Front matter

HAND IN HAND

Overtaken

W first the waters flowed across her path, She quickened not at all her measured pace, She deemed the summer sea but mimicked wrath, And smiled to feel the sunshine in her face; Her garment's hem raised from the glittering spray, Nor ceased her song, nor faltered on her way.

But when the gathering wave, with sullen roar, Broke at her foot, with sudden startled cry She turned in haste to quit that fatal shore: And ever as she strove in vain to fly, Beneath her trembling steps the shifting sand Sank as she stood between the sea and land.

What terror of the earth and sea and sky, What threefold horror seized her as she stood! What sickening sense of hopeless destiny, As round her heart she felt the chilling flood! Great God! to go down quick, among the dead, The surging waves of deluge over-head!

Rivals

LifesHandicapp62

T Love's low voice she lent a careless ear, Her hand within his rosy fingers lay, A chilling weight. She would not turn nor hear, But with averted face went on her way; His flow'ry wreaths beneath her heedless feet She crushed, nor cared to breathe his offerings sweet.

But when pale Death, all featureless and grim, Lifted his bony hand, and beckoning Held out his cypress branch, she followed him; And Love was left forlorn and wondering When she, who for his wooing would not stay, At Death's first whisper rose, and went away.

In the Sunshine

I was spring-time, but not the early spring; April had wept her blue eyes clear again, And happy children tumbled in the grass, And little fingers forged a daisy chain, In whose slight fetters willing captives lay; While older children watched the pretty play With smiling toleration in their eyes, Who pares the same game last year—now too wise!

The scentless later violets grew by scores, Untouched, no hand had cared to gather them; Wild hyacinths were bluer than the skies, The wind-flower danced upon its slender stem; A foot above the ground the young corn stood, And over all was poured a golden flood Of warm May sunshine—in its radiant light The whole world seemed transfigured to the sight.

Beneath a chestnut, pelted by the shower Of milk-white blossom, which a gentle breeze Shook lightly from the branches, over-ripe, I lay in perfect ecstasy of ease.

I heard the plaintive cawing of the rook, The pleasant murmur of the rippling brook; I heard the cuckoo's oft-repeated call And bursts of childish laughter over all.

With eyes half closed, and empty idle hands That plucked at grass and flowers aimlessly, I watched the flickering shadow of the leaves Waving like fans upon the chestnut-trees. It mattered nothing to me, as I lay, That Love was gone, and Hope had flown away, That Life had lost its sweetness and its grace,— I only felt the sunshine in my face.

A little child came softly to my side, With buttercups and daisies in its hand; Half shy, half bold, it dropped them on my breast— An infant's scheme most innocently planned. This done, it turned, and shouting gleefully, With tiny hurrying feet fled hast; I never heeded it, but lay at rest, The sunshine and the flowers upon my breast.

I felt the sunshine in my very heart. Was yesterday so clouded and so sad, And would to-morrow be like this, or that? What mattered it? And yet I was not glad. I only knew the sun shone overhead; I only knew that underneath was spread

A perfumed carpet of the soft green grass, On which I lay, and let the moments pass.

I saw, and saw not; heard, and did not hear; But conscious only that a blessed ease For this one hour took precedence of pain, I felt the sunshine, and I was at peace. I had no thought of past or future years; I did not vex myself with hopes or fears; My half-dropped lids hid neither smiles nor tears; I scarce had found a rest more calm and deep In that still place where one day I shall sleep.

"When My Ship Comes Home from Sea"

O A golden comb for golden hair, And milk-white pearls for a neck as fair; And silver chains, and all for me, The day my ship comes home from sea!

O silken 'broideries, green and blue, And wrought with crimson thro' and thro', With coral and amber; all for me, The day my ship comes home from sea!"

And where is the good ship sailing from That brings these brave things safely home? And by what name do you hail her free, And who is her captain on the sea?"

My ship comes sailing from the West, And her name is called 'The Sailor's Rest'; And the bravest man of all her crew, Her captain, is my lover true."

