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´╗┐Title: Stray Pebbles from the Shores of Thought
Author: Gould, Elizabeth Porter
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Stray Pebbles from the Shores of Thought" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

[Illustration: Yours Sincerely,

Elizabeth Porter Gould.]




    COPYRIGHT 1892


      To Walt Whitman                                           11
      To Summer Hours                                           12
      A True Vacation                                           13
      A Question                                                14
      To a Butterfly                                            16
      In a Hammock                                              18
      O rare, sweet summer day                                  20
      An Old Man's Reverie                                      22
      On Jefferson Hill                                         26
      On Sugar Hill                                             28
      At "Fairfield's," Wenham                                  29
      Blossom-time                                              31
      The Primrose                                              33
      Joy, all Joy                                              35
      Among the Pines                                           37
      Conscious or Unconscious                                  39


      Love's How and Why                                        43
      Love's Guerdon                                            44
      A Birthday Greeting                                       45
      Three Kisses                                              48
      If I were only sure                                       50
      Absence                                                   52
      A Love Song                                               53
      In Her Garden                                             55
      Love's Wish                                               56
      Is there anything purer                                   58
      Longing                                                   60
      Young Love's Message                                      61
      A Diary's Secret                                          63
      A Monologue                                               65
      A Priceless Gift                                          66
      The Ocean's Moan                                          67
      Love's Flower                                             70
      Renunciation                                              71
      Love Discrowned                                           74
      A Widow's Heart Cry                                       76
      Together                                                  78
      Shadowed Circles                                          80


      A Song of Success                                         85
      The Under World                                           87
      She Knows                                                 88
      At Pittsford, Vermont                                     90
      Childhood's Days                                          92
      An Answer                                                 94
      Where, What, Whence                                       96
      Heroes                                                    98
      A Magdalen's Easter Cry                                  100
      For the Anniversary of Mrs. Browning's Death             103
      Robert Browning                                          105
      To Neptune, in behalf of S. C. G.                        107
      To the Pansies growing on the grave of A. S. D.          109
      A Broken Heart                                           111
      My Release                                               113
      The god of music                                         115
      To Wilhelm Gericke                                       118
      For E. T. F.
        1.--After the birth of her son                         119
        2.--Upon the death of her son                          121
      To C. H. F.                                              123
      An Anniversary Poem                                      126
      A Comfort                                                128
      An Anniversary                                           129
      To Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody                             131
      At Life's Setting                                        133
      Grandma Waiting                                          136
      Does it Pay                                              144
      Auxilium ab Alto                                         145
      Limitations                                              147
      The Muse of History                                      148
      An Impromptu to G. H. T.                                 151
      To Mrs. Partington                                       153
      Lines for the Seventieth Birthday Anniversary of Walt
            Whitman                                            156


      The Known God                                            161
      To Phillips Brooks                                       163
      At the "Porter Manse"                                    165
      Our Lady of the Manse                                    167
      To B. P. Shillaber                                       169
      To Our Mary                                              171
      A Birthday Remembrance                                   173
      Josef Hofmann                                            175
      After the Denial                                         177
      Gethsemane                                               179
      On Lake Memphremagog                                     181
      Luke 23: 24                                              183
      To Members of my Home Club                               185


      Mamma's Lullaby                                          189
      Warren's Song                                            190
      Baby Mildred                                             192
      Rosamond and Mildred                                     194
      'Chilla                                                  196
      Childish Fancies                                         197
      What little Bertram did                                  199
      "Dear little Mac"                                        202
      Willard and Florence on Mt. Wachusett                    207
      A little Brazilian                                       210
      The little doubter                                       213
      Our Kitty's Trick                                        217
      A Message                                                220



            "I loafe and invite my soul."
                And what do I feel?
      An influx of life from the great central power
      That generates beauty from seedling to flower.

            "I loafe and invite my soul."
                And what do I hear?
      Original harmonies piercing the din
      Of measureless tragedy, sorrow, and sin.

            "I loafe and invite my soul."
                And what do I see?
      The temple of God in the perfected man
      Revealing the wisdom and end of earth's plan.

    _August, 1891._



      Trip lightly, joyous hours,
      While Day her heart reveals.
      Such wealth from secret bowers
      King Time himself ne'er steals.
      O joy, King Time ne'er steals!


