Stray Pebbles from the Shores of Thought

How do I love thee?
Oh, who knows
How the blush of the rose
Can its secret disclose?
Oh, who knows?

Why do I love thee?
Ah, who cares
Sound a passion he shares
With the angels? Who dares,
Yes, who dares?

LOVE'S GUERDON.

Thine eyes are stars to hold me
To love's pure rapturous height.
Thy thoughts are pearls to lead me
To truth beyond earth's sight.
Thy love is life to keep me
Forever in God's light.

A BIRTHDAY GREETING.

Thy birthday, dear?
Oh, would I had the poet's art
By which I could my wish impart
For thy new year;
But e'en a poet's pen of gold
Would fail my wish to thee unfold
In earthly sphere.

Thy birthday, dear?
Oh, would I had the painter's skill
Prophetic visions to fulfill
For thy new year;
But e'en a painter's rarest brush
Would but my holy visions crush,
Or fail to cheer.

Thy birthday, dear?
Oh, would I had sweet music's aid
To vitalize the prayers I've made
For thy new year;
Alas! not even music's best
Could put in form my soul's behest
For thee, my dear.

That only will expression find
In purest depths of thine own mind
This coming year;
As, guided by the inner light,
There'll come to thee the new-born sight
Of ravished seer.

But in this sight thou may'st so feel
Eternal beauty o'er thee steal—
God's gift, my dear—
That thou can'st find the blessed art
By which to make e'en depths of heart
In form appear.

Yet, it may be a heaven's birthday
Will have to dawn for us to say
Our best things, dear.
For, as thou know'st, Truth's deepest well
Must e'er reflect, its depths to tell
Heaven's atmosphere.

THREE KISSES.

The kiss still burns upon my brow,
That kiss of long ago,
When in the flush of love's first hour
He said he loved me so.

Another burns yet deeper still,
The kiss of wedded bliss,
When soul met soul in rapture sweet—
Oh, pure love's burning kiss!

The third was laid away with him,
A kiss for heaven's day,
(O heart abide God's way)—
When in the life beyond earth's change,

Beyond these mysteries sad and strange,
New life will spring from out the old,
New thoughts will larger truth unfold,
And love have endless sway.

If I were only sure
He loves me still,
As in the realms of beauteous space
(Alas! so far from my embrace)
He bides God's will,
I could be more content to bear
The bitter anguish and despair
Which now me fill.

If I were only sure
He waits for me
To join him in the heavenly realm
(Oh, how the thought does overwhelm)
When body-free,
I could the better bear my fate,
As day by day I learn to wait
In silent agony.

O Father, in my doubt
One thing is sure,
That Thou, all love, could ne'er destroy
(Death only is in earth's alloy)
Such love so pure
As that which blessed our union here,
The love which knew no change nor fear—
Such must endure.

ABSENCE.

The days are happy here, dear,
But happier would they be
Could'st thou be near to bless me
With love's sweet ministry;

Then all this beauty round me
Would on my memory lie,
As prayers of sainted mother,
Or childhood's lullaby.

Hotel Look-Off, Sugar Hill, N.H.

A LOVE SONG.

Oh! ecstasy rare
Comes down to share
The heart that with human love trembles;
While all on the earth
Is crowned with new birth
And everything heaven resembles.

But grief and despair
Have latent their share
In hearts that with human love tremble,
Since fires of love
Enkindled above
In frail earthen vessels assemble.

Still, ecstasy rare
Comes down to share
The heart that with human love trembles;
While all on the earth
Is crowned with new birth
And everything heaven resembles.

IN HER GARDEN.

She picks me June roses.
Were ever such roses?
Their fragrance would honor
The heavenly halls.

She finds me pet pansies.
Such wondrous-eyed pansies,
And lovely nasturtiums
That run on the walls.

Sweet peas she's now bringing,
While all the time singing.
And I? Ask the flowers
To tell what befalls.

LOVE'S WISH.

Would I were beautiful!
Then you at Beauty's shrine might freely dine,
A welcome guest
For joy's bequest.
But, dear, if this were so,—
If I were Beauty's child, all undefiled,
To make you blest
In beauty's quest,

You might forget to see
The soul's pure hidden shrine wherein e'er shine
The things that test
Love's true behest.
Would I were beautiful,
That you might better see the soul in me!
That wish is best,
Is 't not, dearest?