O never will that ship come home, Wherever she be sailing from; I warmed my hands beneath the stars, By a fire made of her broken spars.

And three days dead the Captain lay, But how he died no man may say: I laid him out by the pale moon-rise, And made a shroud of the 'broideries.

With coral and gold I weighted him, And still he was light enough to swim, With silver chains I bound him down, There was never a corpse so hard to drown.

His black hair lines an eagle's nest On a sea girt cliff in the lonesome west; Now, jet for coral there must be, And instead of amber, ebony."

Song

I lost to joy: I'm lost to love; I'm lost to all would make me fain: I lost my way in the light of day— God send that I find it soon again!

I'm lost to peace; I'm lost to ease; I'm lost to all would make me blest; I lost my way in the light of day, And I'm weary now and long to rest.

I'm lost to gladness and to mirth; I'm lost to all that's good to find: I lost my way in the light of day, And left the good things all behind.

I wander West, I wander East, And know not which is East or West; I lost my way in the light of day, And I seek it still, and never rest.

The Sun went down an hour ago; I wonder if I face towards home? If I lost my way in the light of day, How shall I find it now night has come?

Wind Music

A harp in a garden all year round, Was fingered by the winds, and each one found Within its silver strings an answering sound.

A wind for Summer, and a wind for Spring; For Autumn, and for Winter,—let them sing Their own songs in the music that they bring.

The soft South wind came like a lover sighing Some low sweet song of love that, never dying, Could still be faithful, though its hope was flying.

The West wind brought a tender, yearning strain, As of a heart that breathed regret and pain For something lost and never found again.

The East wind sobbed, and shrieked, and moaned, and wailed, In tones like those of shipwrecked men who hailed Across the storm some ship that safely sailed,

Unhearing and unheeding; their despair As each one met the death that was his share, Borne on the East wind shuddered on the air.

The North wind blew one sudden furious blast, Like a loud battle call, and hurried past. The harp strings snapt;—that echo was their last.

Wind Music and the Child

Wind-Music and the Child

A that keeps no earthly time or measure, Rising and falling at the wind's wild pleasure; Now quick in haste, now slow in languid leisure.

But always very musically sweet And always sad. No little childish feet To its soft cadence dance along the street;

No little childish voice breaks into singing, By a glad impulse, like a wild bird flinging An echo to the sound the wind is bringing.

Rather the child, altho' scarce knowing why, Hearing this music, passes slowly by, And breathes its fear and wonder in a sigh.

A Whisper

T was never a day so sad and long But it wore at length to evensong; There was never a life so full of grief, But death came at last to its relief.

There was never a soul so wholly sad, But it found some moment to be glad; There was never a heart so full of care, But it had one hope to cheat despair.

There was never a winter, dark and drear, But it changed to Spring in the early year; There was never a Summer,—well-a-day! But it sloped through Autumn to decay.

Hearts and Faces

C you judge a smile who is gay, Nor once be misled by the token? I know that I laughed aloud one day, From a heart that was almost broken.

But my laughter rang false, do you say? Or tears followed very soon after. You are wrong for I wept not that day, And my laugh was the merriest laughter.

That my grief was not deep, you maintain, Since I found it so easy to cover; But I tell you I writhed with the pain, And one writhes not when anguish is over.

For my own part I scarcely believe That sighing can only mean sadness; And I wholly misdoubt, you perceive, That laughter must always prove gladness.

Are you sure it is grief when a tear starts? Can you trust smiles of mirth in all places? If aught can be falser than human hearts, It must surely be human faces!

To Chastelard at a Fancy Ball

(An Acrostic)

C back a season from the shades below How looks the world in its last phantasy? Are living women, in their youth's bright glow, Sweet as your own dead queen in memory? Tell all true lovers who have wept your woe, Each poet who has sung your hapless fate, Let us, whose eyes grow dim with pity know, Are all life's pleasant paths left desolate? Remembering afresh your tragic tale, Does Love seem timid grown, and wan, and pale?