      Breathe gently, tireless hours,
      While Night in beauty sleeps.
      Hold back e'en softest showers,--
      Enough that mortal weeps.
      Ah me, that my heart weeps!



      "Cradled thus and wind caressed,"
              Under the trees,
              (Oh what ease.)
      Nature full of joyous greeting;
      Dancing, singing, naught secreting,
      Ever glorious thoughts repeating--
              Pause, O Time,
              I'm satisfied!
              Now all life
              Is glorified!

_Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass._


               Is life a farce?
               Tell me, O breeze,
      Bearing the perfume of flowers and trees,
               While gaily decked birds
      Pour forth their gladness in songs beyond words,
      And cloudlets coquette in the fresh summer air
      Rejoicing in everything being so fair--
               Is life a farce?

               How can it be, child,
               When Nature at heart
      Is but the great spirit of love and of art
      Eternally saying, "I must God impart."

               Is life a farce?
               Tell me, O soul,
      Struggling to act out humanity's whole
               'Midst Error and Wrong,
      And failure in sight of true victory's song;
      With Wisdom and Virtue at times lost to view,
      And love for the many lost in love for the few--
              Is life a farce?

              How can it be, child,
              When humanity's heart
      Is but the great spirit of love and of art
      Eternally crying, "I must God impart."


      O butterfly, now prancing
             Through the air,
             So glad to share
      The freedom of new living,
      Come, tell me my heart's seeking.
            Shall I too know
            After earth's throe
      Full freedom of my being?
            Shall I, as you,
            Through law as true,
      Know life of fuller meaning?

      O happy creature, dancing,
            Is time too short
            With pleasure fraught
      For you to heed my seeking?

      Ah, well, you've left me thinking:
            If here on earth
            A second birth
      Can so transform a being,
            Why may not I
            In worlds on high
      Be changed beyond earth's dreaming?


      The rustling leaves above me,
      The breezes sighing round me,
      A network glimpse of bluest sky
      To meet the upturned seeing eye,
      The greenest lawn beneath me,
      Loved flowers and birds to greet me,
      A well-kept house of ancient days
      To tell of human nature's ways,--
          Oh happy, happy hour!

      Whence comes all this to bless me,
      The soft wind to caress me,
      The life which does my strength renew
      For purer visions of the true?
      Alas! no one can tell me.
      But, hush! let Nature lead me.
      Let even wisest questions cease
      While I breathe in such life and peace
          This happy, happy hour.

_Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass._


      "The day is placid in its going,
        To a lingering motion bound,
      Like a river in its flowing--
        Can there be a softer sound?"


          O rare, sweet summer day,
          Could'st thou not longer stay?
        The soothing, whispering wind's caress
          Was bliss to weary brain,
        The songs of birds had power to bless
          As in fair childhood's reign.

      The tinted clouds were free from showers,
        The sky was wondrous clear,
      The precious incense of rare flowers
        Made sweet the atmosphere;
      The shimmering haze of mid-day hour
        Was balm to restlessness,
      While thought of silent hidden power
        Was strength for helplessness--
        O rare, sweet summer day,
        Could'st thou not longer stay?

_Porter Manse._


      Blow breezes, fresh breezes, on Love's swiftest wing,
      And bear her the message my heart dares to sing.
      Pause not on the highways where gathers earth's dust,
      Nor in the fair heavens, though cloudlets say must.
      But blow through the valleys where flowers await
      To give of their essence ere yielding to fate;
      Or blow on the hill tops where atmospheres lie
      Imbued with the health which no money can buy.
      But fail not, O breezes, on Love's swiftest wing
      To bear her the message my heart dares to sing.

      The breezes, thus ladened, sped on in their flight,
      As, cradled in hammock, I sang in delight,
      On that blest summer day in the years long ago,
      When life was all sunshine and youth all aglow.
      The sweets of the valleys, the breath of the hills
      Were gathered--the best that our loved earth distills--
      As, obedient still to my wish, on they flew
      To the home of my darling they now so well knew.

       *       *       *       *       *

      Alas for the breezes, alas for my heart,
      Alas for my message, so full of love's art!
      If only the breezes had followed their will,
      And loitered among the pure cloudlets so still,
      They'd have met a fair soul from the earth just set free
      In search of their help for its message to me;
      The message my darling, with last fleeting breath,
      In vain tried to utter, o'ertaken by death.

