My dreams are of the Sea.
All night the living waters stepped
Stately and steadily. All night the wind
Conducted them. With forehead high, a rock,
Glittering with joy, stood to receive the shock
Of the flood-tide. I saw it in the mind
Of sleep and silence. When I woke, I wept.
My dreams are of the Sea.
But oh, it is the Sea of Glass!
I met that other tide as I desired.
Alone, the rock and I leaned to the wave,—
A foolish suicide, that scooped its grave
Within the piteous sand. Now I am tired.
It died and it was buried. Let me pass.
The firelight listens on the floor
To hear the wild winds blow.
Within, the bursting roses burn,
Without, there slides the snow.
Across the flower I see the flake
Pass mirrored, mystic, slow.
Oh, blooms and storms must blush and freeze,
While seasons come and go!
I lift the sash—and live, the gale
Comes leaping to my call.
The rose is but a painted one
That hangs upon the wall.
From whirlwind to shower,
From noon-glare to shadow,
From the plough to the vesper,
A day is gone.
From passion to purpose,
From turmoil to rest,
From discord to harmony,
Life moveth on.
From terror and heartbreak,
From anger of anguish,
From vigil and famine,
A soul has gone.
By mercy of mystery,
Through trust which is best,
To feasting and sleeping now,
God calleth on.
O glad girls' faces, hushed and fair! how shall I sing for ye?
For the grave picture of a sphinx is all that I can see.
Vain is the driving of the sand, and vain the desert's art;
The years strive with her, but she holds the lion in her heart.
Baffled or fostered, patient still, the perfect purpose clings;
Flying or folded, strong as stone, she wears the eagle's wings.
Eastward she looks; against the sky the eternal morning lies;
Silent or pleading, veiled or free, she lifts the woman's eyes.
O grave girls' faces, listening kind! glad will I sing for ye,
While the proud figure of the sphinx is all that I can see.
[1] Written for a graduating class at Abbott Academy.
Shall we who are about to live,
Cry like a clarion on the battle-field?
Or weep before 't is fought, the fight to yield?
Thou that hast been and yet that art to be
Named by our name, that art the First and Last!
Womanhood of the future and the past!
Thee we salute, below the breath. Oh, give
To us the courage of our mystery.
... Pealing, the clock of Time
Has struck the Woman's Hour....
We hear it on our knees. For ah, no power
Is ours to trip too lightly to the rhyme
Of idle words that fan the summer air,
Of bounding words that leap the years to come.
Ideal of ourselves! We dream and dare.
Victuræ salutamus! Thou art dumb.
[1] Written for the first commencement at Smith College.
I read of the ermine to-day,
Of the ermine who will not step
By the feint of a step in the mire,—
The creature who will not stain
Her garment of wild, white fire;
Of the dumb, flying, soulless thing
(So we with our souls dare to say),
The being of sense and of sod,
That will not, that will not defile
The nature she took from her God.
And we, with the souls that we have,
Go cheering the hunters on
To a prey with that pleading eye.
She cannot go into the mud!
She can stay like the snow, and die!
The hunters come leaping on.
She turns like a heart at bay.
They do with her as they will.
... O thou who thinkest on this!
Stand like a star, and be still,
Where the soil oozes under thy feet.
Better, ah, better to die
Than to take one step in the mire!
Oh, blessed to die or to live,
With garments of holy fire!
I think upon the conquering Greek who ran
(Brave was the racer!) that brave race of old—
Swifter than hope his feet that did not tire.
Calmer than love the hand which reached that goal;
A torch it bore, and cherished to the end,
And rescued from the winds the sacred fire.
O life the race! O heart the racer! Hush!
And listen long enough to learn of him
Who sleeps beneath the dust with his desire.
Go! shame thy coward weariness, and wail.
Who doubles contest, doubles victory.
Go! learn to run the race, and carry fire.
O Friend! The lip is brave, the heart is weak.
Stay near. The runner faints—the torch falls pale.
Save me the flame that mounteth ever higher!
Grows it so dark? I lift mine eyes to thine;
Blazing within them, steadfast, pure, and strong,
Against the wind there fights the eternal fire.
[1] At the Promethean and other festivals, young men ran with torches or lamps lighted from the sacrificial altar. "In this contest, only he was victorious whose lamp remained unextinguished in the race."
