Poems

Here now is Winter. Winter, after all,
  Is not so drear as was my boding dream
  While Autumn gleamed its latest watery gleam
On sapless leafage too inert to fall.
Still leaves and berries clothe my garden wall
  Where ivy thrives on scantiest sunny beam;
  Still here a bud and there a blossom seem
Hopeful, and robin still is musical.
Leaves, flowers and fruit and one delightful song
  Remain; these days are short, but now the nights
  Intense and long, hang out their utmost lights;
Such starry nights are long, yet not too long;
Frost nips the weak, while strengthening still the strong
  Against that day when Spring sets all to rights.

A hundred thousand birds salute the day:--
  One solitary bird salutes the night:
Its mellow grieving wiles our grief away,
  And tunes our weary watches to delight;
It seems to sing the thoughts we cannot say,
  To know and sing them, and to set them right;
Until we feel once more that May is May,
  And hope some buds may bloom without a blight.
This solitary bird outweighs, outvies,
  The hundred thousand merry-making birds
Whose innocent warblings yet might make us wise
Would we but follow when they bid us rise,
  Would we but set their notes of praise to words
And launch our hearts up with them to the skies.

A host of things I take on trust: I take
  The nightingales on trust, for few and far
  Between those actual summer moments are
When I have heard what melody they make.
So chanced it once at Como on the Lake:
  But all things, then, waxed musical; each star
  Sang on its course, each breeze sang on its car,
All harmonies sang to senses wide-awake.
All things in tune, myself not out of tune,
  Those nightingales were nightingales indeed:
  Yet truly an owl had satisfied my need,
And wrought a rapture underneath that moon,
  Or simple sparrow chirping from a reed;
For June that night glowed like a doubled June.

The mountains in their overwhelming might
  Moved me to sadness when I saw them first,
And afterwards they moved me to delight;
  Struck harmonies from silent chords which burst
  Out into song, a song by memory nursed;
Forever unrenewed by touch or sight
Sleeps the keen magic of each day or night,
  In pleasure and in wonder then immersed.
All Switzerland behind us on the ascent,
  All Italy before us we plunged down
    St. Gothard, garden of forget-me-not:
    Yet why should such a flower choose such a spot?
Could we forget that way which once we went
  Though not one flower had bloomed to weave its crown?

Beyond the seas we know stretch seas unknown,
  Blue and bright-colored for our dim and green;
  Beyond the lands we see, stretch lands unseen
With many-tinted tangle overgrown;
And icebound seas there are like seas of stone,
  Serenely stormless as death lies serene;
  And lifeless tracks of sand, which intervene
Betwixt the lands where living flowers are blown.
This dead and living world befits our case
  Who live and die: we live in wearied hope,
We die in hope not dead; we run a race
To-day, and find no present halting-place;
  All things we see lie far within our scope,
And still we peer beyond with craving face.

The wise do send their hearts before them to
  Dear blesséd Heaven, despite the veil between;
  The foolish nurse their hearts within the screen
Of this familiar world, where all we do
Or have is old, for there is nothing new:
  Yet elder far that world we have not seen;
  God's Presence antedates what else hath been:
Many the foolish seem, the wise seem few.
Oh foolishest fond folly of a heart
  Divided, neither here nor there at rest!
    That hankers after Heaven, but clings to earth;
    That neither here nor there knows thorough mirth,
Half-choosing, wholly missing, the good part:--
  Oh fool among the foolish, in thy quest.

When we consider what this life we lead
  Is not, and is; how full of toil and pain,
  How blank of rest and of substantial gain,
Beset by hunger earth can never feed,
And propping half our hearts upon a reed;
  We cease to mourn lost treasures mourned in vain,
  Lost treasures we are fain and yet not fain
To fetch back for a solace of our need.
For who that feel this burden and this strain,
  This wide vacuity of hope and heart,
Would bring their cherished well-beloved again:
  To bleed with them and wince beneath the smart,
To have with stinted bliss such lavish bane,
  To hold in lieu of all so poor a part?

This Life is full of numbness and of balk,
  Of haltingness and baffled short-coming,
  Of promise unfulfilled, of everything
That is puffed vanity and empty talk:
Its very bud hangs cankered on the stalk,
  Its very song-bird trails a broken wing,
  Its very Spring is not indeed like Spring,
But sighs like Autumn round an aimless walk.
This Life we live is dead for all its breath;
  Death's self it is, set off on pilgrimage,
  Travelling with tottering steps the first short stage:
    The second stage is one mere desert dust
    Where Death sits veiled amid creation's rust:--
Unveil thy face, O Death who art not Death.

