death bringeth men unto their own! - He tears aside Life’s thin disguise, - And man’s true greatness, all unknown, - Stands clear before our eyes. - - - - - THE ROAD TO CHURCH - - - Rutted by wheels and scarred by hoofs - And by rude footsteps trod, - The old road winds through glimmering woods - Unto the house of God. - - How many feet, assembling here - From each diverse abode, - Led by how many different aims, - Have walked this shadowy road! - - How many sounds of woe and mirth - Have thrilled these green woods dim-- - The funeral’s slow and solemn tramp, - The wedding’s joyous hymn. - - Full oft, amid the gloom and glow - Through which the highway bends, - I watch the meeting streams of life, - Whose mingled current tends - - Toward where, beyond the rock-strewn hill, - Against the dusky pines - That rise above the churchyard graves, - The white spire soars and shines. - - Here pass bowed men, with blanching locks, - World-weary, faint, and old, - Mourning the ways of reckless youths - Far-wandering from the fold. - - There totter women, frail and meek, - Of dim but gentle eyes, - Whom heaven’s love has made most kind, - Earth’s hardships made most wise. - - Apart, two lovers walk together, - With words and glances fond, - So happy now they scarce can feel - The need of bliss beyond. - - Gaunt-limbed, his shoulders stooped with toil, - His forehead seamed with care, - Adown the road the farm hand stalks - With awed and awkward air. - - The sermon glimmers in his mind, - Its truths half understood, - And yet from prayer and hymn he gains - A shadowy dream of good - - That sanctifies the offering - His bare life daily makes-- - His tender love for wife and child, - And toil borne for their sakes. - - Thus through the bleakness and the bloom, - O’er snows and freshening grass, - Devout, profane, grief-worn or gay, - The thronged church-goers pass, - - Till, one by one, they each and all, - Their earthly journeyings o’er, - Move silent down that well-known road - Which they shall walk no more. - - - - - THE PATCHWORK QUILT - - - In an ancient window seat, - Where the breeze of morning beat - ’Gainst her face, demure and sweet, - Sat a girl of long ago, - With her sunny head bent low - Where her fingers flitted white - Through a maze of patchwork bright. - - Wondrous hues the rare quilt bears! - All the clothes the household wears - By their fragments may be traced - In that bright mosaic placed; - Pieces given by friend and neighbor, - Blended by her curious labor - With the grandame’s gown of gray, - And the silken bonnet gay - That the baby’s head hath crowned, - In the quaint design are found. - - Did she aught suspect or dream, - As she sewed each dainty seam, - That a haunted thing she wrought? - That each linsey scrap was fraught - With some tender memory, - Which, in distant years to be, - Would lost hopes and loves recall, - When her eyes should on it fall? - - Years have passed, and with their grace - Gentler made her gentle face; - Brilliant still the fabrics shine - Of the quilt’s antique design, - As she folds it, soft and warm, - Round a fair child’s sleeping form. - Lustrous is her lifted gaze - As with half-voiced words she prays - That the bright head on that quilt - May not bow in shame or guilt, - And the little feet below - Darksome paths may never know. - - Yet again the morning shines - On the patch-work’s squares and lines; - Dull and dim its colors show, - But more dim the eyes that glow, - Wandering with a dreamy glance - O’er the ancient quilt’s expanse; - Worn its textures are and frayed, - But the hands upon them laid, - Creased with toils of many a year, - Still more worn and old appear. - - But what hands, long-loved and dead, - Do those faded fingers, spread - O’er those faded fabrics, meet - In reunion fond and sweet! - - What past scenes of tenderness - And of joy that none may guess, - Called back by the patchwork old, - Do those darkening eyes behold! - Lo, the deathless past comes near! - From the silence whisper clear - Long-hushed tones, and, changing not, - Forms and faces unforgot - In their old-time grace and bloom - Shine from out the deepening gloom. - - - - - MY BROTHER - - (1882-1903) - - - Dead! and he has died so young. - Silent lips, with song unsung, - Still hands, with the field untilled, - Lofty purpose unfulfilled. - - Was that life so incomplete? - Strong heart, that no more shall beat, - Ardent brain and glorious eye, - That seemed meant for tasks so high, - But now moulder back to earth, - Were you all then nothing worth? - - Could the death-dew and the dark - Quench that soul’s unflickering spark? - Are its aims, so high and just, - All entombed here in the dust? - - O, we trust God shall unfold - More than earthly eyes behold, - And that they whose years were fleet - Find life’s promises complete, - Where, in lands no gaze hath met, - Those we grieve for love us yet! - - - - - IN FULLER MEASURE - - - “Dying so young, how much he missed!” they said, - While his unbreathing sleep they wept around; - “If he had lived, Fame surely would have crowned - With wreath of fadeless green his kingly head; - The clear glance of his burning eyes had read - Wisdom’s dim secrets, hoary and profound; - While his life’s path would have been holy ground, - Made thus by all men’s love upon it shed.” - - Doubtless could he have spoken for whom that rain - Of teardrops fell, “How strange your sad words are!” - He would have said; “In fuller measure far - All that life gave to me I still retain; - Love have I now which no dark longings mar, - Fame void of strife, and wisdom free from pain.” - - - - - OCTOBER - - - O sweetest month, that pourest from full hands - The golden bounty of rich harvest lands! - O saddest month, that bearest with thy breath - The crimson leaves to