Of iron were his arms; they could have held
The need of half the kingdom up; and in
His brow were iron atoms too. Thus was
He built. His heart, observe, was wrought of gold,
Burnished; it dazzled one to look at it.
His feet were carved of clay—and so he fell.
Clay unto clay shall perish and return.
The tooth of rust shall gnaw the iron down.
The conqueror of time, gold must endure.
Thou great amalgam! Suffering in thyself,
The while inflicting still the certain fate
Of thy disharmony. From Nature's law,
Unto her law, thy doom appeals; bids thee
To fear the metal sinews of thy soul,
And scorn the dust on which thou totterest;
But save, oh, save the heart of gold for one
Who did, beholding, trust in it.
Half a dozen children
At our house!
Half a dozen children
Quiet as a mouse,
Quiet as a moonbeam,
You could hear a pin—
Waiting for the party
To begin.
Such a flood of flounces!
(Oh dear me!)
Such a surge of sashes
Like a silken sea.
Little eyes demurely
Cast upon the ground,
Little airs and graces
All around.
High time for that party
To begin!
To sit so any longer
Were a sort of sin;
As if you were n't acquainted
With society.
What a thing to tell of
That would be!
Up spoke a little lady
Aged five;
"I 've tumbled up my over-dress,
Sure as I 'm alive!
My dress came from Paris;
We sent to Worth for it;
Mother says she calls it
Such a fit!"
Quick there piped another
Little voice—
"I did n't send for dresses,
Though I had my choice;
I have got a doll that
Came from Paris too;
It can walk and talk as
Well as you!"
Still, till now, there sat one
Little girl;
Simple as a snow-drop,
Without flounce or curl.
Modest as a primrose,
Soft, plain hair brushed back,
But the color of her dress was
Black—all black.
Swift she glanced around with
Sweet surprise;
Bright and grave the look that
Widened in her eyes.
To entertain the party
She must do her share,
As if God had sent her
Stood she there;
Stood a minute, thinking,
With crossed hands
How she best might meet the
Company's demands.
Grave and sweet the purpose
To the child's voice given:—
"I have a little brother
Gone to Heaven!"
On the little party
Dropped a spell;
All the little flounces
Rustled where they fell;
But the modest maiden
In her mourning gown,
Unconscious as a flower,
Looketh down.
Quick my heart besought her,
Silently.
"Happy little maiden,
Give, O give to me
The highness of your courage,
The sweetness of your grace,
To speak a large word, in a
Little place."
I like that old, kind legend
Not found in Holy Writ,
And wish that John or Matthew
Had made Bible out of it.
But though it is not Gospel,
There is no law to hold
The heart from growing better
That hears the story told:—
How the little Jewish children
Upon a summer day,
Went down across the meadows
With the Child Christ to play.
And in the gold-green valley,
Where low the reed-grass lay,
They made them mock mud-sparrows
Out of the meadow clay.
So, when these all were fashioned,
And ranged in rows about,
"Now," said the little Jesus,
"We'll let the birds fly out."
Then all the happy children
Did call, and coax, and cry—
Each to his own mud-sparrow:
"Fly, as I bid you! Fly!"
But earthen were the sparrows,
And earth they did remain,
Though loud the Jewish children
Cried out, and cried again.
Except the one bird only
The little Lord Christ made;
The earth that owned Him Master,
—His earth heard and obeyed.
Softly He leaned and whispered:
"Fly up to Heaven! Fly!"
And swift, His little sparrow
Went soaring to the sky,
And silent, all the children
Stood, awestruck, looking on,
Till, deep into the heavens,
The bird of earth had gone.
I like to think, for playmate
We have the Lord Christ still,
And that still above our weakness
He works His mighty will,
That all our little playthings
Of earthen hopes and joys
Shall be, by His commandment,
Changed into heavenly toys.
Our souls are like the sparrows
Imprisoned in the clay,
Bless Him who came to give them wings
Upon a Christmas Day!
Master! let stronger lips than these
Turn melody to harmony,
Poet! mine tremble as they crave
A word alone with thee.
Thy songs melt on the vibrant air,
The wild birds know them, and the wind;
The common light hath claim on them,
The common heart and mind.
And air, and light, and wind, shall be
Thy fellow-singers, while they say
How seventy years of music stir
The common pulse to-day.
Hush, sweetest songs! Mine ears are deaf
To all of ye save only one.