I have dreamed of Death:--what will it be to die
  Not in a dream, but in the literal truth
  With all Death's adjuncts ghastly and uncouth,
The pang that is the last and the last sigh?
Too dulled, it may be, for a last good-bye,
  Too comfortless for any one to soothe,
  A helpless charmless spectacle of ruth
Through long last hours, so long while yet they fly.
So long to those who hopeless in their fear
  Watch the slow breath and look for what they dread:
While I supine, with ears that cease to hear,
    With eyes that glaze, with heart-pulse running down,
  (Alas! no saint rejoicing on her bed),
    May miss the goal at last, may miss a crown.

In life our absent friend is far away:
  But death may bring our friend exceeding near,
  Show him familiar faces long so dear
And lead him back in reach of words we say.
He only cannot utter yea or nay
  In any voice accustomed to our ear;
  He only cannot make his face appear
And turn the sun back on our shadowed day.
The dead may be around us, dear and dead;
  The unforgotten dearest dead may be
    Watching us, with unslumbering eyes and heart,
Brimful of words which cannot yet be said,
    Brimful of knowledge they may not impart,
  Brimful of love for you and love for me.

 

Wearied of sinning, wearied of repentance,
  Wearied of self, I turn, my God, to Thee;
To Thee, my Judge, on Whose all-righteous sentence
    Hangs mine eternity:
I turn to Thee, I plead Thyself with Thee,--
    Be pitiful to me.

Wearied I loathe myself, I loathe my sinning,
  My stains, my festering sores, my misery:
Thou the Beginning, Thou ere my beginning
    Didst see and didst foresee
Me miserable, me sinful, ruined me,--
    I plead Thyself with Thee.

I plead Thyself with Thee Who art my Maker,
  Regard Thy handiwork that cries to Thee;
I plead Thyself with Thee Who wast partaker
    Of mine infirmity,
Love made Thee what Thou art, the love of me,--
    I plead Thyself with Thee.

 

When will the day bring its pleasure?
  When will the night bring its rest?
Reaper and gleaner and thresher
  Peer toward the east and the west:--
  The Sower He knoweth, and He knoweth best.

Meteors flash forth and expire,
  Northern lights kindle and pale;
These are the days of desire,
  Of eyes looking upward that fail;
  Vanishing days as a finishing tale.

Bows down the crop in its glory
  Tenfold, fifty-fold, hundred-fold;
The millet is ripened and hoary,
  The wheat ears are ripened to gold:--
  Why keep us waiting in dimness and cold?

The Lord of the harvest, He knoweth
  Who knoweth the first and the last:
The Sower Who patiently soweth,
  He scanneth the present and past:
  He saith, "What thou hast, what remaineth, hold fast."

Yet, Lord, o'er Thy toil-wearied weepers
  The storm-clouds hang muttering and frown:
On threshers and gleaners and reapers,
  O Lord of the harvest, look down;
  Oh for the harvest, the shout, and the crown!

"Not so," saith the Lord of the reapers,
  The Lord of the first and the last:
"O My toilers, My weary, My weepers,
  What ye have, what remaineth, hold fast.
  Hide in My heart till the vengeance be past."

 

Lord, I am waiting, weeping, watching for Thee:
  My youth and hope lie by me buried and dead,
  My wandering love hath not where to lay its head
    Except Thou say "Come to Me."

My noon is ended, abolished from life and light,
  My noon is ended, ended and done away,
  My sun went down in the hours that still were day,
    And my lingering day is night.

How long, O Lord, how long in my desperate pain
  Shall I weep and watch, shall I weep and long for Thee?
  Is Thy grace ended, Thy love cut off from me?
    How long shall I long in vain?

O God Who before the beginning hast seen the end,
  Who hast made me flesh and blood, not frost and not fire,
  Who hast filled me full of needs and love and desire
    And a heart that craves a friend,

Who hast said "Come to Me and I will give thee rest,"
  Who hast said "Take on thee My yoke and learn of Me,"
  Who calledst a little child to come to Thee
    And pillowedst John on Thy breast;

Who spak'st to women that followed Thee sorrowing,
  Bidding them weep for themselves and weep for their own;
  Who didst welcome the outlaw adoring Thee all alone,
    And plight Thy word as a King,--

By Thy love of these and of all that ever shall be,
  By Thy love of these and of all the born and unborn,
  Turn Thy gracious eyes on me and think no scorn
    Of me, not even of me.