IS THERE ANYTHING PURER?

Oh, the prayer of a dear virgin-heart,
Breathed forth with true love's gentle art!
Is there anything purer
On land or on sea,
More laden with blessing
For you or for me?

It is sweeter than song ever heard,
More precious than love's spoken word.
It is fraught with a keen recognition
Of truest soul-need and fruition.
Is there anything purer
On land or on sea,
More laden with comfort
For you or for me?

It is oftentimes born in great pain,
With no ray of hope's blessed gain.
But as lulled by the angels at midnight
Ere reaching the infinite daylight
Is there anything surer,
On land or on sea,
To bring the God-Father
To you or to me?

LONGING.

Through all this summer joy and rest,
Though lying on fair Nature's breast,
There breathes the longing heart's desire,
Would he were here!

The thrill of pain kind Nature feels;
For all the while there o'er me steals
Like holy chimes in midnight air,
"He'll soon be here."

And flowers and trees, vales, hills, and birds
Make haste to echo her glad words,
"He'll soon be here."

YOUNG LOVE'S MESSAGE.

Sing too, little bird, what my heart sings to-day.
Dost thou know?—
I'll speak low—
"Oh, I do love him so."

Hold safe, waving grass, in thy rhythmical flow,
What I say,
Till the day
When as sweet new-mown hay

Thou can'st bear it to him in the fragrance loved best.
Thou dost fear?—
Oh, love dear,
How I wish thou wert here!

But pause, little cloud, thou canst carry it now,
I am sure,
Sweet and pure,
Though the winds do allure;

For thou art on the way to the west where he is.
But dost know?—
Tell him low,
"That I do love him so,
Oh! I do love him so."

A DIARY'S SECRET.

January 1, 1867.

God's love was once enough
My heart to satisfy,
When in the days of childhood's faith
I knew not doubt or sigh.

But since I saw Roy's face,
And knew his love's sweet cheer,
And felt the anguish and despair
Which come from partings here,

So hungry have I grown
No love can satisfy,
And all my childhood's faith in God
Doth mock me as a lie.

But still in these dark hours
I hold one anchor fast:
Perhaps this is the woman's way
To reach God's love at last.

January 1, 1887.

The deepening years have proved
Love's conquest justified.
The woman's hungry heart at last
In God is satisfied.

A MONOLOGUE.

Has Love come?
Ah, too late!
Already Death stands o'er me
With hungry eyes that bore me—
O cruel fate,
That after all life's years
Of sacrifice and tears,
'Tis Death, not Love, that wins.
But, stay! This message bear,
Ere yet Death's work begins:
"In other realms earth's losses
Will change from saddening crosses
To love-crowned joy,
Where Death shall have no mission,
But Love his sweet fruition
Without alloy."

A PRICELESS GIFT.

'Twas much he asked—a virgin heart
Unknown to worldly ways.
What could he give? Ah, well he knew
He lacked sweet virtue's praise.

The virgin heart was given to him
Without a doubting thought,
When, lo! through seeming sacrifice
A miracle was wrought;

A miracle of love and grace,
Revealing woman's power;
For, clothed in purity, he rose
To meet the coming hour.

THE OCEAN'S MOAN.

Last night the ocean's moan
Was to my ears
The deep sad undertone
Of vanished years,

Bearing a burden,
A bliss unattained,
A strife and a longing,
A life sad and pained,
To the shores vast and free
Of eternity's sea.

But in that undertone
Of restless pain,
Came at length a monotone
Of sweet refrain,

Bearing a passion
Long known to the sea—
Told in moments of silence
A sad heart to free—
To be borne me some day
In the ocean's own way.

And this rare monotone
Of mystery
Was now that passion-moan
Of secrecy,

Bearing, "I love her,
My moaning ne'er'll cease
Till she on my breast
Findeth love's perfect peace;
Till she on my breast
Findeth love's perfect rest."

Oh, is there tenderer tone
For mortal ear,
Than such a monotone,
Distinct and clear,

Bearing its comfort,
Its heavenly peace,
Its help for all sorrow,
Its heart-pain release,
To a soul waiting long
For love's tender, true song?