Blind are the eyes that turn the leaf
Against the Autumn sun.
Oh, blinder once were fading eyes,
Close folded now from shine and rain,
And duller were the dying ears
That heard the chosen strain.
Stay, solemn chant! 'T is mine to sing
Your notes alone below the breath.
'T is mine to bless the poet who
Can bless the hour of death.
For once a spirit "sighed for home,"
A "longed-for light whereby to see,"
And "wearied," found the way to them,
O Christian seer, through thee!
Passed—with thy words on paling lips,
Passed—with thy courage to depart;
Passed—with thy trust within the soul,
Thy music in the heart.
Oh, calm above our restlessness,
And rich beyond our dreaming, yet
In heaven, I know, one owes to thee
A glad and grateful debt.
From it may learn some tenderer art,
May find and take some better way
Than all our tenderest and best,
To crown thy life to-day.
Arise, and call her blessed,—seventy years!
Each one a tongue to speak for her, who needs
No poor device of ours to tell to-day
The story of her glory in our hearts.
Precede us all, ye quiet lips of love,
Ye honors high of home—nobilities
Of mother and of wife—the heraldry
Of happiness; dearer to her than were
The homage of the world. We yield unto
The royal claims of tenderness. Speak thou
Before all voices, ripened human life!
Arise, and call her blessed, dark-browed men!
She put the silver lyre aside for you.
She could not stroll across the idle strings
Of fancy, while you wept uncomforted,
But rang upon the fetters of a race
Enchained, the awful chord which pealed along,
And echoed in the cannon-shot that broke
The manacle, and bade the bound go free.
She brought a Nation on its knees for shame,
She brought a world into a black slave's heart.
Where are our lighter laurels? O my friends!
Brothers and sisters of the busy pen,
Five million freemen crown her birthday feast,
Before whose feet our little leaf we lay.
Arise and call her blessed, fainting souls!
For whom she sang the strains of holy hope.
Within the gentle twilight of her days,
Like angels, bid her own hymns visit her.
Her life no ivy-tangled door, but wide
And welcome to His solemn feet, who need
Not knock for entrance, nor one ever ask
"Who cometh there?" so still and sure the step,
So well we know God doth "abide in her."
Oh, wait to make her blessed, happy world!—
To which she looketh onward, ardently.
Lie in fair distance far, ye streets of gold,
Where up and down light-hearted spirits walk,
And wonder that they stayed so long away.
Be patient for her coming, for our sakes,
Who will love Heaven better, keeping her.
This only ask we:—When from prayer to praise
She moves, and when from peace to joy; be hers
To know she hath the life eternal, since
Her own heart's dearest wish did meet her there.
Blinded I groped—you gave me sight.
Perplexed I turned—you sent me light.
You speak unto a thousand ears:
I pay you tribute in hid tears.
I pay you homage in the hopes
That rise to scale life's scathèd slopes.
I give you gratitude in this:
That, midway on the precipice
You never trod and never saw,
Where air you never drank, strikes raw
And wan upon the wasted breath,
And gulfs you never passed, gape death,
And crags you gained some sunlit way
Frown threatening over me to-day,—
That here with bruisèd hand I cling,
Because I heard you yonder sing
With those who conquer. If through joy,
Then deeper be our shame who toy
And loiter in the scourging rain,
And did not pass by strength of pain.
Laggard below, I reach to bless
You who are King of happiness;
You are the victor, you the brave,
Who could not stoop to be her slave.
Downward to me, rebuking, fling
My privilege of suffering.
I take and listen. Teach me. See!
Nearer than you, I ought to be;
Nearer the height man never trod,
Nearer the veiled face of God.
I ought, and am not. Comrade! be
Unconscious captain unto me.
Unknowing, beckon and command:
I answer you with unseen hand.
You read in vain these lines between,
And smiling, wonder whom I mean.
I had no song so wise and sweet,
As birthday songs, dear friend, should be.
Silent, among a hundred guests,
I only prayed for thee.
Such wishes held the speaking lip,
Such mood of blessing took me, there,
That music, like a bird to heaven,
Flew, and was lost in prayer.
The wave goes down, the wind goes down,
The gray tide glitters on the sea,
The moon seems praying in the sky.
Gates of the New Jerusalem
(A perfect pearl each gate of them)
Wide as all heaven swing on high;
Whose shall the welcome be?