Joy Cometh in the Morning

I hoped that the morning sun would rise To scatter the night of weeping, And I rose to watch the dawning skies While the world lay round me sleeping.

But alas for my hope; from his cloudy bed He rose with a sullen glare, And over the waiting earth he shed A cold light everywhere.

In pitiless gusts came the driving rain From the leaden-coloured skies; Thro' the blinding mist on the window pane I saw the sad sun rise.

And I said to my heart as I turned away, "Tho' tears have endured for a night, Yet be still, my heart, there comes to-day No joy with the morning light!"

Doomed

I I stood at the gate of Heaven, But, ah me, I found too late, When the opened door had admittance given, I had knocked at Perdition's gate!

I listened awhile, and I thought to hear The music of heavenly choirs, But alas, there fell on my startled ear The roar of infernal fires!

I thought to bathe in seraphic light, And gladly my free soul came, But alas! for the bitter, burning blight, I leaped into scorching flame!

Life

L, once a perfumed flower, a luscious fruit, Sweet to each sense with sweetness still uncloying, A growing tree from leafy crown to root, Is now a withered bough, an empty husk; No sunbeam cheers it, and no breezes toying Make music in its leaves from dawn to dusk.

Life, once a stormy sea whose gathering waves Beat high against the sullen cliffs of Fate, And thundered in the depth of ocean caves, Now sinks to silence,—hushed the angry roar— And leaves the raging waters far flung spate An ebbing tide upon a lonely shore.

When I was Young

When I Was Young

W I was young I talked and sang of Love, Lifted the veil that shrouded his sweet eyes, Defied the power I rashly sought to prove, And, light of heart, made jest of mysteries; And thus it was, and never once I thought That Love, dear Love, could be too dearly bought.

Grown older now, and wiser, sadder too, I sing of Love no more; yet is my heart Love's dwelling place, and shall be safe and true Until the day that life and I muse part; And thus it is, although full well I know Who live for Love may chance to die for Woe.

Spring

H the old Earth is young this sunny day! Spring wrapt in her green mantle newly donned, And shod with flowers, comes smiling on her way; To her soft whisper all the groves respond, While I alone, what time the woods are gay, Fade as a leaf, and wither and decay.

Mocked by returning Spring, I turn aside To my grey cloister. Never more for me Will her blythe message in my heart abide To cheer me with its green felicity. Hers is the voice of youth, of hope new born, And wakes no echo in a life outworn.

Early Snowdrops

N snow had fallen all the winter thro', The trees were budding in the early year, Beguiled by sunshine that was almost Spring.

The thrushes built their nests before the time, And twittered cheerily the whole day long; Buds grew to leaves, as if to shelter them.

February's skies had April's tender grace, When lo! the fields were white, as if with snow, And all the woods and gardens and hedgerows.

Single, in clusters, opened flower and bud, The snowdrops bloomed: the world was white with them, Half hidden in a snowstorm of snowdrops.

O pleasant Winter! when in place of storms Of sudden snow, by cruel North winds driven, There fell a tender rain of snow-white flowers.

For rather they seemed thrown down from above, A gracious gift, bestowed by angel hands, Than grown up from the dark and wintry earth.

Playing with Fire

I she stirred the ashes at her feet, The burnt-out embers of a by-gone day, Thinking how bright that fire had burned—what heat Glowed once, where now she found all cold and grey.

Then, idly still, scarce knowing what she did, Fanned the pale ashes with her gentle breath, Nor thought of fire within the embers hid, Nor dreamed of life where all lay cold as death.

Sudden a light where all before was dark, Shone in her dazzled eyes, and dimmed her sight, A tongue of flame that, kindled by some spark Undreamed of, made a noonday of the night.

She stood one moment, stunned, then in amaze She fled, for all her world was in a blaze!

Love's Hypocrisy

H lips said "Go"; her shining eyes said "Stay." How tell which was her meaning, which her will? How read the riddle of her yea and nay, And disentangle each, bewildered still? Hearing her chilling tone, all hope expired; Seeing her glowing eyes, despair took heart; One moment certain of the good desired; One moment turning, hopeless, to depart.