Beside Thy Cross I hang on my cross in shame,
  My wounds, weakness, extremity cry to Thee:
  Bid me also to Paradise, also me
    For the glory of Thy Name.

 

Shall Christ hang on the Cross, and we not look?
  Heaven, earth, and hell stood gazing at the first,
  While Christ for long-cursed man was counted cursed;
Christ, God and Man, Whom God the Father strook
And shamed and sifted and one while forsook:--
  Cry shame upon our bodies we have nursed
  In sweets, our souls in pride, our spirits immersed
In wilfulness, our steps run all acrook.
Cry shame upon us! for He bore our shame
  In agony, and we look on at ease
With neither hearts on flame nor cheeks on flame:
  What hast thou, what have I, to do with peace?
Not to send peace but send a sword He came,
  And fire and fasts and tearful night-watches.

 

Is this the Face that thrills with awe
  Seraphs who veil their face above?
Is this the Face without a flaw,
  The Face that is the Face of Love?
Yea, this defaced, a lifeless clod,
  Hath all creation's love sufficed,
Hath satisfied the love of God,
  This Face the Face of Jesus Christ.

 

Dear Lord, let me recount to Thee
Some of the great things thou hast done
    For me, even me
    Thy little one.

It was not I that cared for Thee,--
But Thou didst set Thy heart upon
    Me, even me
    Thy little one.

And therefore was it sweet to Thee
To leave Thy Majesty and Throne,
    And grow like me
    A Little One,

A swaddled Baby on the knee
Of a dear Mother of Thine own,
    Quite weak like me
    Thy little one.

Thou didst assume my misery,
And reap the harvest I had sown,
    Comforting me
    Thy little one.

Jerusalem and Galilee,--
Thy love embraced not those alone,
    But also me
    Thy little one.

Thy unblemished Body on the Tree
Was bared and broken to atone
    For me, for me
    Thy little one.

Thou lovedst me upon the Tree,--
Still me, hid by the ponderous stone,--
    Me always,--me
    Thy little one.

And love of me arose with Thee
When death and hell lay overthrown:
    Thou lovedst me
    Thy little one.

And love of me went up with Thee
To sit upon Thy Father's Throne:
    Thou lovest me
    Thy little one.

Lord, as Thou me, so would I Thee
Love in pure love's communion,
    For Thou lov'st me
    Thy little one:

Which love of me brings back with Thee
To Judgment when the Trump is blown,
    Still loving me
    Thy little one.

 

        Spring bursts to-day,
For Christ is risen and all the earth's at play.

        Flash forth, thou Sun,
The rain is over and gone, its work is done.

        Winter is past,
Sweet Spring is come at last, is come at last.

        Bud, Fig and Vine,
Bud, Olive, fat with fruit and oil and wine.

        Break forth this morn
In roses, thou but yesterday a Thorn.

        Uplift thy head,
O pure white Lily through the Winter dead.

        Beside your dams
Leap and rejoice, you merry-making Lambs.

        All Herds and Flocks
Rejoice, all Beasts of thickets and of rocks.

        Sing, Creatures, sing,
Angels and Men and Birds and everything.

        All notes of Doves
Fill all our world: this is the time of loves.

 

Man rising to the doom that shall not err,--
  Which hath most dread: the arouse of all or each;
  All kindreds of all nations of all speech,
Or one by one of him and him and her?
While dust reanimate begins to stir
  Here, there, beyond, beyond, reach beyond reach;
  While every wave refashions on the beach
Alive or dead-in-life some seafarer.
Now meeting doth not join or parting part;
  True meeting and true parting wait till then,
    When whoso meet are joined for evermore,
Face answering face and heart at rest in heart:--
    God bring us all rejoicing to the shore
  Of happy Heaven, His sheep home to the pen.

Blessèd that flock safe penned in Paradise;
  Blessèd this flock which tramps in weary ways;
  All form one flock, God's flock; all yield Him praise
By joy or pain, still tending toward the prize.
Joy speaks in praises there, and sings and flies
  Where no night is, exulting all its days;
  Here, pain finds solace, for, behold, it prays;
In both love lives the life that never dies.
Here life is the beginning of our death,
  And death the starting-point whence life ensues;
    Surely our life is death, our death is life:
    Nor need we lay to heart our peace or strife,
But calm in faith and patience breathe the breath
  God gave, to take again when He shall choose.