The wave went down, the wind went down,
The tide of life turned out to sea;
Patience of pain and grace of deed,
The glories of the heart and brain,
Treasure that shall not come again;
The human singing that we need,
Set to a heavenly key.
The wave goes down, the wind goes down,
All tides at last turn to the sea.
We learn to take the thing we have.
Thou who hast taught us strength in grief,
As moon to shadow, high and chief,
Shine out, white soul, beyond the grave,
And light our loss of thee!
To the hope that he has taught,
To the beauty he has wrought,
To the comfort he has been;
To the dream that poets tell,
To the land where Gabriel
Can not lose Evangeline;—
Hush! let him go.
At evening once, the lowly men who loved
Our Master were found desolate, and grieved
For Him whose eyes had been the glory of
Their lives. He, silent, followed them, and joined
Himself unto their sorrow; with the voice
Of love that liveth past the end, and yearns
Like empty arms across the sepulchre,
Did comfort them. They heard, and knew Him not.
At eventide, O Lord, one trod for us
The solitary way of a great Soul;
Whereof the peril, pain, and debt, alone
He knows, who marked the road.
We watched, and held
Her in our arms of prayer. We wept, and said:
Our sister hath a heavy hurt. We bow,
And cry: The crown is buried with the Queen.
At twilight, as she, groping, sought for rest,
What solemn footfall echoed down the dark?
What tenderness that would not let her go?
And patience that Love only knoweth, paced
Silent, beside her, to the last, faint step?
What scarred Hand gently caught her as she sank?
Thou being with her, though she knew Thee not.
[1] The last book which she read was Thomas à Kempis's Imitation of Christ.
A lily rooted in a sacred soil,
Arrayed with those who neither spin nor toil;
Dinah, the preacher, through the purple air,
Forever in her gentle evening prayer
Shall plead for Her—what ear too deaf to hear?—
"As if she spoke to some one very near."
And he of storied Florence, whose great heart
Broke for its human error; wrapped apart,
And scorching in the swift, prophetic flame
Of passion for late holiness; and shame
Than untried glory grander, gladder, higher—
Deathless, for Her, he "testifies by fire."
A statue fair and firm on shining feet,
Womanhood's woman, Dorothea, sweet
As strength, and strong as tenderness, to make
A "struggle with the dark" for white light's sake,
Immortal stands, unanswered speaks. Shall they,
Of Her great hand the moulded, breathing clay,
Her fit, select, and proud survivors be?
Possess the life eternal, and not She?
Lord, Thou hast promised. Lo! I give Thee back
Thine own great Word. Keep it. I summon Thee.
Keep it as God can, not as men do. See,
Great God! who art to us the awful Truth
Whereby we live, and move, and know the true—
I ask Thee to be true unto Thyself.
There is a soul that has not sinned unto
The death. I pray for it. To such as seek
For such a one, O Power invisible!
O Mystery and Mercy! Thou hast said
Thou hearkenest. I dare remind Thee, God.
I dare appeal unto Thine honor. Hear!
Fulfill Thy pledge to me.
God, God! Great God!
I pour my soul out, dash it down awaste
Like water, as I would my life, to save
This other one. I light my words with fire,
Like fagots scorching all my shrinking heart.
So would I walk in fire with these my feet
Of flesh, if that could melt this frozen heart
I pray for.
Thou who listenest! Dumb God!
Had I Thy dreadful power to turn the souls
Of men as they were rivers in Thy hand,
Then would I have this noble one. I would
Not lose its loyalty. I tell Thee, Lord,
If I had made it, then it sure should love
And honor me.
Hearken to me! Oh, save!
Give me mine answer! Save!
Great God,
I summon Thee! I summon Thee!
*****
Father,
I am Thy child. If I have asked too much,
Or asked or longed amiss in any wise,
Or read awry Thy Word mysterious,
Or made one cry unworthy of a child,
I pray Thee to deny me all I ask
Unto my asking, and rebuke me so.
And if Thou savest, Lord, dear Lord, dear Lord!
Then let it be because some worthier
Than I, did pray.....
For the faith that is not broken
By the burden of the day;
For the word that is not spoken
(Dearest words are slow to say);
For the golden draught unproffered
To the thirst that thirsteth on;
For the hand that is not offered
When the struggling strength is gone;
For the sturdy heart that will not
Make a pauper of my need;
Friend, I mean sometime to thank thee,
From my soul, in truth and deed.