      The breezes, fresh breezes, have blown on since then,
      With messages laden again and again.
      As for me, I send none. I wait only their will
      To bring me that message my lone heart to fill.
      They'll find it some day in a light zephyr chase,
      For nothing is lost in pure love's boundless space.



      The sovereign mountains bask in sunset rays,
            The valleys rest in peace;
      The lingering clouds melt into twilight haze,
            The birds their warbling cease;
      The villagers' hour of welcome sleep is near,
            The cattle wander home,
      While wrapped in summer-scented atmosphere,
            Calm evening comes to roam
              With gentle pace
              Through star-lit space,
      Till moon-kissed Night holds all in her embrace,
      And Morning waits to show her dawn-flushed face.


TO F. B. F.

      The lovely valleys nestling in the arms
          Of glorious mountain peaks;
      The purple tint of sunset hour, and charms
          The evening hour bespeaks;
      The monarch peak kissed by the rising sun,
          While clouds keep guard below;
      Grand, restful views, with foliage autumn-won,
          And Northern lights rare glow,--
                Will e'er recall,
                In memory's hall,
      The happy days when on fair "Look-Off's" height,
      Sweet friendship cast her hues of golden light.

_Hotel Look-Off, September, 1891._


_June, 1890._

        Buttercups and daisies,
          Clover red and white,
        Ferns and crown-topped grasses
          Waving with delight,
        Dainty locust-blossoms,
          All that glad June yields,
        Welcome me with gladness
          To dearly-loved "Fairfields."
      But where's my happy collie dog,
                  My Rosa?

        The orioles sing greeting,
          The butterflies come near,
        The hens cease not their cackling,
          The horses neigh "I'm here,"
        The cows nod "I have missed you,"
          The pigs' eyes even shine,
        And from the red-house hearth-stone
          Comes pet cat Valentine.
      But where's my happy collie dog,
                  My Rosa?

        I miss her joyful greeting,
          Her handsome, high-bred face,
        Her vigorous, playful action
          In many a fair field chase.
        Not even lively Sancho
          Can fill for me her place.

        O Rosa, happy Rosa,
          Gone where the good dogs go,
        Dost find such fields as "Fairfields,"
          More love than we could show?

  [A] "Fairfields" is but another name for "Porter Manse."


      Blossoms floating through the air,
      Bearing perfumes rich and rare,
      Free from trouble, toil, and care.
          Would I were a blossom!

      Robins singing in the trees,
      Feeling every velvet breeze,
      Free from knowledge that bereaves.
          Would I were a robin!

      Violets peaceful in the vale,
      Telling each its happy tale,
      Free from worldly noise and sale.
          Would I were a violet!

      Blessed day of needed wealth,
      Full of Nature's perfect health,
          Fill me with thy power.

      Then like blossoms I shall be,
          Wafting only purity,
      Or like robins, singing free
      'Midst the deepening mystery,
      Or like violets, caring naught
      Only to reflect God's thought."

_Porter Manse._


      Who tells you, sweet primrose, 'tis time to wake up
            After dreaming all day?
      Who changes so quickly your sombre green dress
            To the yellow one gay,
      And makes you the pet of the twilight's caress,
            And of poet's sweet lay?
            Who does, primrose, pray?

      The primrose, secure on his emerald throne,
            Looked up quickly to say,
      "A dear lovely fairy glides down from his throne
            In the sun's golden ray,
      And with a sweet kiss opens wide all our eyes,
            Saying, 'Now is your day.'
      And lo! when he's gone we are filled with surprise
            At our wondrous array,
            So fresh and so gay.
      Do tell us the name of this fairy, I pray,
      Who gives of his beauty, and then hies away
            Without thanks, without pay.
            Does he linger your way?"


      Lying on the new-mown hay, in a sightly field,
            On a summer day,
            With no care to weigh,
      Or a bitter thought to stay all that sense might yield--
            What a joy to have alway!

      Sky as blue as blue can be, perfect green all round,
            Birdlings on the wing
            Ere they pause to sing
      On the top of bush or tree, or on sweet hay-mound--
            Restful joy in everything!

      Butterflies just come to light, proud of freedom's hour,
            Cows in pastures near,
            Wondering why I'm here,
      Chipmunks now and then in sight, bees in clover-flower--
            Added joy when these appear!

      Happy children far and near climbing loads of hay,
            Running here and there.
            Farmer's work to share,
      Skipping, shouting loud and clear, full of daring play--
            Children's joy! Joy everywhere!


