IF, when I die, I must be buried, let
No cemetery engulph me—no lone grot,
Where the great palpitating world comes not,
Save when, with heart bowed down and eyelids wet,
It pays its last sad melancholy debt
To some outjourneying pilgrim. May my lot
Be rather to lie in some much-used spot,
Where human life, with all its noise and fret,
Throbs on about me. Let the roll of wheels,
With all earth’s sounds of pleasure, commerce, love,
And rush of hurrying feet surge o’er my head.
Even in my grave I shall be one who feels
Close kinship with the pulsing world above;
And too deep silence would distress me, dead.
No cemetery engulph me—no lone grot,
Where the great palpitating world comes not,
Save when, with heart bowed down and eyelids wet,
It pays its last sad melancholy debt
To some outjourneying pilgrim. May my lot
Be rather to lie in some much-used spot,
Where human life, with all its noise and fret,
Throbs on about me. Let the roll of wheels,
With all earth’s sounds of pleasure, commerce, love,
And rush of hurrying feet surge o’er my head.
Even in my grave I shall be one who feels
Close kinship with the pulsing world above;
And too deep silence would distress me, dead.
REFUTED.
“Anticipation is sweeter than realization.”
IT may be, yet I have not found it so.
In those first golden dreams of future fame
I did not find such happiness as came
When toil was crowned with triumph. Now I know
My words have recognition and will go
Straight to some listening heart my early aim
To win the idle glory of a name
Pales like a candle in the noonday’s glow.
In those first golden dreams of future fame
I did not find such happiness as came
When toil was crowned with triumph. Now I know
My words have recognition and will go
Straight to some listening heart my early aim
To win the idle glory of a name
Pales like a candle in the noonday’s glow.
So with the deeper joys of which I dreamed:
Life yields more rapture than did childhood’s fancies,
And each year brings more pleasure than I waited.
Friendship proves truer than of old it seemed,
And, all beyond youth’s passion-hued romances,
Love is more perfect than anticipated.
Life yields more rapture than did childhood’s fancies,
And each year brings more pleasure than I waited.
Friendship proves truer than of old it seemed,
And, all beyond youth’s passion-hued romances,
Love is more perfect than anticipated.
THE LOST LAND.
THERE is a story of a beauteous land,
Where fields were fertile and where flowers were bright;
Where tall towers glistened in the morning light,
Where happy children wandered hand in hand,
Where lovers wrote their names upon the sand.
They say it vanished from all human sight,
The hungry sea devoured it in a night.
You doubt the tale? ah, you will understand;
For, as men muse upon that fable old,
They give sad credence always at the last,
However they have caviled at its truth,
When with a tear-dimmed vision they behold,
Swift sinking in the ocean of the Past,
The lovely lost Atlantis of their Youth.
Where fields were fertile and where flowers were bright;
Where tall towers glistened in the morning light,
Where happy children wandered hand in hand,
Where lovers wrote their names upon the sand.
They say it vanished from all human sight,
The hungry sea devoured it in a night.
You doubt the tale? ah, you will understand;
For, as men muse upon that fable old,
They give sad credence always at the last,
However they have caviled at its truth,
When with a tear-dimmed vision they behold,
Swift sinking in the ocean of the Past,
The lovely lost Atlantis of their Youth.
THE SOUTH.
A QUEEN of indolence and idle grace,
Robed in the vestments of a costly gown,
She turns the languor of her lovely face
Upon progression with a lazy frown.
Her throne is built upon a marshy down;
Malarial mosses wreathe her like old lace;
With slim crossed feet, unshod and bare and brown.
She sits indifferent to the world’s swift race.
Across the seas there stalks an ogre grim:
Too languid she for even fear’s alarms,
While frightened nations rally in defence,
She lifts her smiling Creole eyes to him,
And reaching out her shapely unwashed arms,
She clasps her rightful lover—Pestilence.
Robed in the vestments of a costly gown,
She turns the languor of her lovely face
Upon progression with a lazy frown.
Her throne is built upon a marshy down;
Malarial mosses wreathe her like old lace;
With slim crossed feet, unshod and bare and brown.
She sits indifferent to the world’s swift race.
