Poems

Front matter

S

S

BY

The sonnet

s

THE SONNET

WRITE me a poem, fourteen liquid lines,— The secret of a heart, the longing of a soul; But mind your flowing numbers do not roll Their waves beyond the exquisite confines The little garden of the sonnet shines Resplendent in; and mind you quite control That golden strand of rimes,—one, two,—whose sole Reiterance your major chord entwines. Let not your hand a lingering moment waste Till it has captured, where it floats and sings, The birdlike thought you scarce can say you hear; Back to its thicket, else, it hies, untraced, And leaves the poor sestette with trailing wings, And me without the verse I hold so dear.

A sonnet of stars and the sonnet

A SONNET OF STARS AND THE SONNET

COME watch with me, Dear Heart, the seventh white star That shines above the hill. Ah, wait seven more That dart red rays; recount them all before The new moon sets behind that cloudy bar Across the glowing west. What those worlds are My words would fain be, most of all—a lore To speak the heart in, tinctured to the core With light and flame, those orbs exceeding far: A little tale of red and white,—of flame And fire; rose-love, and lily-truth, twice told In mystic seven twice over; chanted yet Again, O Love, close to thine ear, a name Just audible to thee, for thee to hold And have until the stars themselves forget.

The love-sonnet

THE LOVE-SONNET

THERE lies a little mirrored pool alone, And far from traveled ways, this side the crest Of day where morning dwells; fair on its breast A planet shines at night, as if its own Flame would transform the pool into a stone Of splendor, fit for crowned Esther, dressed In coronation glory, for her quest Before Ahasuerus on his throne. This little pool,—ah, let me look therein, And see whence well its waters, pure and clear. No wiser than the bird whose image darts From edge to edge! Nor never shall I win That secret. Shakespeare knew, and she, that dear And great one, first in Browning's heart of hearts.

The sonnet is the violet

THE SONNET IS THE VIOLET

THE sonnet is the violet of song, A flower that springs responsive to the rain Of tears, or to the heart when under strain Of joy so deep that silence would do wrong To life and love; then lyric phrases throng The thought,—intoning, rise and fall,—again, Again,—like evening bells in low refrain, As if the words the passion would prolong. O thou that seekest to make this little lower Bloom in thy garden-plot of poesy, Behold how dear it was to laureate kings, And plant thou, too, in sacred earth and hour; And men shall love thee in the years to be As one who loved and cherished loveliest things.

With the tongues of men and angels

WITH THE TONGUES OF MEN AND ANGELS

ONE sweep of Homer's purple paints the sea Gurgling 'mid Agea's islanded confines; One touch of Shakespeare's pen incarnadines The waters of the world with tragedy. Milton's bare word on Vallombrosa's tree Makes thick the leaves. And thought the more resigns Itself to such imaginings since that it pines And beats against its cage for language free As theirs to speak out plain its life in, Star And sun commend the prayer for words of light: Perfection's rounded worlds far swinging on Within their shining orbits draw from tar The soul's desire up to a glittering height It had not tried had no foot further gone.

The immortal

THE IMMORTAL

A MAN went forth to battle once and set His flag upon the blackened wall of fate; Then when the death foreseen had made him great, His mourning country strove to pay the debt With laureled marble and with carved regret; She wrote his deed upon the book of state, She graved it, blazoned, on the palace gate, Dared Time himself to read and then forget. Yet moss-grown is that name now. None can know What thing was done that marble should be piled. But brave young hearts arise, and haste, and go To victory still, chanting with joyous tread The ballad bold that roused and reconciled To death that nameless one among the dead.

To a violin

ppoem| TO A VIOLIN

{sm}

In silva viva situi:

Jam mortua cano.—Inscription on a violin.

O INSTRUMENT of lovely sound, art naught

But wood and yet can be such heavenly friend?

Thou that wert tree once, seraph that art, commend

Thy silences to me, till troubled thought, That wakes o' nights o'er little tasks half-wrought,

Learns to be still and wait life's secret trend,

While into every fiber life shall send

Harmonies from archangels' choiring caught. So shall there be from me when I am dead

Music immortal, sweet and searching; yea,

The end shall never be, and I shall sing

Away tears of the unsatisfied and say

To hearts (that wist not how they need) what bread

Says to the spirit when smoking censers swing.