      Far up in air the pines are murmuring
          Love songs sweet and low,
          With a rhythmic flow,
      Worthy of the glad sun's glow.

      The airy clouds are o'er them bending,
          Captured by the sound
          Of such pleasure found
      In a playful daily round.

      The birds pause in their flight to listen,
          Wondering all the while
          How the trees can smile
      Rooted so to earthly guile.

      The hush of summer noon enwraps them
            Perfumed from below
            By the flowers that show
        They, too, murmuring love songs know.

      All nature finds a joy in loving--
            Oh, that I could hear
            Love songs once so dear
        Death has hushed forever here!

_Intervale Woods, North Conway._


      The earthquake's shock, the thunder's roar,
        The lightning's vivid chain,
      The ocean's strength, the deluge's pour,
        The wildest hurricane,

      Are moods that Nature loves to show
        To man who boasts his birth
      From conscious force she could not know
        Because denied soul-worth.

      But is it true she does not share
        A knowledge in God's plan?
      Must not she His own secret bear
        To so touch soul of man?

      Those who deny this see not clear
        Into the heart of things;
      For how could otherwise God here
        Reveal His wanderings?



        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?


      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.


            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.


      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.


      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._


            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.


      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.


            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?


      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?


      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."


      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."


_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.


            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."


      '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.


      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 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.


(_In Four Scenes._)


      "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,--

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


      "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."


      She gave one look, one piercing look,
        Drew back her anguished soul,
      Then murmured low, "O bitter hour!

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


      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?


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


      "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.


      "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."


      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.


      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?




      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!


      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.


      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.


      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.


  (_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._


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.


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?


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.


        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?


      The heroes on the battlefield are calm in death,
                  Their fighting o'er;
        They feel no more the fevered breath
                  Of battle's war;
        They hear at last the voice that saith
                  "Fight on no more."

      But oh, the heroes on the grander field of peace,
                  Who know no rest!
        Whose hearts ne'er feel the full release
                  From mortal quest,
        Nor breathe the air where struggles cease
                  The soul to test.

      For such we mourn, O purifying soul of life,
                  For such we pray.
        Let Nature free them from the strife
                  Of falsehood's way,
        And Love through every struggle rife
                  Have free, full play.


      In the different mansions of heavenly space
        Prepared for the faithful and pure,
        (Ah me, for the faithful and pure!)
      Can I dare hope to find e'en a small resting place
        Free from sin and all earthly allure?

      Can a soul such as mine, that has wasted life's wealth
        On the baubles and gewgaws of time,
        (Ah me, on the baubles of time!)
      Have a fitting strength left to regain needed health
        For the life of a heavenly clime?

      For a life where the laws of the spirit, not sense,
        Bring their perfect eternal reward,
        (Ah me, their eternal reward!)
      And the pleasures obtained with such fever intense
        Can find nowhere a vibrating chord?

      Oh, woe is me, woe is me, this Easter day!
        No hope riseth up in my soul.
        (Ah me, my poor sin-laden soul!)
      I have only the dregs of my pleasure to pay,
        And such wrong, bitter thoughts of life's whole.

      But, listen! What's that? What's that message I hear
        Bearing down on my sad troubled heart?
        (Ah me, on my sad troubled heart!)
      "Christ is risen indeed. He is risen to cheer,
        And His strength to the weakest impart."

      O Christ, can it be that Thine own risen strength
        Can give life, added life, to my soul,
        To my sin-laden, weak, starving soul?
      Yes, 'tis true. I'll believe, and rejoice now at length
        To feel Easter's sweet joy o'er me roll.


_June 29, 1861._

      "'Tis beautiful," she faintly cried,
      Then closed her weary eyes and died.

      So stands plain fact on history's page,
      Attested to by friend and sage.

      But in our hearts the fact grows bright,
      Illumined with immortal light.

      For open eyes saw heaven's shores,
      And life, not death, revealed its stores.

      "'Tis beautiful!" It must be so,
      If such a soul 'midst parting's woe,

      Could with truth's perfect clearness see
      The secret of life's mystery;

      Could _know_ that fullest life of man
      Needs heaven's light to round God's plan.

      O woman-soul without a peer,
      We thank thee more and more each year

      For this sweet proof of Beauty's power
      Beyond earth's transitory hour.