Across the seas there stalks an ogre grim:
Too languid she for even fear’s alarms,
While frightened nations rally in defence,
She lifts her smiling Creole eyes to him,
And reaching out her shapely unwashed arms,
She clasps her rightful lover—Pestilence.
A SAILOR’S WIFE.
(HER MEMORY.)
SUN in my lattice, and sun on the sea
(Oh, but the sun is fair),
And a sky of blue and a sea of green,
And a ship with a white, white sail between,
And a light wind blowing free—
And back from the stern, and forth from the land,
The last farewell of a waving hand.
(Oh, but the sun is fair),
And a sky of blue and a sea of green,
And a ship with a white, white sail between,
And a light wind blowing free—
And back from the stern, and forth from the land,
The last farewell of a waving hand.
Mist on the window and mist on the sea
(Oh, but the mist is gray),
And the weird, tall shape of a spectral mast
Gleams out of the fog like a ghost of my past,
And the old hope stirs in me—
The old, old hope that warred with doubt,
While the years with the tides surged in and out.
(Oh, but the mist is gray),
And the weird, tall shape of a spectral mast
Gleams out of the fog like a ghost of my past,
And the old hope stirs in me—
The old, old hope that warred with doubt,
While the years with the tides surged in and out.
Rain on my window and rain on the sea
(Oh, but the rain is sad),
And only the dreams of a vanished barque
And a vanished youth shine through the dark,
And torture the night and me.
But somewhere, I think, near some fair strand,
That lost ship lies with its waving hand.
(Oh, but the rain is sad),
And only the dreams of a vanished barque
And a vanished youth shine through the dark,
And torture the night and me.
But somewhere, I think, near some fair strand,
That lost ship lies with its waving hand.
LIFE’S JOURNEY.
AS we speed out of youth’s sunny station,
The track seems to shine in the light,
But it suddenly shoots over chasms
Or sinks into tunnels of night.
And the hearts that were brave in the morning
Are filled with repining and fears,
As they pause at the City of Sorrow
Or pass through the Valley of Tears.
The track seems to shine in the light,
But it suddenly shoots over chasms
Or sinks into tunnels of night.
And the hearts that were brave in the morning
Are filled with repining and fears,
As they pause at the City of Sorrow
Or pass through the Valley of Tears.
But the road of this perilous journey
The hand of the Master has made;
With all its discomforts and dangers,
We need not be sad or afraid.
Paths leading from light into darkness,
Ways plunging from gloom to despair,
Wind out through the tunnels of midnight
To fields that are blooming and fair.
The hand of the Master has made;
With all its discomforts and dangers,
We need not be sad or afraid.
Paths leading from light into darkness,
Ways plunging from gloom to despair,
Wind out through the tunnels of midnight
To fields that are blooming and fair.
Though the rocks and the shadows surround us.
Though we catch not one gleam of the day,
Above us fair cities are laughing,
And dipping white feet in some bay.
And always, eternal, forever,
Down over the hills in the west,
The last final end of our journey,
There lies the Great Station of Rest.
Though we catch not one gleam of the day,
Above us fair cities are laughing,
And dipping white feet in some bay.
And always, eternal, forever,
Down over the hills in the west,
The last final end of our journey,
There lies the Great Station of Rest.
’Tis the Grand Central point of all railways,
All roads unite here when they end;
’Tis the final resort of all tourists,
All rival lines meet here and blend.
All tickets, all mile-books, all passes,
If stolen or begged for or bought,
On whatever road or division,
Will bring you at last to this spot.
All roads unite here when they end;
’Tis the final resort of all tourists,
All rival lines meet here and blend.
All tickets, all mile-books, all passes,
If stolen or begged for or bought,
On whatever road or division,
Will bring you at last to this spot.
If you pause at the City of Trouble,
Or wait in the Valley of Tears,
Be patient, the train will move onward,
And rush down the track of the years.
Whatever the place is you seek for,
Whatever your game or your quest,
You shall come at the last with rejoicing,
To the beautiful City of Rest.
Or wait in the Valley of Tears,
Be patient, the train will move onward,
And rush down the track of the years.
