In life"s long run less harm has done Because he is so rare; And one can be so stern with him, Can make the monster shrink; But, lack a day, what can we say To whining "Didn"t think"?
This most unpleasant imp of strife Pursues us everywhere.
There"s scarcely one whole day of life He does not cause us care; Small woes and great he brings the world, Strong ships are forced to sink, And trains from iron track are hurled, alack, By stupid "Didn"t think."
When brain is comrade to the heart, And heart from soul draws grace, "I didn"t think will quick depart For lack of resting-place.
If from that great, unselfish stream, The Golden Rule we drink, We"ll keep G.o.d"s laws, and have no cause To say "I didn"t think."
A BURIAL
To-day I had a burial of my dead.
There was no shroud, no coffin, and no pall, No prayers were uttered and no tears were shed-- I only turned a picture to the wall.
A picture that had hung within my room For years and years; a relic of my youth.
It kept the rose of love in constant bloom To see those eyes of earnestness and truth.
At hours wherein no other dared intrude, I had drawn comfort from its smiling grace.
Silent companion of my solitude, My soul held sweet communion with that face.
I lived again the dream so bright, so brief, Though wakened as we all are by some Fate; This picture gave me infinite relief, And did not leave me wholly desolate.
To-day I saw an item, quite by chance, That robbed me of my pitiful poor dole: A marriage notice fell beneath my glance, And I became a lonely widowed soul.
With drooping eyes, and cheeks a burning flame, I turned the picture to the blank wall"s gloom.
My very heart had died in me of shame, If I had left it smiling in my room.
Another woman"s husband. So, my friend, My comfort, my sole relic of the past, I bury thee, and, lonely, seek the end.
Swift age has swept my youth from me at last.
THEIR FACES
O Beautiful white Angels! who control The inner workings of each poet soul, Thou who hast touched my mind with tender graces Come near to me that I may see thy faces.
Me, didst thou bless before I came to earth; Me, hast thou kissed, and dowered at my birth, With such a wealth of sweet imaginings, That, even in sleep, my dreaming fancy sings.
Sometimes when seeing snow-white clouds at noon, Or watching silver shadows from the moon, Within my soul has stirred a joy like fear, As if some kindred spirit lingered near.
Come closer, Angels! thou whose haloed wings Do gild for me the meanest ways and things, With beauty borrowed from the Infinite-- Stand forth, let me behold thee in the light.
O thought supreme! O death! O life! unknown I shall not solve thy mystery alone.
The angels who have kissed me at my birth Shall take again my soul when done with earth, And as we soar through vast, star-lighted s.p.a.ces, At last, at last I shall behold their faces.
THE LULLABY
When the long day leans to the twilight, When the Evening star climbs to the moon, With a heart that is silently breaking, I sit in the gloaming and croon.
I croon a low song for my darling, My wee one, my baby, my own; Who, cradled in rosewood and velvet, Sleeps out in the churchyard alone.
Alone with no arms to enfold her, Alone with no pillowing breast, Alone with no hand on her cradle, To rock her to soundlier rest.
But each day in the hush of the twilight, Is silenced my broken heart"s cry; And I sit where I sat with my darling, And sing her the old lullaby.
Oh! the dreams that come back to me mocking, The sorrow that makes the days long; As I sit in the twilight there rocking, And singing that lullaby song.
But I think my wee darling rests better As the night shadows lengthen, and creep Across her low bed, in the churchyard, If her mother"s voice sings her to sleep.
And so with a heart that is breaking I sing the old "Lullaby dear"
That hushed her so oft into slumber-- O baby--my own--do you hear?
MIRAGE
When the beautiful mountain ash is turning-- As lovely a sight as the eyes desire; When the leaves of the sumac bush are burning, Like the steady flame of a winter fire; When the weeds by the roadside all grow golden, When maples are glowing and asters gleam, It is then that the new is changed to the olden, And back to my heart comes the past like a dream.
Like a mirage I see the blue haze o"er me, The City of Youth that I left behind.
Oh! whitely its turrets are gleaming before me, And out of the window lean faces kind.
And I hear the echo of jubilant voices; There are cheeks of beauty and eyes of truth: And every pulse in my heart rejoices-- There"s no other place like the City of Youth.
And lo! the City is full of splendour, And a voice in my soul breaks into song.
Yes, a pa.s.sionate love, as fair as tender, Creeps out of the grave where it slept so long.
As the strings of a harp by winds are shaken, To endless music my heart is stirred, When my name is breathed and my hand is taken, Though I cannot utter a single word.
But with souls that are full of the beautiful weather, And the perfect peace that has no name, Under the autumn skies together We stray, by the sumacs all aflame.
And the forest flushes to fuller glory: Brighter glow asters and golden rod, As eye unto eye tells the old, old story, And the sunlight seems like the smile of G.o.d.
Alone I stand and sorrowful hearted; The dead leaves fall in the chilly wind.
The mirage is fled, and the glory departed, And the City of Youth is far behind.
ALONE IN THE HOUSE
I am all alone in the house to-night; They would not have gone away Had they known of the terrible, bloodless fight I have held with my heart to-day.
With the old sweet love and the old fierce pain I have battled hour by hour; But the fates have willed that the strife is vain.
Alone in the hour my thoughts have reign, And I yield myself to their power.
Yield myself to the old time charm Of a dream of vanished bliss, The thrill of a voice, and the fold of an arm, And a red lip"s lingering kiss.