drifts of glowing death! - - In fields and lives, the fall of withered leaves - Darkens the glorious season of ripe sheaves, - For Life’s fruition comes with loss and pain, - And Death alone can bring the richest gain. - - - - - BENIGNANT DEATH - - - Thanking God for life and light, - Strength and joyous breath, - Should we not, with reverent lips, - Thank Him, too, for death? - - When would man’s injustice cease, - Did not stern Death bring - Those who cheated and oppressed - To their reckoning? - - Would not life’s long sordidness - On our spirits pall, - If our years should last forever, - And the earth were all? - - On us, withered with life’s heat, - Falls death’s cooling dew, - And our parched souls’ dusty leaves - Their lost green renew. - - Ah, though deep the grave-dust hide - Love and courage high, - Life a paltrier thing would be - If we could not die! - - - - - THE UNRETURNING - - - If our dead could come back to us, - Who so desire it, - And be as they were before, - Would we require it? - - Would we bid them share again - Our weakness, foregoing - All their higher blessedness - Of being and knowing? - - For them the triumph is won, - The fight completed; - Do we wish that the doubtful strife - Should be repeated? - - Would we call them from the calm - Of all assurance - To the perils that might prove - Past their endurance? - - God is kind, since He will not heed - Our bitter yearning, - And the gates of heaven are shut - ’Gainst all returning. - - - - - WHEN A HUNDRED YEARS HAVE PASSED - - - When a hundred years have passed, - What shall then be left at last - Of us and the deeds we wrought? - Shall there be remaining aught - Save green graves in churchyards old, - Names o’ergrown with moss and mold, - From the worn stones half effaced, - And from human hearts erased? - - When a hundred years have fled, - Will it matter how we sped - In the conflicts of to-day, - Which side took we in the fray, - If we dared or if we quailed, - If we nobly won or failed? - It will matter! If, too weak - For the right to strike or speak, - We in virtue’s cause are dumb, - Some soul in far years to come - Shall have darker strife with vice, - Weakened by our cowardice. - Every struggle that we make, - Every valiant stand we take - In a righteous cause forlorn, - Shall give strength to hearts unborn. - - When a hundred years have gone, - Darkness and oblivion - Shall our ended lives obscure, - But their influence shall endure. - Other eyes shall be upraised - To the hills on which we gazed, - And the paths o’er which we plod - Shall by other feet be trod, - While our names shall be forgot; - Yet, although they know it not, - Those who live then, none the less, - We shall sadden or shall bless. - They shall bear our boon or curse, - They shall better be or worse, - As we who shall then lie still, - Have lived nobly or lived ill. - - - - - FALLEN LEAVES - - - Beneath the frost-stripped forest boughs, the drifted leaves are spread, - Vanished all summer’s green delight, all autumn’s glory fled. - - Yet, gathering strength from that dead host, the tree in some far spring - Shall toward the skies a denser growth, a darker foliage fling. - - Ah, if some power from us, long dead, should strengthen life to be, - We need not grieve to lie forgot, like sere leaves ’neath the tree! - - - - - DECEMBER SNOW - - - The falling snow a stainless veil doth cast - Upon the relics of the dying year-- - Dead leaves and withered flowers and stubble sere-- - As if it would erase the faded past; - So on our lives does death descend at last, - Hiding youth’s hopes and manhood’s purpose clear, - And memories faint, to dreaming age most dear, - Beneath its silence, blank and white and vast. - - The sun shines out, and lo! the meadows lone - Flash into sudden splendor, strangely bright, - More fair than summer landscape ever shone; - Thus, gleaming through the storm clouds, faith’s clear light - Transforms death’s endless waste of silence white - To beauty passing all that life has known. - - - - - TRUST - - - I came, I go, at His behest, - So, fearing not and not distressed, - I pass unto that life unguessed. - - Little the babe, at its first cry, - Knows of the scenes that near it lie; - Less still of that dim life know I. - - But Love receives the babe to earth, - Soft hands give welcome at its birth; - And so I think, when I go forth, - - There too shall wait, to cheer and bless, - Love, warm as mother’s first caress, - Strong as a father’s tenderness. - - - - - TOWARD SUNRISE - - - When, in old days, our fathers came - To bury low their dead, - Unto the far-off eastern sky - They turned the narrow bed. - - They laid the sleeper on his couch - With firm and simple faith - That cloudless morn would surely come - To end the night of death; - - And thus they sought to place him where, - When life’s clear sun should rise, - Its earliest rays might wakening fall - Across his close-sealed eyes. - - Like a faint fragrance lingering on - Throughout unnumbered years, - Still in our country burial-grounds - The custom sweet appears; - - Still, when the light of life from eyes - Beloved is withdrawn, - The sleepers’ dreamless beds are made - Facing the looked-for dawn. - - There, as the seasons pass, they seem - Serenely to await - The certain radiance of that Morn - That cometh soon or late. - - - - - GOOD NIGHT - - - Dear earth, I am going away to-night - From your long-loved hills and your meadows bright; - I know I should miss you when I am dead - If a better world came not in your stead. - - For the sweet, long days in your woodlands spent, - And your starry dusks, I shall not lament; - For greater than all the wonders you show, - O earth, is the secret I soon shall know. - - Good night! 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