Books

BOOKS

WHAT though "the glory that was Greece" I hold In fee but as a faint reflected gleam? What though "the grandeur that was Rome" must seem To me forever but a tale that 's told, Mingled with murmurs of the dim and old Far sounds of remembered evenings, when a dream Of it, stirred by my father's voice, did stream Processionary through the twilight cold? Far other worlds have I to travel in: One way far as the morning star I go, Hearkening to shepherd songs of David's lyre; Or some far isle in Prosper's boat I win, By stream, and wood, and freshet springs to know Joy for the thought, range for the heart's desire.

Tamalpais

TAMALPAIS

LLOOK where the sunset in a glare of gold Outspreads a glittering net across the strait: You see a mountain wreathéd long and late With opaline mists that sweep in gorgeous fold On fold, above, below? So, you behold Mount Tamalpais, the purple, ultimate, Unmythic pillar of that Golden Gate Which opens outward, beckoning to bold Mariners, tempted of the winds and seas To seek some orient in the flaming west: Tempted of an inward glow to leave all Behind, 'scape all, and greaten out and please The spirit in some wider empire, guessed Of by that glow, conjectured by that call.

Here beginneth space

HERE BEGINNETH SPACE

<>I

I SAW a pillar rise against the sky, That veiled one star behind its crystal shaft; Slow outward moving went an oarless raft Seeking I saw not what ere light should die; All round that lonely land the rocks piled high, Nor signified an end, nor wit nor craft Of builder; winds blew fair as if to waft A breath of hope, but hope came not thereby. With utter grief so dreamed I that I dreamed; Wherefore, I had no sleep, for I would learn Where went the oarless raft; with soul aflame I followed on and on, until I seemed, Upon a shoreless ocean lone, to turn And flee a formless Dread without a name.

<>II

Ah, wistful soul, that cannot be at rest! Thou frettest in the circle drawn around This little world? To others without bound Or limit,—yet to thee its east and west Are only door-posts whence thou makest quest For somewhat more of truth than thou hast found By weighing suns or atoms, taking sound And finding reefs and barriers thou hadst guessed. Behold earth's wisdom; take its measure now; Let thy surveyor soul be satisfied And know. Carry thy chain and set thy rod Forward, beyond, one furlong more, yet thou, Like all before thee born, shalt run to hide Thy baffled face before the feet of God.

Law

LAW

LAW said to the river, "Go this winding way, And I will go with thee, down to the sea; Yea, I will bring thee home again, all be, Through rolling clouds where hail and thunder play. There woven with the sunlight, ray for ray, Thou then wilt shine, and men beholding me Intimate in archangel company Shall gladly choose me lord and me obey." I saw that river meet the ocean waste: A ship far seaward felt beneath her keel A friendlier wave; a whirling tempest turned And fled to unsailed seas; a white bird traced Her homeward way. And, trembling, I could feel That overhead a seven-hued splendor burned.

Mors Amoris

MORS AMORIS

LOVE lay dead upon her funeral pyre, And men and angels mourned her where she lay; The sun's light fled, the stars all waned away, The lean white moon put out her silver fire. Said Grief, "'T was Pride that stabbed her. Deep and dire Shall be his hell." "Nay, now, your harsh words stay! I saw him dying by her door this day," Wept Pity, while she wreathed a golden tire Of asphodel round Love's poor head. "To death I wounded her," wailed Truth. "Deep within the sea, I'll drown myself." "Yet none of these, O none,"— A whisper rose, as it were Love's last breath,— "Hath brought me low. Live thou, sweet Truth, for me: This deed of death Indifference hath done."

The emigrant exiles

THE EMIGRANT EXILES

LANDWARD, at dawn, we saw the forests cloud The high horizon's rim; we heard the song Of waking birds upon the shore and watched the long Low wave that lapping went with whisper loud Up to the rocks of purple gray; and proud Our canvas swelled to pass the savage throng Of monsters set with plan to do us wrong By some grim power those regions dire allowed. A sapphire sky bending a friendly dome Above an island where life's daily task May be, in peace, with simple comfort done— A kindly sea for us encircling home; O, these are all our wayworn spirits ask! Comes hope again with yonder rising sun?