      It calms our hours of doubt and pain,
      And beautifies earth's troubled reign,

      To feel that thou art sending still
      This same sweet message of God's will,

      Born of fruition's grander sight,
      Of perfect beauty, peace, and light.


                                "A peace out of pain,
                Then a light, then thy breast.
      O thou soul of my soul, I shall clasp thee again,
                And with God be the rest!"


_Fulfilled December 12, 1889._

      Oh, the blessed fruition
        Of peace out of pain!
      Of a light without darkness,
        A clasping again!
      Of a full soul reunion
        In Love's endless reign!

      Sing, O earth, with new joy
        At this victory won!
      For the faith that endured
        Till the setting of sun!

      For the hope that shone clear
        Through the mighty work done!
      For the love that sought God
        To guide love here begun!
      Sing, O earth, with new joy
        For such victory won!


      O Neptune, in thy vast survey
        Of all the ships that sail,
      Watch lovingly the well-known way
        Of one we wait to hail.

      The Cephalonia is her name--
        But why need I tell more?
      Thou knowest indeed the well earned fame
        She bears from shore to shore.

      But since among her company's band
        Is one who's life to me,
      O Neptune, bear her in thy hand
        E'en yet more tenderly,

      O'er gentle waves, 'neath fair blue sky,
        'Midst winds that only blow
      To make the time more swiftly fly
        For hearts that hunger so.

_Boston, September 4, 1886._


      Beautiful pansies, ye must know
          Your sacred mission here,
      For how could otherwise ye grow
          So sweet and full of cheer?

      Your watchful love we can't o'errate,
          As, lingering here in tears,
      Fond memory brings the precious weight
          Of friendship's golden years.

      Ye are the symbols, pure and sweet,
          Of heartsease and of life,
      Through which our thought may dare retreat
          From pain and death so rife,

      To realms of light and peace above,
          From earth's alloy set free,
      Wherein abide immortal love
          And deathless ministry.

      But still, while we your comfort seek,
          Our hearts will wildly yearn
      To hear once more the loved one speak,
          Once more the form discern.

_At Woodlawn Cemetery, May, 1886._



      Must I always look for sorrow
              On the morrow?
        Must I never have the hope
        That a life of larger scope
        Will before my vision ope?


      Ah, 'tis true there is but sorrow
              On the morrow
        For the broken hearts that wait,
        Bearing secretly their fate.
        Yet the opening of the gate
      To the blessed heaven's morrow,
        When the aching, longing heart
      Shall be free from pain and sorrow,
        Comes before my tired eyes
        With a wondrous sweet surprise.


      But this joy is not for me,
              Not for me.
        Alas! for my poor broken heart,
        With its poisoned arrow's dart.
        Without hope, alone, apart.


      I hear in the ocean's restless moan
                My soul's lament.
                Will it ever cease?

      I feel in the rumbling earthquake's groan
                Deep anguish spent.
                Shall I now know peace?

      I see in the smallest heaven's loan
                Enough for content--
                But is that release?

                      O no!
      My release is but found in the pure undertone,
          Coming nearer and dearer to me,

      Of a great human love beyond Nature at best,
          Eternal, inspiring, and free.
              Oh, that's my release.
              Happy me, happy me!


TO E. T. G.

      Out from the depths of silence
        The god of music came,
      To echo heavenly cadence
        On earth's fair shores of fame.

      Full-orbed, with heavenly glory,
        He met the lords of earth.
      But 'twas the old, old story,
        They blind were to his worth.

      So back to depths of silence
        He flew on wings of light,
      "To bide their time of nonsense,"
        He sang when out of sight.

      And as rolled on the ages,
        He ever and anon
      Sent down to earth his pages
        The lords to breathe upon.

      At length he felt vibrations,
        From Germany's fair clime,
      Of sweetest modulations
        E'er heard in realms of time.

      So forth he flew in rapture
        To that dear father-land,
      To seize--ere earth could capture--
        A spirit pure and grand,

      To which he could surrender
        Himself with perfect ease,
      And weave the music tender,
        Of heaven's own harmonies.

      He found the child Beethoven;
        On him his blessing fell.
      And in his soul was woven
        The sounds we know so well.


  (_On the completion of his conductorship of the Boston Symphony


      Great poets can without the aid
            Of kindred mind
      Reveal to us the secrets laid
            On them to find;
      But music-kings need ministries
      To sound their hidden harmonies.