Whatever the place is you seek for,
Whatever your game or your quest,
You shall come at the last with rejoicing,
To the beautiful City of Rest.
You shall store all your baggage of worries,
You shall feel perfect peace in this realm,
You shall sail with old friends on fair waters,
With joy and delight at the helm.
You shall wander in cool, fragrant gardens
With those who have loved you the best,
And the hopes that were lost in life’s journey
You shall find in the City of Rest.
You shall feel perfect peace in this realm,
You shall sail with old friends on fair waters,
With joy and delight at the helm.
You shall wander in cool, fragrant gardens
With those who have loved you the best,
And the hopes that were lost in life’s journey
You shall find in the City of Rest.
THE DISAPPOINTED.
THERE are songs enough for the hero
Who dwells on the heights of fame;
I sing for the disappointed—
For those who missed their aim.
Who dwells on the heights of fame;
I sing for the disappointed—
For those who missed their aim.
I sing with a tearful cadence
For one who stands in the dark,
And knows that his last, best arrow
Has bounded back from the mark.
For one who stands in the dark,
And knows that his last, best arrow
Has bounded back from the mark.
I sing for the breathless runner,
The eager, anxious soul,
Who falls with his strength exhausted,
Almost in sight of the goal;
The eager, anxious soul,
Who falls with his strength exhausted,
Almost in sight of the goal;
For the hearts that break in silence,
With a sorrow all unknown,
For those who need companions,
Yet walk their ways alone.
With a sorrow all unknown,
For those who need companions,
Yet walk their ways alone.
There are songs enough for the lovers
Who share love’s tender pain,
I sing for the one whose passion
Is given all in vain.
Who share love’s tender pain,
I sing for the one whose passion
Is given all in vain.
For those whose spirit comrades
Have missed them on the way,
I sing, with a heart o’erflowing,
This minor strain to-day.
Have missed them on the way,
I sing, with a heart o’erflowing,
This minor strain to-day.
And I know the Solar system
Must somewhere keep in space
A prize for that spent runner
Who barely lost the race.
Must somewhere keep in space
A prize for that spent runner
Who barely lost the race.
For the plan would be imperfect
Unless it held some sphere
That paid for the toil and talent
And love that are wasted here.
Unless it held some sphere
That paid for the toil and talent
And love that are wasted here.
FISHING.
MAYBE this is fun, sitting in the sun,
With a book and parasol, as my Angler wishes,
While he dips his line in the ocean brine,
Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes.
With a book and parasol, as my Angler wishes,
While he dips his line in the ocean brine,
Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes.
’Tis romantic, yes, but I must confess
Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more inviting.
But I dare not move—“Quiet, there, my love!”
Says my Angler, “for I think a monster fish is biting.”
Oh, of course it’s bliss, but how hot it is!
And the rock I’m sitting on grows harder every minute;
Still my fisher waits, trying various baits,
But the basket at his side I see has nothing in it.
Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more inviting.
But I dare not move—“Quiet, there, my love!”
Says my Angler, “for I think a monster fish is biting.”
Oh, of course it’s bliss, but how hot it is!
And the rock I’m sitting on grows harder every minute;
Still my fisher waits, trying various baits,
But the basket at his side I see has nothing in it.
Oh, it’s just the way to pass a July day,
Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming,
But how fierce the sunlight falls! and the way that insect crawls
Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming
“Any luck?” I gently ask of the angler at his task,
“There’s something pulling at my line,” he says; “I’ve almost caught it.”
But when with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace,
We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it.
Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming,
But how fierce the sunlight falls! and the way that insect crawls
Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming
“Any luck?” I gently ask of the angler at his task,
“There’s something pulling at my line,” he says; “I’ve almost caught it.”
But when with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace,
We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it.
A PIN.
OH, I know a certain lady who is reckoned with the good,
Yet she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would.
The little chills run up and down my spine whene’er we meet,
Though she seems a gentle creature, and she’s very trim and neat.
Yet she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would.
The little chills run up and down my spine whene’er we meet,
Though she seems a gentle creature, and she’s very trim and neat.
And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin,
But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin.
And she pricks you and she sticks you in a way that can’t be said.