And now the ocean's moan
Is to my ears
The dearest undertone
Of all the years,

Bearing a memory,
A sweet bliss attained,
A gratified longing,
A life's joys regained,
To the shores vast and free
Of eternity's sea.

Boar's Head, Hampton, N.H.

LOVE'S FLOWER.

Love's sweet and tender flower
Of pure, perennial life,
Blooms ever fresh in power
O'er all earth's wrong and strife.

Pluck not in haste, young man,
This flower of wondrous hue,
Nor dare to crush, nor fail to scan.
Such beauty ever new.

Gaze at it long, young girl,
And guard its sacred blush;
Then shall its treasures old unfurl
Your yearning soul to hush.

LOVE DISCROWNED.

(In Four Scenes.)

SCENE I.

"When he comes, my darling,
I shall tell him all:
All the secret ecstasy,
All the peace and joy,
All my heart's sweet fantasy,
Free from self's alloy,—
All—

O blessed power
Of love's sweet hour,
When I shall tell him all,
Shall tell him all!"

SCENE II.

"Hark, hark! he's come. I hear his step.
O joy, love's hour is here.
I knew that he was true and pure,
I could not feel love's fear.
Oh, no; I could not, dear."

SCENE III.

She gave one look, one piercing look,
Drew back her anguished soul,
Then murmured low, "O bitter hour!
But—God—forgive—the—whole—
Forgive—

O bitter power
Of love's death-hour,
I thought to tell him all,
To tell him all."

SCENE IV.

He gazed upon her lifeless face,
He held her lifeless hand.
Was this the form he once had loved?
He did not understand.
Once loved? Yes, that was so.
He'd loved since, one or two,
And—well, what was a woman for,
If not for man to woo?

MORAL.

Alas, for broken hearts and lives
Of those who can but trust!
Alas, for those who see no law
But that of selfish must!

RENUNCIATION.

"Oh, is not love eternal
When once the heart be won?
Oh, is not love infernal
When love can be undone?"

So sighed a gentle maiden
In light of memory dear,
As, sad and heavy-laden,
She longed for knowledge clear.

But soon the bitter heart-ache
Gave way to victory's cheer;
For, brave, she chose for His sake
The life which knows no peer;

The life of abnegation
Which gives the Christ's own peace,
But leaves the sad temptation
To ask for life's release.

A WIDOW'S HEART-CRY.

"Thy will, not mine, be done!"
So breathe I when the day's begun,
So breathe I when the day is done.

I whisper it in blinding tears,
I pause and listen, till appears
The welcome voice for listening ears;

The voice which checks my wayward will
And makes my longing heart to thrill
With love for those who need me still.

But, O, how long must I so pray?
When will I learn to calmly say,
"Thy will is mine," both night and day?

Ah! this can never be on earth,
Since he who gladly gave me birth
To everything that was of worth

Has gone from out my sense and sight,
To what? O ye who still invite
To heaven's sure realm and faith's own right,

Reveal some clue for me to see
What life is his, what he's to me.
Alas! ye can't. Then what can be

More precious when the day is done,
Or when the morning is begun,
Than, "Not my will, but Thine, be done."

TOGETHER.

Transformed, redeemed from all that dwarfs or blights,
In perfect harmony with beauteous sights
Beyond imagination's highest flights
Ere reached by seer,
We shall together walk the golden streets
Sometime, my dear.

But how, you ask, shall we each other know,
So changed from what we were while here below,
When, caged like birds, we longed and suffered so?
Ah, do not fear.
Will not the soul, when free, seek like the bird
Its own, my dear?

It may not be at once or soon, 'tis true.
For you may be among the blessed few
Who'll sooner reach the blissful heights—your due
For pure life here—
But sometime, sure as God is love and truth,
We'll meet, my dear.

Some precious, long-forgotten look or word
Breathed through the softest, sweetest music heard,
Or some vibration rare of soul depths stirred
By memory's tear,
Will, like a flash of light, reveal our souls
Together, dear,
To live the fuller life we've dreamed of here.

SHADOWED CIRCLES.

Why weepest thou, O dear one?
Do sorrows press?
Beneath the weight of sorrow
Is love's caress.

Why joyest thou, O dear one?
Is love thine own?
Ah! 'neath love's deep rejoicing
Is sorrow's moan.