      For showing us the inmost heart
            Of these great kings,
      And making clear with wondrous art
            Their wanderings,
      We thank thee, while we tender here
      A "bon voyage" to home's loved sphere.

FOR E. T. F.



_May 28, 1887._

      I'd rather hear my baby's coo,
          That little gurgling coo,
      Than rarest song or symphony
      Born out of music's mystery
            Which once did woo.

      I'd rather see my baby's face,
          That lovely dimpled face,
      Than all the choicest works of art,
      Inspired by loving hand or heart,
            Contained in space.

      I'd rather feel my baby's eyes,
          Such deep blue heavenly eyes,
      Than all the world's delighted gaze,
      Proclaiming with continued praise
            My power to rise.

      O yes, 'tis true, my baby dear,
          My precious baby dear,
      Is more than music, art, or fame,
      Or anything that bears the name
            Of pleasure here.

      For in this joy I find a rest,
          A soul-inspiring rest,
      Beyond the wealth of fame or art,
      To satisfy my woman-heart,
            Or make it blest.

      And as I live in this my gift,
          My heaven-sent, blessed gift,
      Thoughts such as Mary pondered o'er
      Deep in her heart in days of yore
            Come to uplift,

      And make the claims of motherhood,
          Dear sacred motherhood,
      Become creation's mountain height,
      Whereon e'er shines the beacon-light
            Of womanhood.

_Chelsea, Mass._



_February 5, 1888._

      Would I could see my baby's face,
          That lovely dimpled face,--
      O God, how can I bear the pain
      Of never seeing it again,
            My baby's face;

      Of never seeing in those eyes,
          Those deep blue heavenly eyes,
      The wondrous glimpses of soul-light
      Which filled my heart with strange delight
            And sweet surprise;

      Of never hearing baby's coo,
          That little gurgling coo--
      O God, how can I bear the pain
      Of never hearing it again,
            My baby's coo.

      Alas! "Thy will, not mine, be done."
          Not mine, but Thine, be done.
      I can but breathe again this prayer,
      As in the days of past despair,
            When peace was won.

TO C. H. F.

  (_Upon receiving a twig of green from the grave of Helen Hunt
    Jackson, October, 1888._)

      With reverent touch and grateful heart,
            Dear thoughtful friend,
      I hold this precious bit of green
            You kindly send
      From Cheyenne's holy, lonely grave,
            Where pilgrims tend.

      It touches springs of tenderest life
            Inspired by her,
      Who, child of poetry and ease,
            Did not demur
      From sacrificing all to be
            Wrong's arbiter.

      That rare mosaic it suggests
            Made by the hand
      Of those who seek this favored spot
            In chosen land,
      Where, oft in life, she penned her soul
            At Truth's command.

      'Tis true, she wished no monument
            To mark the place;
      But must she not be satisfied
            To see the space
      Thus blessed and open to the heart
            Of every race?

      O brain of power and heart of fire,
            America's pride,
      No wonder that the mountain height,
            Above sin's tide,
      Was chosen as the resting place
            With death to hide;

      For such could give the needed rest
            On earth denied,
      Could satisfy the poet's thought,
      And symbolize the soul's true rest
            When glorified.


      And is time marked in heaven? Dost know, O spirit friend,
        'Tis just a year ago to-day
        Thou went so suddenly away,
      And left me in my loneliness the weary days to spend?--
                Ah, weary days,
                Denied thy praise
        And all thy many helpful ways!

      And is earth known in heaven? Dost see, O clear-eyed soul,
        The present changing life of man
        Still working out the wondrous plan
      Of making even broken lives add to the complete whole?--
                Ah, broken lives
                That death deprives
      Of help like thine that heavenward strives!

      And are we known in heaven? Do I, thy once fond care,
        Still have that patient yearning love
        Which longed to lift my soul above
      The sweet though transitory joys of even earth's best fare?--
                Ah, earth's best fare
                Cannot compare
      With thy ideal of me laid bare!


TO S. R. H.

            I have sowed in tears,--
            Shall I reap in joy?
      Shall my human heart be satisfied,
      And sorrow and pain be justified?
      Shall full fruition free my soul
      From limitation's sad control,
      And all my faculties of mind
      Their perfect rest and freedom find?

            "They that sow in tears
            Shall reap in joy,"
      Sang a poet-heart in the long ago,
      'Midst depths of sorrow, pain, and woe;
      And what to him was truth and life
      Has shone through all the ages' strife,
      To be at last our beacon-light
      Of comfort in the darkest night.