If you seek for what has hurt you—why, you cannot find the head!
But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin.
And she pricks you and she sticks you in a way that can’t be said.
If you seek for what has hurt you—why, you cannot find the head!
But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain.
If anybody asks you why, you really can’t explain!
A pin is such a tiny thing, of that there is no doubt,
Yet when it’s sticking in your flesh you’re wretched till it’s out.
If anybody asks you why, you really can’t explain!
A pin is such a tiny thing, of that there is no doubt,
Yet when it’s sticking in your flesh you’re wretched till it’s out.
She is wonderfully observing—when she meets a pretty girl,
She is always sure to tell her if her hair is out of curl;
And she is so sympathetic to her friend who’s much admired,
She is often heard remarking, “Dear, you look so worn and tired.”
She is always sure to tell her if her hair is out of curl;
And she is so sympathetic to her friend who’s much admired,
She is often heard remarking, “Dear, you look so worn and tired.”
And she is an honest critic, for on yesterday she eyed
The new dress I was airing with a woman’s natural pride,
And she said, “Oh, how becoming!” and then gently added, “it
Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.”
The new dress I was airing with a woman’s natural pride,
And she said, “Oh, how becoming!” and then gently added, “it
Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.”
Then she said, “If you had heard me yester eve, I’m sure, my friend,
You would say I was a champion who knows how to defend.”
And she left me with the feeling—most unpleasant, I aver—
That the whole world would despise me if it hadn’t been for her.
You would say I was a champion who knows how to defend.”
And she left me with the feeling—most unpleasant, I aver—
That the whole world would despise me if it hadn’t been for her.
Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way
She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day.
And the hat that was imported (and which cost me half a sonnet),
With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.
She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day.
And the hat that was imported (and which cost me half a sonnet),
With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.
She is always bright and smiling, sharp and pointed for a thrust.
Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust,
Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin
To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin!
Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust,
Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin
To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin!
THE ACTOR.
OH, man, with your wonderful dower,
Oh, woman, with genius and grace,
You can teach the whole world with your power,
If you are but worthy the place.
The stage is a force and a factor
In moulding the thought of the day,
If only the heart of the actor
Is high as the theme of the play.
Oh, woman, with genius and grace,
You can teach the whole world with your power,
If you are but worthy the place.
The stage is a force and a factor
In moulding the thought of the day,
If only the heart of the actor
Is high as the theme of the play.
No discourse or sermon can reach us
Through feeling to reason like you;
No author can stir us and teach us
With lessons as subtle and true.
Your words and your gestures obeying
We weep or rejoice with your part,
And the player, behind all his playing,
He ought to be great as his art.
Through feeling to reason like you;
No author can stir us and teach us
With lessons as subtle and true.
Your words and your gestures obeying
We weep or rejoice with your part,
And the player, behind all his playing,
He ought to be great as his art.
No matter what role you are giving,
No matter what skill you betray,
The everyday life you are living,
Is certain to color the play.
The thoughts we call secret and hidden
Are creatures of malice, in fact.
They steal forth unseen and unbidden,
And permeate motive and act.
No matter what skill you betray,
The everyday life you are living,
Is certain to color the play.
The thoughts we call secret and hidden
Are creatures of malice, in fact.
They steal forth unseen and unbidden,
And permeate motive and act.
The genius that shines like a comet
Fills only one part of God’s plan,
If the lesson the world derives from it
Is marred by the life of the man.
Be worthy your work if you love it;
The king should be fit for the crown;
Stand high as your art, or above it,
And make us look up and not down.
Fills only one part of God’s plan,
If the lesson the world derives from it
Is marred by the life of the man.
Be worthy your work if you love it;
The king should be fit for the crown;
Stand high as your art, or above it,
And make us look up and not down.
ILLOGICAL.
SHE stood beside me while I gave an order for a bonnet.
She shuddered when I said, “And put a bright bird’s wing upon it.”
She shuddered when I said, “And put a bright bird’s wing upon it.”
A member of the Audubon Society was she;
And cutting were her comments made on worldly folks like me.
And cutting were her comments made on worldly folks like me.