 

They are flocking from the East
And the West,
They are flocking from the North
And the South,
Every moment setting forth
From realm of snake or lion,
Swamp or sand,
Ice or burning;
Greatest and least,
Palm in hand
And praise in mouth,
They are flocking up the path
To their rest,
Up the path that hath
No returning.

Up the steeps of Zion
They are mounting,
Coming, coming,
Throngs beyond man's counting;
With a sound
Like innumerable bees
Swarming, humming
Where flowering trees
Many-tinted,
Many-scented,
All alike abound
With honey,--
With a swell
Like a blast upswaying unrestrainable
From a shadowed dell
To the hill-tops sunny,--
With a thunder
Like the ocean when in strength
Breadth and length
It sets to shore;
More and more
Waves on waves redoubled pour
Leaping flashing to the shore
(Unlike the under
Drain of ebb that loseth ground
For all its roar.)

They are thronging
From the East and West,
From the North and South,
Saints are thronging, loving, longing,
To their land
Of rest,
Palm in hand
And praise in mouth.

 

"Thou whom I love, for whom I died,
  Lovest thou Me, My bride?"--
Low on my knees I love Thee, Lord,
  Believed in and adored.

"That I love thee the proof is plain:
  How dost thou love again?"--
In prayer, in toil, in earthly loss,
  In a long-carried cross.

"Yea, thou dost love: yet one adept
  Brings more for Me to accept."--
I mould my will to match with Thine,
  My wishes I resign.

"Thou givest much: then give the whole
  For solace of My soul."--
More would I give, if I could get:
  But, Lord, what lack I yet?

"In Me thou lovest Me: I call
  Thee to love Me in all."--
Brim full my heart, dear Lord, that so
  My love may overflow.

"Love Me in sinners and in saints,
  In each who needs or faints."--
Lord, I will love Thee as I can
  In every brother man.

"All sore, all crippled, all who ache,
  Tend all for My dear sake."--
All for Thy sake, Lord: I will see
  In every sufferer, Thee.

"So I at last, upon My Throne
  Of glory, Judge alone,
So I at last will say to thee:
  Thou diddest it to Me."

 

Inner not outer, without gnash of teeth
  Or weeping, save quiet sobs of some who pray
  And feel the Everlasting Arms beneath,--
Blackness of darkness this, but not for aye;
  Darkness that even in gathering fleeteth fast,
  Blackness of blackest darkness close to day.
Lord Jesus, through Thy darkened pillar cast,
  Thy gracious eyes all-seeing cast on me
  Until this tyranny be overpast.
Me, Lord, remember who remember Thee,
  And cleave to Thee, and see Thee without sight,
  And choose Thee still in dire extremity,
And in this darkness worship Thee my Light,
  And Thee my Life adore in shadow of death,
  Thee loved by day, and still beloved by night.
It is the Voice of my Beloved that saith:
  "I am the Way, the Truth, the Life, I go
  Whither that soul knows well that followeth"--

O Lord, I follow, little as I know;
  At this eleventh hour I rise and take
  My life into my hand, and follow so,
With tears and heart-misgivings and heart-ache;
  Thy feeblest follower, yet Thy follower
  Indomitable for Thine only sake.
To-night I gird my will afresh, and stir
  My strength, and brace my heart to do and dare,
  Marvelling: Will to-morrow wake the whirr
Of the great rending wheel, or from his lair
  Startle the jubilant lion in his rage,
  Or clench the headsman's hand within my hair,
Or kindle fire to speed my pilgrimage,
  Chariot of fire and horses of sheer fire
  Whirling me home to heaven by one fierce stage?
Thy Will I will, I Thy desire desire;
  Let not the waters close above my head,
  Uphold me that I sink not in this mire:
For flesh and blood are frail and sore afraid;
  And young I am, unsatisfied and young,
  With memories, hopes, with cravings all unfed,
My song half sung, its sweetest notes unsung,
  All plans cut short, all possibilities,
  Because my cord of life is soon unstrung.
Was I a careless woman set at ease
  That this so bitter cup is brimmed for me?