Truth

TRUTH

MEN make thought of thee after their own Measure. According to their wit they sound Thy seas and search thy skies. When they have found The thing that verifies their guess,—some stone Too old for life carved deep with life, some cone Where fern should be, some square that should be round,— They make the world's broad market-place resound, Till earth with shattered faiths lies thickly strewn. Let us forbear to blame,—let us forbear! For wistfully upon the desert waste Men watch the eastern quarter of the sky; For wistfully, with wide eyes half-aware Of somewhat waiting still to know and taste, Youth runs to meet thee face to face and die.

As if it had not been?

AS IF IT HAD NOT BEEN?

A WHIRL of gnats above a twilight pool Falling a-crisp when summer lightnings blaze; A black foray from out the anthill there, That drowns beneath a sudden rush of rain; A universe of crawling atoms, dead Within a sun-dried inch of vagrant foam Stranded by slowly lapsing July pond,— And all is naught, as if it had not been? Slow æons, then a watery wash of air; Huge fronds and monster forests fallen and old; Myriad creatures whelmed in ribbèd rocks, And man at last, and last, upon a whirling world; Then all burnt out to ashes, dead and cold,— And all is naught, as if it had not been?

To

TO

WHEN I behold thy spirit's lofty tree Unwithered, rich in leaf, and flower, and fruit, And know it has not place to strike a root, Except in fields of sorrow—griefs I see And name not, death and loss,—my thought of thee Makes wreaths heroic; marveling, though mute Before the strength that keeps a resolute Great soul unharmed of its integrity. Thou hast laid hold on some eternal rock Of truth and fearest no unseen disaster Of time or tide; for grievous earthly things (Thou sayest still) are but for seasons, mock Our merely mortal part, and cannot master What knows itself above the need of wings.

Hyacynth; a child's character

HYACINTH; A CHILD'S CHARACTER

OFT have I seen the poet's word inspire His waking soul, until before him seemed To shine some glory from whose edge there streamed Into his face foregleams of high desire To be fulfilled. And I have seen, in fire And forge of conflict shaped, his will that dreamed Aforetime dallying with itself, redeemed From slavery's threat and clothed in king's attire. When he beheld the truth, he followed far To grasp it for his own. It was no grief To him that then he knew not why he sought; Day after day brought gifts of joy, and star On star the night prepared; so was he lief, And glad to know, not knowing he was taught.

Vocations

VOCATIONS

IF this be all of life," said one who fared Along a hillward way with head perpend, "If this be all of life, why, come the end! What good in joys one has not had and shared? Yon minstrel, velvet-clad and yellow-haired,— The king keeps him to stare and fool and spend'— I would be he, would but my fortune mend; Forget what I aspired to, what I dared." He laid him down beneath a thicket shade; He slept a dreamless sleep and saw the world Anew; he rose and lifted up a stone And set it in a torrent's path and made A city safe from ruin, all but hurled Upon its peace by mountain tempests thrown.

The lion in the desert

THE LION IN THE DESERT

HERE must I crouch beneath the shriveled sage, Until the night comes down upon the sand A-scorch with fiery day, where it has spanned With senseless blue the desert's biting rage At beast and bush, since morn, as if to wage A war of hate on all the hollow land. Here must I lie alone, a-thirst, unfanned By stir of leaves, trapped in the sun's own cage. I know the bare pool by the dead cliff's foot; If the fierce sun lap it not all ere dark As he laps my blood now, I'll bring her there, My mate, panting yonder at the hot root Of that white rock,—gate of the devil's park Wherein the red sun finds his nightly lair!

<>II

Ah, drink, poor mate, here in the shrunken pool, Enough, now, till, when the darkest dark drops black, We follow forth the sprinkled shining track Of the unhurting stars, slow by the cool Flow of low streams; the desert shall not fool Our footsteps out across its flaring rack Again, nor take our blood, nor toll us back To grisly empires where the sun has rule: For we are masters of the world, not he; The night is always ours; not even the stars Have dared to interfere, and the high moon Goes by her own white path, though she can see Ours leads the best way. There no desert bars, And cool in thickets deep we 'll sleep at noon.

Browning

BROWNING

<>1860

MEN said there were no ways that they could climb The mountain some could see. Nay, more, they said,— Beholding as through mist its veilèd head,— It was no mountain, but a cloud; or time Would prove it but a barren, unsublime, And cheerless country; neither grain for bread, Nor in its purlieus, bloom for honey spread; Not order but confusion all its rime.

