That marble door Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor, No fame-wreathed crown we wore, No garnered lore.
What can we bear beyond the unknown portal?
No gold, no gains Of all our toiling: in the life immortal No h.o.a.rded wealth remains, Nor gilds, nor stains.
Naked from out that far abyss behind us We entered here: No word came with our coming, to remind us What wondrous world was near, No hope, no fear.
Into the silent, starless Night before us, Naked we glide: No hand has mapped the constellations o"er us, No comrade at our side, No chart, no guide.
Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow, Our footsteps fare: The beckoning of a Father"s hand we follow-- His love alone is there, No curse, no care.
E.R. SILL.
Prescience.
The new moon hung in the sky, The sun was low in the west, And my betrothed and I In the churchyard paused to rest-- Happy maiden and lover, Dreaming the old dream over: The light winds wandered by, And robins chirped from the nest.
And lo! in the meadow-sweet Was the grave of a little child, With a crumbling stone at the feet, And the ivy running wild-- Tangled ivy and clover Folding it over and over: Close to my sweetheart"s feet Was the little mound up-piled.
Stricken with nameless fears, She shrank and clung to me, And her eyes were filled with tears For a sorrow I did not see: Lightly the winds were blowing, Softly her tears were flowing-- Tears for the unknown years And a sorrow that was to be!
T.B. ALDRICH.
In August.
All the long August afternoon, The little drowsy stream Whispers a melancholy tune, As if it dreamed of June And whispered in its dream.
The thistles show beyond the brook Dust on their down and bloom, And out of many a weed-grown nook The aster-flowers look With eyes of tender gloom.
The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit.
Through the sere gra.s.s, in shy retreat, Flutter, at coming feet, The robins strange and mute.
There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead; Only the querulous cricket grieves, And shrilling locust weaves A song of Summer dead.
W.D. HOWELLS.
That Day You Came.
Such special sweetness was about That day G.o.d sent you here, I knew the lavender was out, And it was mid of year.
Their common way the great winds blew, The ships sailed out to sea; Yet ere that day was spent I knew Mine own had come to me.
As after song some s.n.a.t.c.h of tune Lurks still in gra.s.s or bough, So, somewhat of the end o" June Lurks in each weather now.
The young year sets the buds astir, The old year strips the trees; But ever in my lavender I hear the brawling bees.
L.W. REESE.
Negro Lullaby.
Bedtimes" come fu" little boys, Po" little lamb.
Too tiahed out to make a noise, Po" little lamb.
You gwine t" have to-morrer sho"?
Yes, you tole me dat, befo", Don"t you fool me, chile, no mo", Po" little lamb.
You been bad de livelong day, Po" little lamb.
Th"owin" stones an" runnin" "way, Po" little lamb.
My, but you"s a-runnin" wild, Look jes" lak some po" folks" chile; Mam" gwine whup you atter while, Po" little lamb.
Come hyeah! you mos" tiahed to def, Po" little lamb.
Played yo"se"f clean out o" bref, Po" little lamb.
See dem han"s now,--sich a sight!
Would you ever b"lieve dey"s white!
Stan" still "twell I wash dem right, Po" little lamb.
Jes" caint hol" yo" haid up straight, Po" little lamb.
Hadn"t oughter played so late, Po" little lamb.
Mammy do" know whut she"d do, Ef de chillun"s all lak you; You"s a caution now fu" true, Po" little lamb.
Lay yo" haid down in my lap, Po" little lamb.
Y"ought to have a right good slap, Po" little lamb.
You been runnin" roun" a heap.
Shet dem eyes an" don"t you peep, Dah now, dah now, go to sleep, Po" little lamb.
P.L. DUNBAR.
A Woman"s Thought.
I am a woman--therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not!