  Had mine own vintage settled on the lees?
A word, a puff of smoke, would set me free;
  A word, a puff of smoke, over and gone:...
  Howbeit, whom have I, Lord, in heaven but Thee?
Yea, only Thee my choice is fixed upon
  In heaven or earth, eternity or time:--
  Lord, hold me fast, Lord, leave me not alone,
Thy silly heartless dove that sees the lime
  Yet almost flutters to the tempting bough:
  Cover me, hide me, pluck me from this crime.
A word, a puff of smoke, would save me now:...
  But who, my God, would save me in the day
  Of Thy fierce anger? only Saviour Thou.
Preoccupy my heart, and turn away
  And cover up mine eyes from frantic fear,
  And stop mine ears lest I be driven astray:
For one stands ever dinning in mine ear
  How my gray Father withers in the blight
  Of love for me, who cruel am and dear;
And how my Mother through this lingering night
  Until the day, sits tearless in her woe,
  Loathing for love of me the happy light
Which brings to pass a concourse and a show
  To glut the hungry faces merciless,
The thousand faces swaying to and fro,
  Feasting on me unveiled in helplessness

  Alone,--yet not alone: Lord, stand by me
  As once by lonely Paul in his distress.
As blossoms to the sun I turn to Thee;
  Thy dove turns to her window, think no scorn;
  As one dove to an ark on shoreless sea,
To Thee I turn mine eyes, my heart forlorn;
  Put forth Thy scarred right Hand, kind Lord, take hold
  Of me Thine all-forsaken dove who mourn:
For Thou hast loved me since the days of old,
  And I love Thee Whom loving I will love
  Through life's short fever-fits of heat and cold;
Thy Name will I extol and sing thereof,
  Will flee for refuge to Thy Blessèd Name.
  Lord, look upon me from thy bliss above:
Look down on me, who shrink from all the shame
  And pangs and desolation of my death,
  Wrenched piecemeal or devoured or set on flame,
While all the world around me holds its breath
  With eyes glued on me for a gazing-stock,
  Pitiless eyes, while no man pitieth.
The floods are risen, I stagger in their shock,
  My heart reels and is faint, I fail, I faint:
  My God, set Thou me up upon the rock,
Thou Who didst long ago Thyself acquaint
  With death, our death; Thou Who didst long ago

  Pour forth Thy soul for sinner and for saint.
Bear me in mind, whom no one else will know;
  Thou Whom Thy friends forsook, take Thou my part,
  Of all forsaken in mine overthrow;
Carry me in Thy bosom, in Thy heart,
  Carry me out of darkness into light,
  To-morrow make me see Thee as Thou art.
Lover and friend Thou hidest from my sight:--
  Alas, alas, mine earthly love, alas,
  For whom I thought to don the garments white
And white wreath of a bride, this rugged pass
  Hath utterly divorced me from thy care;
  Yea, I am to thee as a shattered glass
Worthless, with no more beauty lodging there,
  Abhorred, lest I involve thee in my doom:
  For sweet are sunshine and this upper air,
And life and youth are sweet, and give us room
  For all most sweetest sweetnesses we taste:
  Dear, what hast thou in common with a tomb?
I bow my head in silence, I make haste
  Alone, I make haste out into the dark,
  My life and youth and hope all run to waste.
Is this my body cold and stiff and stark,
  Ashes made ashes, earth becoming earth,
  Is this a prize for man to make his mark?

Am I, that very I who laughed in mirth
  A while ago, a little, little while,
  Yet all the while a-dying since my birth?
Now am I tired, too tired to strive or smile;
  I sit alone, my mouth is in the dust:
  Look Thou upon me, Lord, for I am vile.
In Thee is all my hope, is all my trust,
  On Thee I centre all my self that dies,
  And self that dies not with its mortal crust,
But sleeps and wakes, and in the end will rise
  With hymns and hallelujahs on its lips,
  Thee loving with the love that satisfies.
As once in Thine unutterable eclipse
  The sun and moon grew dark for sympathy,
  And earth cowered quaking underneath the drips
Of Thy slow Blood priceless exceedingly,
  So now a little spare me, and show forth
  Some pity, O my God, some pity of me.
If trouble comes not from the south or north,
  But meted to us by Thy tender hand,
  Let me not in Thine eyes be nothing worth:
Behold me where in agony I stand,
  Behold me no man caring for my soul,
  And take me to Thee in the far-off land,
Shorten the race and lift me to the goal.

 

Lord, if I love Thee and Thou lovest me,
  Why need I any more these toilsome days;
  Why should I not run singing up Thy ways
Straight into heaven, to rest myself with Thee?
What need remains of death-pang yet to be,
  If all my soul is quickened in Thy praise;
  If all my heart loves Thee, what need the amaze,
Struggle and dimness of an agony?--
Bride whom I love, if thou too lovest Me,
  Thou needs must choose My Likeness for thy dower:
    So wilt thou toil in patience, and abide
  Hungering and thirsting for that blessed hour
When I My Likeness shall behold in thee,
    And thou therein shalt waken satisfied.