<>1890

But now it is men's joy to find twelve ways To one clear spot; and yet to find too dim No shade, no bough vociferant with leaves Upon the mountain. Ay, they haste to praise The clouds they see on the horizon's rim, Where, sovereign and serene, the great cone cleaves.

In the cornfield

IN THE CORN-FIELD

ENCOMPASSED close by ranks of bladed corn, Where shade and shine their harmless rapiers cross, Where dallying airs the yellow cornsilk toss, Upon the earth at rest and unforlorn Though all alone, I lie in tranquil scorn Of nearer care or far to-morrow's loss; And if above my head 'tis silken floss That floats, or cloud, I'll think to-morrow morn. For, oh, it is enough to lapse into a dream And let the wearied heart its pulsing slow; Enough to feel the folding air at play On brow and cheek, and watch the stream Of downward sloping leaves, and come and go In thought with them, as forth and back they sway.

A character

ppoem| A CHARACTER

{sm}<>"Different from himself."—Plutarch.

YEA, it is true, my soul, yet hard to say:

His outlook has no mountain nor no sky;

Ships of his mart are ever sailing by

On some mean errand, though he knows the way To lands Elysian. You could name no day

Of his not stained with lowest self, nor pry

Into his thoughts and not appallèd fly

The downward drawing of his soul of clay. Yet moods there are of his that burn with gleams

Of archangelic fire,—that re-illume and stir

His coarsely-vestured soul, till, as once it shone,

Illuminate it shines; to doubt him seems

The caviling of an envious mind, a slur

For which devoted love could scarce atone.

Bright little comrade

BRIGHT LITTLE COMRADE

BRIGHT little comrade from the woods, come show Thy antic cheer about my sunlit room Of books, that stand in moods of gloom Because thought's tide is out, heart's rhythm is low With weariness. Friendly thou art and know Good friend in me, who yet did dare presume To take thee from thy home, thy little doom To make for thee, and longer life bestow. So, thou hast not been eaten by the snake; Thy gentle blood no weasel drank at night; Thou hast not starved >mid winter's frozen wood, Nor waited vainly for the sun to make Sweet the wild nuts for thee. Yet, little sprite, Thou still doth question if my deed were good?

The mountain lioness

THE MOUNTAIN LIONESS

<>I

I HAD remembered it, the crunch of bones, Almost too vividly to merely look And let them pass, the woman with a book, And that fair child with plaything cones And bits of pebbles, while across the stones Of my own spring he tripped and shook 'The very brake where I lay hid, and took A rose as one takes lightly what he owns. I had remembered it, and hunger lean, Low crouching 'neath the brier, into his face Breathed hotly through the tangled, fern-thick screen; So close I breathed, so fierce, as to displace His yellow curls, as though a wind blew by; No other harm! This beast-pent soul knows why.

<>II

I was a woman once, a mother,—God, That I remember it! that I still know! I had a child like that; and 't was my woe That, being beautiful, I therefore trod The hearts of men as leaves upon the sod, And tasked my soul its uttermost to show That men the love of angels would forego Even for my meanest smile, my faintest nod. I let him die with him that loved us both; Then men despised me, and I died to this: A soulless beast, whose yellow whelps were loth To own her, so died too. Oh, even to miss Even then might make me loathe myself so deep, My soul, long dead, would come to life and weep!

Crop and garden

CROP AND GARDEN

THE rent within the cloak thy neighbor wears Forbear to see; forbear to know that bread Comes coarse to him and served on delf, yet dread To lose the word his life unwitting spares For salt to thine. Forthright, as on he fares In tranquil frame although his heart has bled, And still aches on with tears he must not shed, Haste with what help thou hast for all he bears. Behold, there, how thy crop and garden grow, Erect in sunshine, sweet in fruit and seed; See how they give, not counting loss or gain; They have not wicked wit enough to know Preëminence of right above the wilding weed To gifts of light, to treasures of the rain,

To a friend, with a volume of Lowell's poems

ppoem| TO A FRIEND, WITH A VOLUME OF LOWELL'S POEMS

{sm}<>F. C. T.

A YELLOW sapphire set in frosted gold,

A charm of purple sardius subtly chased,

A silken scarf with golden broideries traced,

A blood-red rose, a bud of rarer mould, A poet's book with untold tales out-told,—

Which shall it be? With heart's warm wisdom graced

This milestone on your highway newly placed

Your friend would mark in fashion sweet and old. And so what this gift can will let it say,

As trusting its interpreter to find

Remembering moments as he goes the way

This book shall lead him, when his gladdened mind

But faintly conscious of a thought's delay,

May feel, "Thine, too, the impulse of this day."