      The autumn tints of these loved hills
        Outlined against the sky,
      Are dearer far to me this year
        Than in the years gone by;

      For they are colors Nature wears
        To celebrate the time
      When her pet child changed life on earth
        For that of heavenly clime.

      She thus rejoices, while our hearts
        Wear not their flowers of joy.
      Alas! could she but give us back
        Our gifted artist boy!

      But then she sees that it was best
        That he, like her, should know
      Death, and the Resurrection too,
        The fullest life to show.



      Thou priestess of pure childhood's heart,
        Wherein God's spirit lies,
      Thou willing priestess of the art
        Of true self-sacrifice,

      Ere thy rare spirit takes its flight
        To realms beyond our praise,
      Where childhood's pure eternal light
        Shines through the blessed days,

      We thank thee for thy legacy
        Of thought wrought out in deed,
      By which love's sweet supremacy
        Becomes man's potent need.

             *       *       *       *       *

      Our nation must thy secret share,
        Ere it can fully rise
      To heights of truth and insight where
        True wisdom's glory lies.


        Put your arms around me.
            There--like that.
        I want a little petting
            At life's setting.
      For 'tis harder to be brave
      When feeble age comes creeping,
        And finds me weeping
            (Dear ones gone),
        Or brings before my tired eyes
      Sweet visions of my youth's fair prize
        (There is a pain in sacrifice),
        Denied me then and ever.
        Left me alone? No, never.
        For in God's love I nestled,
        While with deep thought I wrestled,
      Till all my busy life at length
      Was spent in giving others strength,
      In making others' homes more bright,
      In making others' burdens light.

          But now, alone and weary,
              I am hungry
        For a human love's sweet petting
              At life's setting.
          Keep your arms around me,
            Kiss my fevered brow,
          Whisper that you love me
            I can bear it now.

          Oh, how this does rest me
            Now my work is done!
          I've all my life loved others,
            Now I want love, dear one.
              Just a little petting
              At life's setting;
      For I'm old, alone, and tired,
      And my long life's work is done.



      "Still waiting, dear good grandma, for the blessed angel Death?"

      "Yes waiting, only waiting to be borne across the sea,
      To the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery,
      Through ninety years and over now of deep and wondrous change,
      Wherein I've known the heights and depths of human feeling's range,
      And tried to solve the problems old of human life so strange.

       *       *       *       *       *

      You want to know my history, because I am so good?
      Ah, child, no human life can here be fully understood.
      You call me good, and what is more, a 'true and blessed saint.'
      (There is illusion sweet indeed in what you child-souls paint
      Before you know too much of life and feel its evil taint.)
      You even picture beauties of my home across the sea
      Which I never dared to hope for e'en on heights of ecstasy.
      You see me sitting helpless here, blind now for many years,
      Apparently so full of peace, so free from doubts and fears,--
      Though never free from Memory's thought which often brings the
      And you wonder where's the passion and the energy of youth,
      The power that even dared to sway to evil ways forsooth.
      Ah, you but see the blessed fruit of what God planted sure,
      When in my years of sorrow He was whispering, 'Endure.'
      You cannot see the dreadful scars which naught on earth can cure.
      You cannot see the passion wild, when, 'neath the coffin lid,
      Among the flowers, my children three, my precious all, were hid.

      Nor can you see my conflict sore, when I went almost mad
      Before the dying form of him who had loved me from a lad,
      A loving husband, kind and true, as ever woman had.
      But still, before my dear one died, more children came to me:
      Two lovely boys, who seemed at last a recompense to be.
      For sometimes it does seem as if God sends a special gift,
      To be a special help and strength, the selfish clouds to lift,
      Or--what, perhaps, we need as much--the wheat from chaff to sift.
      Through all my lonely, widowed life I lived in their sweet ways,
      And found no sacrifice too great in work for future days.
      At length they were my crowning joy. I'd come again to know
      The blessings of a married life--the happiest here below--
      When, lo! Death seized the oldest one, my boy that I loved so.
      This opened fresh the old deep wounds; but still I had much left,
      For then I was not, as before, of every child bereft.
      So on I went in daily life, determined to be true
      To blessings that were left to me. That does one's life renew,--
      Remember this, my dear one, when your grandma's gone from you.