Then, as she stood, with half averted face, From head to feet veiled from his ardent eyes, Sudden she changed, and with triumphant grace Flung off the mantle of her soul's disguise! Sweet hypocrite how false was all her feigning, Turning for flight, yet, while she turned, remaining!

The Fate of Beauty

O Age to Beauty doth more fatal prove Than Death in Beauty's bloom and blossoming, Which, snatching loveliness from arms of love, Sets all the world a moment sorrowing.

That, like a subtle forger, whose base art Defiles, defaces, desecrates at will, And leaving all, yet changes every part, And makes all valueless with knavish skill;—

This, like a thief who steals a diadem, But, knowing not to change the treasure's worth, In guilty haste hides deep the radiant gem, A flawless jewel still, beneath the earth:—

And yet, 'twixt this and that, how hard to say, Which better is—swift death or slow decay?

Inconstancy

W from afar I saw your beauty shine, I thought that my whole life were fitly given, If by such gift I made your beauty mine, If by such loss I gained the highest heaven.

But when I stood beside you, and your eyes Were raised to mine, their brightness all unveiled, The charm had vanished; with a sad surprise I found with nearness all desire had failed.

If you had changed, or I had witless grown, Blind to your beauty, deaf to your sweet speech, I knew not, when as cold as any stone, I turned from all that seemed within my reach.

Now near, nor far, no longer I desire That which of late set all my heart on fire.

At the Dawn

W the sad sun with scanty gleam of light, Like a dull sluggard, rising slow and late, Brings a dim dawn to mock my straining sight, And the new day looms, heavy as a fate:— I know that in a far-off Eastern land A splendid morning rises o’er the sea, Flooding with rainbow light the shining sand, Before whose brightness all Night's shadows flee; And think how one upon his pillow turns, And from the sunbeam shades his dreaming eyes, And all his heart within his bosom yearns Towards one who in the distant darkness lies.

For him the burden, and for her the pain Until this riven life be joined again.

Summer in the Indian Plains

T fiery feet of Summer march in haste Across the fields swept bare of ripened grain, And all the garden lies a barren waste Beneath her scorching steps, athirst for rain.

The red rose blossom and the white rose lie In one pale scentless ruin side by side, Poor faded queens, that erst in rivalry For beauty's crown each with the other vied.

With perfume honey-sweet from blossoming trees The heavy air turns faint before the noon, And stagnant odours load the evening breeze Which 'neath their weight dies ere the day be done;

While languidly, with long stems fresh and cool, The lotus lilies lie upon the pool.

In Captivity

IF these chained feet were free to come and go, And at their own will wander through this Isle, Seeking cool shaded paths, and, fast or slow, Choose their own pace, none following the while; If I might take the memory of this Sun To dream upon in cold, dark Winter days, No more constrained to tell out one by one, The languid hours beneath his fervent rays— Then this, my woful place of banishment, My mournful prison-house of misery, Being no longer mine in punishment, Unchanged itself would yet be changed to me; And finding sweet what now most bitter is, My heart would love what once it loathed, I wis.

Three Maidens

I HEARD three maidens laughing merrily, All three were young and one was very fair; Except in jest they had not breathed a sigh, And save the name, they nothing knew of care.

As I came by they rose and clasped me round: "Tell us," they said, "for you have older years, What is this love that each of us has found; Is it a thing for laughter, or for tears?"

One held my hand,—she would not let me go— The fairest whispered softly, "Answer me." The third said lightly, "Ah, she does not know; Love never came so near that she should see!"

I could not speak the truth—I would not lie— And so without a word I passed them by.

To Proteus, on Reading his Love-Sonnets

<>I I WILL not tell you which I love the best Of all your sonnets, for in telling this I should tell more, and all would be confessed, That I so long have hidden in my breast, My soul’s sad secret, my heart’s poisoned bliss. Nor will I whisper, though you bend your cur To catch my murmured word; yet fearing lest This silence seem ungrateful, you shall hear That one there is that with regretful pain, As of a memory wakened from its sleep, Filled both mine eyes with tears, and once again I wept, who for so long have ceased to weep. Take back the book, I am grown calm and sage, There is no tell-tale tear-drop on the page.