 

"I have not sought Thee, I have not found Thee,
   I have not thirsted for Thee:
And now cold billows of death surround me,
Buffeting billows of death astound me,--
   Wilt Thou look upon, wilt Thou see
   Thy perishing me?"

"Yea, I have sought thee, yea, I have found thee,
   Yea, I have thirsted for thee,
Yea, long ago with love's bands I bound thee:
Now the Everlasting Arms surround thee,--
   Through death's darkness I look and see
   And clasp thee to Me."

 

A lowly hill which overlooks a flat,
  Half sea, half country side;
  A flat-shored sea of low-voiced creeping tide
Over a chalky, weedy mat.

A hill of hillocks, flowery and kept green
  Round Crosses raised for hope,
  With many-tinted sunsets where the slope
Faces the lingering western sheen.

A lowly hope, a height that is but low,
  While Time sets solemnly,
  While the tide rises of Eternity,
Silent and neither swift nor slow.

 

Unmindful of the roses,
  Unmindful of the thorn,
A reaper tired reposes
  Among his gathered corn:
  So might I, till the morn!

Cold as the cold Decembers,
  Past as the days that set,
While only one remembers
  And all the rest forget,--
  But one remembers yet.

 

A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.

Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.

To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.

What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.

 

Woman was made for man's delight,--
  Charm, O woman! Be not afraid!
His shadow by day, his moon by night,
  Woman was made.

Her strength with weakness is overlaid;
  Meek compliances veil her might;
Him she stays, by whom she is stayed.

World-wide champion of truth and right,
  Hope in gloom, and in danger aid,
Tender and faithful, ruddy and white,
  Woman was made.

 

While we slumber and sleep,
The sun leaps up from the deep,--
Daylight born at the leap,--
Rapid, dominant, free,
Athirst to bathe in the uttermost sea.

While we linger at play--
If the year would stand at May!--
Winds are up and away,
Over land, over sea,
To their goal, wherever their goal may be.

It is time to arise,
To race for the promised prize;
The sun flies, the wind flies,
We are strong, we are free,
And home lies beyond the stars and the sea.

 

A robin said: The Spring will never come,
  And I shall never care to build again.
A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,
  My sap will never stir for sun or rain.
The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,
  I neither care to wax nor care to wane.
The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,
  Because earth's rivers cannot fill the main.
When springtime came, red Robin built a nest,
  And trilled a lover's song in sheer delight.
  Gray hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might
  Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.
The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,
  Dimpled his blue,--yet thirsted evermore.

 

From depth to height, from height to loftier height,
  The climber sets his foot and sets his face,
  Tracks lingering sunbeams to their halting-place,
And counts the last pulsations of the light.
Strenuous thro' day and unsurprised by night
  He runs a race with Time, and wins the race,
  Emptied and stripped of all save only Grace,
Will, Love,--a threefold panoply of might.
Darkness descends for light he toiled to seek;
  He stumbles on the darkened mountain-head,
    Left breathless in the unbreathable thin air,
  Made freeman of the living and the dead,--
He wots not he has topped the topmost peak,
    But the returning sun will find him there.

 

"Arise, depart, for this is not your rest."
  Oh, burden of all burdens,--still to arise
  And still depart, nor rest in any wise!
Rolling, still rolling thus to east from west,
Earth journeys on her immemorial quest,
  Whom a moon chases in no different guise.
  Thus stars pursue their courses, and thus flies
The sun, and thus all creatures manifest
Unrest, the common heritage, the ban
  Flung broadcast on all humankind,--on all
    Who live; for living, all are bound to die.
That which is old, we know that it is man.
    These have no rest who sit and dream and sigh,
  Nor have those rest who wrestle and who fall.

 

Wintry boughs against a wintry sky;
    Yet the sky is partly blue
        And the clouds are partly bright.
Who can tell but sap is mounting high
        Out of sight,
Ready to burst through?

Winter is the mother-nurse of Spring,
    Lovely for her daughter's sake.
        Not unlovely for her own;
For a future buds in everything
        Grown or blown
Or about to break.

 

Many a flower hath perfume for its dower,
    And many a bird a song,
And harmless lambs milkwhite beside their dams
    Frolic along,--
Perfume and song and whiteness offering praise
    In humble, peaceful ways.

Man's high degree hath will and memory,
    Affection and desire;
By loftier ways he mounts of prayer and praise,
    Fire unto fire,
Deep unto deep responsive, height to height,
    Until he walk in white.