She spoke about the helpless birds we wickedly were harming;
She quoted the statistics, and they really were alarming;
She quoted the statistics, and they really were alarming;
She said God meant His little birds to sing in trees and skies;
And there was pathos in her voice, and tears were in her eyes.
And there was pathos in her voice, and tears were in her eyes.
“Oh, surely in this beauteous world you can find lovely things
Enough to trim your hats,” she said, “with out the dear birds’ wings.”
Enough to trim your hats,” she said, “with out the dear birds’ wings.”
I sat beside her that same day, in her own house at dinner,
Angelic being that she was to entertain a sinner!
Angelic being that she was to entertain a sinner!
Her well-appointed table groaned beneath the ample spread
Course followed appetizing course, and hunger sated fled;
Course followed appetizing course, and hunger sated fled;
NEW YEAR.
I SAW on the hills of the morning,
The form of the New Year arise,
He stood like a statue adorning
The world with a background of skies.
There were courage and grace in his beautiful face,
And hope in his glorious eyes.
The form of the New Year arise,
He stood like a statue adorning
The world with a background of skies.
There were courage and grace in his beautiful face,
And hope in his glorious eyes.
“I come from Time’s boundless forever,”
He said, with a voice like a song.
“I come as a friend to endeavor,
I come as a foe to all wrong.
To the sad and afraid I bring promise of aid,
And the weak I will gird and make strong.
He said, with a voice like a song.
“I come as a friend to endeavor,
I come as a foe to all wrong.
To the sad and afraid I bring promise of aid,
And the weak I will gird and make strong.
NEW YEAR.
AS the old year sinks down in Time’s ocean,
Stand ready to launch with the new,
And waste no regrets, no emotion,
As the masts and the spars pass from view.
Weep not if some treasures go under,
And sink in the rotten ship’s hold,
That blithe bonny barque sailing yonder
May bring you more wealth than the old.
Stand ready to launch with the new,
And waste no regrets, no emotion,
As the masts and the spars pass from view.
Weep not if some treasures go under,
And sink in the rotten ship’s hold,
That blithe bonny barque sailing yonder
May bring you more wealth than the old.
For the world is forever improving,
All the past is not worth one to-day,
And whatever deserves our true loving.
Is stronger than death or decay.
Old love, was it wasted devotion?
Old friends, were they weak or untrue?
Well, let them sink there in mid ocean,
And gaily sail on to the new.
All the past is not worth one to-day,
And whatever deserves our true loving.
Is stronger than death or decay.
Old love, was it wasted devotion?
Old friends, were they weak or untrue?
Well, let them sink there in mid ocean,
And gaily sail on to the new.
Throw overboard toil misdirected.
Throw overboard ill-advised hope,
With aims which, your soul has detected,
Have self as their centre and scope.
Throw overboard useless regretting
For deeds which you cannot undo,
And learn the great art of forgetting
Old things which embitter the new.
Throw overboard ill-advised hope,
With aims which, your soul has detected,
Have self as their centre and scope.
Throw overboard useless regretting
For deeds which you cannot undo,
And learn the great art of forgetting
Old things which embitter the new.
Sing who will of dead years departed,
I shroud them and bid them adieu,
And the song that I sing, happy-hearted,
Is a song of the glorious new.
I shroud them and bid them adieu,
And the song that I sing, happy-hearted,
Is a song of the glorious new.
NOW.
ONE looks behind him to some vanished time
And says, “Ah, I was happy then, alack!
I did not know it was my life’s best prime—
Oh, if I could go back!”
And says, “Ah, I was happy then, alack!
I did not know it was my life’s best prime—
Oh, if I could go back!”
Another looks, with eager eyes aglow,
To some glad day of joy that yet will dawn,
And sighs, “I shall be happy then, I know;
Oh, let me hurry on.”
To some glad day of joy that yet will dawn,
And sighs, “I shall be happy then, I know;
Oh, let me hurry on.”
But I—I look out on my fair To-day;
I clasp it close and kiss its radiant brow.
Here with the perfect present let me stay,
For I am happy now!
I clasp it close and kiss its radiant brow.
Here with the perfect present let me stay,
For I am happy now!