To the Same

<>II. T wakes a passionate echo in my heart To every word of yours; for you have known All that I know, and you have skill and art To tell your story without fret or moan In musical sweet words. "Twas thus," I say "With me," and smile as you have smiled before; "And thus it was with me another day." And through your tears I feel mine own grief pour.

And I, like you, henceforward stand alone In silence, where of old Love walked with me, And laughed and sang and made my youth his own, Till Love and I seemed one eternally.

But now we part. The years have brought you peace; To me they bring but sorrow's sharp increase.

Three Singers

Y, Hope, and Love were nestling in her heart, Like three sweet birds that cheered the Summer earth; In Life's glad chorus taking equal part, Filling her days with music and with mirth.

The voice of Youth ceased first, the thievish years Stole one by one its sweetness and its grace, Instead of happy laughter gave her tears, And left a darkness in the glory's place.

Then Hope was hushed, grew fainter day by day, Folded its weary pinions, drooped, and died, From her lone heart passed silently away, Its chamber empty, and its portal wide. Love only of the three still lives and sings, And lifts her soul to Heaven upon its wings.

"To-day is a King in Disguise"

"To-day is a King in Disguise."

A, uncrowned and clad in poor attire, His sceptre and his robes of state laid by, He comes upon us, and our blinded eyes See nothing regal in the mean disguise, And have no power to pierce the mystery, And find the Monarch in his majesty.

But, passed, our sight is cleared; all we desire Of royal pomp and kingly might is shown; He straight resumes the sceptre and the throne, The ermined robes, and reigns triumphantly A crowned King! The while a wondering world, Unmindful of the new disguised To-day, Cries out, as wide his banners float unfurled, "Behold, a King was with us yesterday!"

Thrift

I you had given me the kiss I craved At our last parting, placed your hand in mine, Or even for one moment laid your head To rest upon the heart that ached for you, I should have faced my fate with stouter soul, And walked with firmer feet to meet my doom. It was not much I asked! Not much for you, So rich in all I lacked, to give or grant, And I, poor, desolate, and most forlorn, Should for such grace have blessed you all my days.

Now, neither kiss, nor tender clasping hand, Nor e'en the gift of your whole self could save This wand'rer, shipwrecked on the sea of life; Who, passing by your door, says only this— "You are no richer, dear, for that day's thrift, While I am made the poorer for all time."

The Dole

MAN'S life at best is but a paltry gift Doled grudgingly by moments, breath on breath Till soon or late, th' inevitable death Cuts short the dole, and sets the soul adrift. Time, a sly pilferer, daily steals from youth, Some scarce-missed trifle, which it deemed its own, Secure, inalienable, till, with bitter ruth We see the radiant bosom, once Love's throne, A wrinkled horror, hidden from the day; The arms full roundness shrunk to lean decay, The golden tresses changed to ashen grey, And, one by one Life's compensations flown, To Death, upon the threshold loitering, We stretch forth eager hands of welcoming.

A Coward Heart

S that once, and only once, my feet, Straying from beaten pathways of the plain, Had scaled forbidden mountain heights, and fleet To escape pursuit, had scorned fatigue and pain, And climbing ever higher, reached at length Some topmost pinnacle, whence, looking down, I saw no glimmer of the household fire, And caught no echo of familiar tone, Light, warmth, and music, all for ever gone! Should I not swift descend the mountain slope With eager eyes, and straining ears, in hope To find again the welcome light and sound, Thinking no path so smooth as that I left?

I know it. Yet I pace this beaten track Reluctantly, and with uplifted gaze Turned ever to some unknown point o'er head, Dim in the distance, and all veiled and vague.

An Invocation

A HARP Eolian Is on my window-sill, A box of pulsing melodies, A wood-and-wire thrill.