Her calendar

ppoem| HER CALENDAR

{sm sc}<>S. M. M., Jan. 16, 1886.

WE do not count her age by days and years,

But by the constant summer in her face;

Not by the sorrows that have brought her tears,

But by the faith that takes away their trace;

Hence have we kept in warm familiar place

Such record,—be we younger,—as endears

All that she is to us, and adds a grace

To each till each as old as she appears. But we, who older walk with her, have caught

That chrism, too, that doth her life enrich;

For the high faith which in her soul hath wrought

Reflects a light on ours from that fair niche

Wherein our hearts, in love for her made bold, Have set her that she never may grow old.

On a photograph of school children

ON A PHOTOGRAPH OF SCHOOL CHILDREN

THEY say we praise too much this lyric land, Its bloomy plains, its mountains bold and high; With orient phrase and metaphor, we dye Its golden rivers and its wave-warm strand; There where our homes, by sea-winds faintly fanned, 'Mid lucent-clustered vines and orchards lie, We dwell, complacent that no other sky Rounds its blue dome above a clime so grand. Is this a grievous fault, if it be true, To love our land? But never let them say O bright expectant throng, sun-pictured here, That Nature showers in vain her gifts on you. Lo, with these splendors you may match your day, And greaten all the glory of the year.

At Berkeley

ppoem| AT BERKELEY

{sm}<>E.R.S.

THIS place will love one poet first and best,

Whoever comes hereafter. Not a stone

That lies along the hillward path alone

Where he has trod, but there his eye would rest As on a friend, should he return in quest

Through haunts remembered; nothing he has known

And praised but still would choose him as its own

Interpreter and best belovéd guest. Some souls there were who thought the bramble vine

That twitched his sleeve to offer fruit or flower

Had more than blessedness enough; while they

Found no good words to speak their debt or shrine

Their love in; some recorded the one hour

They heard his voice as life's own natal day.

Wise hearts have conned his wisdom, line on line,

And fools have left their thrones and learned to pray;

And those who loved him most love most his way

Of still withdrawal,—love, and make no sign.

A Shakespeare reader

A SHAKESPEARE READER

AN island where illusive voice and scene, To lead them to the truth, led men astray; A leafy wood astir with pastoral play; A castle cursed with demon king and queen; A palace brightened by the sunny sheen Of Portia's locks,—these fancy could portray With pallid brush; then they would fade away Like painted landscapes on a magic screen: But show us, thou interpreter, the wand That Prosper buried certain fathoms deep! Thou hast its potent art. With voice and hand Conjure,—we follow to that orient steep Which overlooks the Shakespeare tableland, And there, entranced, 'mid living landscapes stand.

Evening on the Oakland hills

EVENING ON THE OAKLAND HILLS

NOW from the dusk that visits field and hill I hear the tumult of the mist-veiled town, An evening murmur of repose sink down, Till in the peace of night the world is still. One bird sings on with reminiscent trill Of daylight lyrics on the leafy crown Of thickets deep, where lies, 'mid shadows brown, His little home, vine-hid from every ill. Half-heard, the iron causeway's clangor holds In check the movement of the memory, And life seems all a picture, far and faint. The old sea pauses, far away the folds Of his gray vesture flings in foam-bands free, Curves round the crags, and lies in lulled restraint.

Attained

ATTAINED

A STATELY metaphor they carved for her In far-brought marble on a splendid tomb, Among rare roses in the scented gloom Of ancient groups of fir and juniper. As if the thought engrailèd mournings were Full reparation for a sad fore-doom, Scarce had she gone from out her lonely room When shadowing draperies made the day a blur. Yet now the joy of birds in morning song, The noonday quiet in the lanes of leaves, The hope of dawns, the spheral peace of night, All come to that proud spot; there starbeams throng, And immemorial Nature smiles and weaves That heart's long grief into her web of light.

Tragedy

ppoem| TRAGEDY

{sm}

"The tragedy is not his (Rousseau's); but the

tragedy is the world's, that it should have had to

endure him as the master of its thought, its leader."