Wait! Some day, when I am braver,
I will do so—say so. Now
(Oh! be tender!) I am tired;
I have forgotten how.
Lord, are there any stones upon the way,
That tear Thy bleeding feet?
If our weak hands can move them from Thy path,
Give us that duty sweet.
Is there, O patient and pathetic Face!
One thorn upon Thy brow
That we can pluck from out Thy cruel crown?
For we would do it now.
Is there a deed so difficult for us
That none but Thou canst ask?
Thine asking be our answering. Lo! swift
Be ours that happy task.
Lord, hast Thou left Thy hungry in the world
For us to find, to feed?
Sharper the hungers of the soul. Give us
Nutrition for that need.
And hast Thou prisoners unvisited,
Whose woes our care should tell?
There is a deeper prison of the heart;
Help us to find that cell.
Is there a mourner dear to Thee, whom we
Have left uncomforted?
Yet still through lonelier loneliness, the heart
Bereft of Thee, is led.
O world of common, human cries! and calls
Of souls in direst need!
To meet ye, mighty were the love that sought
To take the Master's speed.
Give us that love, dear God, who gave to us
To bear His loving name.
Give us that sacred speed to keep the step
That strikes with His the same.
Waves of one tide, this people be! and flow
Straight shoreward to Thy will.
White as a dove, upon them, now descend
Thy Spirit, strong and still.
Thy blessings on their future rest and brood,
—The brightest, lip can tell,—
In home and heart, in faith and fact, O best
Of daily mercy! dwell.
With those who summon—trusting it to lead
Their feet to walk Christ's way—
The voice of him on whose bowed head, I call
The grace of God to-day.
Why did I never sing a song to you?
Dearest! To you again, behold the question start.
To mine own pulses have I ever sung? Or do
I read a rhyme unto my beating heart?
My thoughts like waves creep up, creep on,
How patient is the sea!
How shall we climb—the tide and I—
Up to the hills and thee?
Were waters free as winds, to go
Where mood or need might be,
They could but find the sky, above
The cañon as the sea.
Oh, not to you, my mentor sweet,
And stern as only sweetness can,
Whose grave eyes look out steadfastly
Across my nature's plan,
And take unerring measure down
Where'er that plan is failed or foiled,
Thinking far less of purpose kept
Than of a vision spoiled.
And tender less to what I am,
Than sad for what I might have been;
And walking softly before God
For my soul's sake, I ween.
'T is not to you, my spirit leans,
O grave, true judge! When spent with strife,
And groping out of gloom for light,
And out of death for life.
—————
Nor yet to you, who calmly weigh
And measure every grace and fault,
Whose martial nature never turns
From right to left, to halt
For any glamour of the heart,
Or any glow that ever is,
Grander than Truth's high noonday glare,
In love's sweet sunrises;
Who know me by the duller hues
Of common nights and common days,
And in their sober atmospheres
Find level blame and praise.
—————
True hearts and dear! 't is not in you,
This fainting, warring soul of mine
Finds silver carven chalices,
To hold life's choicest wine
Unto its thirsty lips, and bid
It drink, and breathe, and battle on,
Till all its dreams are deeds at last,
And all its heights are won.
—————
I turn to you, confiding love.
O lifted eyes! look trustfully,
Till Heaven shall lend you other light,
Like kneeling saints—on me.
And let me be to you, dear eyes,
The thing I am not, till I, too,
Shall see as I am seen, and stand
At last revealed to you.
And let me nobler than I am,
And braver still, eternally,
And finer, truer, purer, than
My finest, purest, be
To your sweet vision. There I stand
Transfigured fair in love's deceit,
And while your soul looks up to mine,
My heart lies at your feet.
Believe me better than my best,
And stronger than my strength can hold,
Until your magic faith transmute
My pebbles into gold.
I'll be the thing you hold me, Dear!—
After I 'm dead, if not before—
Nor, through the climbing ages, will
I give the conflict o'er.
But if upon the Perfect Peace,
And past the thing that was, and is,
And past the lure of voices, in
A world of silences,
A pain can crawl—a little one—
A cloud upon a sunlit land;
I think in Heaven my heart must ache
That you should understand.