Indeed, all earth's great passions—
Is it not so?—
Are circled in the shadow
Of joy or woe.

But why should we bemoan this?
Could otherwise
Truth's dazzling light be subject
To mortal eyes?

Could otherwise we enter
The endless light,
Beyond the shadowed circle
Of mortal sight?

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

A SONG OF SUCCESS.

YOUTH.

I am dancing along. Just to live is a joy,
I'm so happy and free.
I know not nor care what will tame or destroy,
Life now satisfies me.
Oh, there's naught like dear youth
To reveal the glad truth
That 'tis pure, healthful joy just to know and to be!

MIDDLE AGE.

I am marching along, full of work and of plan
To alleviate wrong.
With a heart full of love both to God and to man,
And an arm free and strong.
Oh, there's naught like mid-life
To make sure without strife
The beauty of progress through action and song.

OLD AGE.

I am living along, sitting down by the way.
My work is all done.
I have fought the good fight, known the full of each day,
And true victory won.
Oh, there's naught like old age
To declare with the sage,
Life ending on earth is but heaven begun.

THE UNDER-WORLD.

Under the restless surface
Of ocean's vast domain,
The god of perfect quiet
Holds ever peaceful reign.

Under the restless surface
Of passions strong and wild,
The still small voice of conscience
Is heard in accents mild.

Under the restless surface
Of all man's life on earth,
The Christ of sacred story
Renews each day his birth.

SHE KNOWS.

(Written at Mountain Cottage, on Mount Wachusett, where Louisa M. Alcott spent the last summer of her life.)

Last summer she believed that in and through these beauteous scenes
God's loving self did flow,
But now she knows 'tis so.

For, having crossed the boundary lines of honest doubt and fear,
She sees with spirit-eye
What sense could not descry.

Her firm belief, thus blossomed into perfect flower of sight,
Becomes a restful cheer
To all who linger here,

Still asking for the secret of these changing, beauteous scenes,
And troubled with the why
Of all earth's sorrowing cry.

Her presence here has filled the place with memory of a soul
Made beautiful through pain
Eternity to gain.

August, 1888.

AT PITTSFORD, VERMONT.

TO J. A. C.

As winds the lovely Otter Creek through vales of summer green,
Ne'er pausing on its way,
Though love its tribute pay,

So gently winds my loving thought through memory's changing scenes,
To days of long ago
When thee I first did know.

Thy heartfelt sympathy and help were to my fresh young soul
What these dear Vermont hills
Are to the little rills;

A presence near, a faithful strength, life-giving and serene—
Oh, hills, be now as much
To her who feels Time's touch!

In different paths, through various ways, we've known the world since then.
Together now we rest
On Nature's peaceful breast.

CHILDHOOD'S DAYS.

TO M. C.

If knowledge gained in later years
May wholly cloud from sight
The glimpse which childhood's eye hath caught
Of heaven's celestial light,

Then need we not the atmosphere
Of second childhood's days
To catch another broader glimpse
Of heaven's immortal rays?

Ah, yes; we even need to seek,
Through earth's illusive hour,
Immortal childhood's heavenly days
Of sweet, revealing power;

For how can otherwise we catch
The deeper glimpses yet
Of life eternal, glorious, pure,
Where sun hath never set?

AN ANSWER.

TO B. P. S.

"Why don't I write a story?"
Ah, friend, if you could see
The depths of hidden heart-life
Alas! so known to me,

You'd find the truest story
Flashed out in gleams of light,
Before which all pens falter
And vanish out of sight.

And as they vanish from me
They leave the impress clear,
That only Heaven's pen could write
Such stories acted here.

So in His book of life,
Revealed to all some day,
You'll find my story grand and true,
Worked out in His own way.

WHERE? WHAT? WHENCE?

The kingdom of heaven is where?
Oh, where?
Would that the heart which with pity o'erflows,
While deigning love's burdens to share,
Could disclose!

The kingdom of heaven is what?
Oh, what?
Would that the Infinite Presence which flows
Through a life on the earth finely cut
Might disclose!

The kingdom of heaven is whence?
Oh, whence?
Ah! let the wind and the breath of the rose
Their secrets of life and of sense
Dare disclose!
Could we then see the better whence spirit arose?
Who knows? Oh, who knows?