NOT that, O World, thy grave diurnal round

Beheld the heart of man unreconciled

To such a lot as thou hadst given thy child;

Not that man's thought was red with blood, or bound In prison by his brother's hate, or wound

Within the web of destiny or wild,

Dark death's; nay, not because of these up-piled,

Do fear and pity all my soul astound: But that, O World, processionary moved

Thy nations,—this unto its doom, and this

To starlike state, marshaled thereto by fate,

Wrapped up in one fire-shafted word, amiss

From mouth ignoble, while thy prophets proved

Un-Delphian, dumb, not daring to be great.

A fable of amethysts

ppoem| A FABLE OF AMETHYSTS

SERAPHAEL wooed a woman angel fair,

And laid his life before her fateful feet.

She laughed,—her laughter was most sweet,—

And tossed him back from out her twisted hair A blood-red rose,—his hand had placed it there;—

"Take back your rose, yourself, and go repeat

This tale," she said, "to her whom next you meet;

For such fine playthings she perchance may care." And thus his heart's great fervor won away,

She threw aside as lightly as his flower,

For him, this made a lifetime's bitter day;

For her, the triumph of an idle hour;

For him life paused, its currents turned astray,

Love died and Hate seized all her princely dower.

<>II

Then fell Seraphael's tears upon the ground

Across the purple flower he held and kissed;

Then rained the purple drops like hail through mist

And fell pale Muriel's woful feet around; Her pale and paler growing hair unbound,

That was of shredded gold a wondrous twist,

Her cheeks, her azure eyes, so unprofound,

All sank dissolved and froze to amethyst.

{sm}<>MORAL

What if my fable be in thought absurd?

Two seeds of truth lie in its crabbed core;

And man may read anew what he has heard

Since woman's face its blush of beauty wore;

And woman feel again the truth which stirred

Her heart at Eden's closed and flaming door.

Sonnets of a lover

SONNETS OF A LOVER

<>I

I KNOW not, O God, what chrism shall be mine, Of loss, thorn-crowned, or love supreme and whole; But let it be that I may bear my soul Blameless though afraid before that divine Ark, where 'mid angels' wings thou didst enshrine The Nobler Love. Take Thou of thought control Until upon my breast the sacred stole Of Love's investiture may fitly shine. Thou dost instruct me; light is not withheld; I would exalt myself to that I know, For her whom I shall choose; for her would rise Above myself; for her would haste, compelled To holiest heights of being, there to go Comrade of stars, frequenter of the skies.

<>II

Could you let my heart speak, O lady fair, And tell how, ever exalting love and you, It has uplifted life and led it through The lowlands, up the high and sunlit stair Of duty,—oh, if you could, you might care A little for this rose,—love's blossoming true,— Sprung by the path where you have brushed the dew In passing; and a little I might share The thought thus wakened, and a little cherish This rose, that wistful rears its tender head Looking to Love's domain; there would it shrine Its joyous boughs about our home, nor perish Though thou and I were numbered with the dead, Though there thy heart lay buried low with mine.

<>III

A bird sings in the garden of my heart, And all day long I hear its carol clear; At night it folds its gentle wings so near, Its tender pulsings stir my blood and start The tears within my eyes to think love's art Should stay her wings with me and make so dear The rude wild bowers of my demesne, nor fear But she should find her spirit's counterpart. All day I go resolved and thinking how To make more sweet for her that garden place; How I will pluck away the weeds, the rose Of love to plant there for her nesting-bough; How I will school my heart to every grace That it may be her home, her one repose.

<>IV

As Dante's soul uplifted, whiter grew When thinking Beatrice's prayer would be For his ennobling, so mine turns to thee, My heart's astronomer, to find the clue To guiding stars yet hidden from my view, But risen to thine. The clouded orbs I see Through mists of earth, barely suffice to me To show the devious path I still pursue. Could I conspire with the archangel there Before thy heart's flame-guarded paradise! Fear not, sweet spirit; I should walk unshod Its ways, and kneeling where thou kneel'st at prayer, If I should hear my faltered name, arise Assured of life, of love, of thee, of God.

ppoem| start=stanza| <>V

Lady, thy goodness shone to me from far,

Long ere my soul beheld its luminous ray

Of high serenity athwart my way

As certain light from some invariable star. So have I seen in desert paths the spar

Of dim white crystal gleaming in the gray