Its songs are not its own— There is no music there; But it can phrase in tender tone The symphonies of air.

So many poets dead! Is all their power past? Think of the songs that might have been Had not death come too fast!

Why is my hand less skilled Than wood and wire be? Cannot one floating song be willed To breathe its tune to me?

Dear bygone poets, then, Here's paper spread and white; I dip for you a silver pen— Come, guide my hand, and write!

A Rosy Lie

I MET a pretty rosy Lie, Who looked most truthful: I had not strength to pass her by, For I was youthful.

The rosy Lie came home to dine, And stayed to sup: I poured for her my life's best wine In my heart's cup.

The rosy Lie came home to sleep, And still is near me: She has no beauty now to keep, She does not fear me.

The rosy Lie has devil's claws, A tail and pointed horn: But since I once have broken laws She makes my life forlorn.

Friend, if you meet a rosy Lie With smiling face, Be wise and swiftly pass her by And flee the place.

The rosy Lie has demon friends That storm your city, And shape your aims to suit their ends, The more's the pity!

A Little Sin

P little lonely Sin! He wept before my door, His tattered robe was thin, His feet were sore. The night was wild, He seemed a child. One little lonely Sin! I said, "Come in, Yes, enter, little Sin."

We sat in gloom, Talking of many things; I heard within my room The sound of wings. It was my Angel leaving My house, and grieving. I was alone with Sin, Alone at night with Sin, With growing Sin.

Two others entered in, And small Sin grew! They were not one but two. Two mighty gloomy shapes, Like fiends, like apes, Followed the little Sin. No longer thin, No longer lonely, He rules me only. I am the thrall of Sin.

He wrecks my home. All, all against my will He rules me still. When will my Angel come? I am alone with Sin— The little lonely Sin, That was so thin, When first he entered in; Now mighty ruling Sin!

A Wayside Shrine

I MAY not touch with a flake of fire The tall white tapers set in the choir: And worthier hands than mine keep bright The golden lamps of the altar light. Not mine to kindle the glorious blaze Of the torches carried on festal days.

But, where three ways part, on a stony steep, I found a shrine there was none to keep. The Babe and Our Lady were imaged there, But the lamp was broken, the altar bare, The flowers had withered to shrivelled sticks, And a thief had stolen the Crucifix.

I brought the one lamp, that lit my room, And it shone, like a star, in the evening gloom: I have a garden where little grows, But I gave to Our Lady my only rose, And I hung in the Shrine, though my heart denied, The Cross my Dearest held when he died.

My room is dreary, at fall of night, But the lamp that was mine burns clear on the height! I miss the flowers that once were mine, Yet, my heart is glad for the rose in the Shrine, And the empty wall brings no sense of loss, Since I see a Glory, instead of a Cross!

The Grail

S with armed bands Rode out to seek the Grail; But though he sought in many lands, His quest did nought avail.

Sir Pellenore rode home again, To see his mother dear; And coming, found with bitter paint His mother on her bier.

And on the altar at her head, All passion-pure and pale, Abrim with sacred wine rose-red, He saw the Holy Grail!

God grant this little legend wings To all who love to roam: The Holiest and the Dearest things May still be found at home.

At Your Gate

W all your beauty's pageant fades, And all your courtly lovers tire, And you are left, 'mid gathering shades, A weary woman by the fire, I wonder if your thought will tend, Past all your memories of state, To one poor loving, faithful friend In willow cabin at your gate.

Your golden palace gates will close, On the cold hearth the flame expire, The thorn succeed your withered rose, Your face no longer wake desire. Remember then that one is true, But no,—the time is long to wait, Remember now my love for you In willow cabin at your gate.

Love or Fancy

TELL me, Mother, what this may be, What is this that has come to me?—

I have reasonless joys and causeless fears, Purposeless pain, and trivial tears.

For one footstep I listen all day, When I hear it I turn away.

Flutters my heart like a wounded dove, Tell me, Mother, can this be love?"

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Hand in Hand: Verses by Mother and Daughter

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