      The years went on. I felt I'd had my share of sorrow's pain,
      So I banished every lingering thought that Death could come again.
      But when we are the surest, child, 'tis then he seems to be
      More vigilant than ever to proclaim his mystery,
      As if he envied us an hour of joy's sweet company.
      My husband first was stricken down; then came the added blow:
      Two grown up sons, all settled with as fine a business show
      As ever comes to mortals, were cut down in prime of life,
      Having just begun to free me from the circumstances rife,
      Which boded of the bitterness of poverty's dread strife.
      My soul was then so mystified, so dazed before God's will,
      That I could only find my voice in His calm words, 'Be still.'
      Oh, could I not been spared this stroke, known one less bitter
      And been as good for duties here, as fit for heaven's reign?
      Was this the way, the only way, eternal life to gain?

      It cannot be much longer. I shall soon have crossed the sea,
      To the home my soul's been building all these years of mystery.
      I've had my share of sorrow, but I've done the best I could.
      God knows I've tried through all to grow more patient, wise, and
      To get at least this out of life, as every mortal should.
      But, though I've had his comfort, and still hear his sweet
      I feel the bitter heartache which no time or sense can cure.
      My friends have all been laid away, my work long since was o'er,
      And now I'm only waiting for Death's landing on the shore.
      I hope 'twill be at sunset when he knocks at my soul's door;
      For, somehow, it much easier seems to go the unknown way
      Attended by the beauty of the sun's last glorious ray.
      But as I calmly wait and think, it does seem rather queer
      That what you 'blessed angel' call has seemed my chief curse here.
      Alas! how much we suffer before God's ways appear."


      Does it pay--all this burden and worry,
        All the learning acquired with pain,
      All the planning and nervous wild action,
        The restlessness following gain,
                    Does it pay?

      To be free from this burden and worry,
        To have knowledge without fear and pain,
      To be peaceful, far-seeing, sweet tempered,
        And calm in the presence of gain,
      We must know the pure secret of Nature,
        Like her be obedient to law,
      And work in the light of the promise
        Of blessed results Christ foresaw.
                    Then each day,
                    And alway,
                    Life will pay.


      The poet young e'er finds a tongue
        To tell the joys of love.
      The poet bold e'en dares behold
        The mystery above.

      The poet brave e'er loves to rave
        Of wars and victories gained.
      The poet sweet e'en dares repeat
        The angels' songs unfeigned.

      And to each one we say, "Well done,
        Go on and do thy best."
      Though still we feel each doth but seal
        A part of life's bequest.

      But yet we cry, "O goddess high,
        Must thou thy wealth so share?
      America feign would have the reign
        Of _one_ thy gift to bear.

      She needs such one to help her shun
        The dangerous shoals of thought,
      Which in this age of clown and sage
        Her progress gained hath wrought.

      She needs such one to help her shun
        The deeper shoals of wrong,
      Which in these days of doubt's fond lays
        Tempt e'en her favored strong.

      Oh, send such one to say, 'Well done,'
        And tell in truth God's plan,
      While he declares as well as shares
        The fullest life of man."


      "Would that my acts could equal the noble acts I've told.
      Would that I could but master myself as visions bold!"

      So cried a famous artist, in agony of soul,
      As waves of great temptation before him high did roll.

      "Oh, would that I could body the thoughts that govern me.
      Oh, would that I could picture the visions I foresee!"

      So cried a saintly woman, in ecstasy of pain,
      As waves of sad depression rolled on her soul to gain.


      Clio, with her flickering light
        And book of valued lore,
      Comes down the ages, dark and bright,
        Our interest to implore.

      She walks with glad majestic mien,
        Proud of her knowledge gained;
      Though mourning oft at having seen
        Man's life so dulled and pained.

      Her face with lines of care is wrought,
        From searching mystery's cause,
      And dealing with the hidden thought
        Of nature's subtle laws.

      Yet still she blushes with new life
        At sight of actions fine,
      And pales with anguish at the strife
        Of evil's dread design.

      She stops to sing her grandest lays
        When, in creation's heat,
      She sees evolved a higher phase
        Of life's fruition sweet.

      'Twas thus in days of Genesis,
        When man came forth supreme.
      'Twas thus in days of Nemesis,
        When Love did dare redeem.

      And thus 'twill be in future days,
        When out from spirit laws,
      Shall be brought forth for lasting praise
        The ever great First Cause.

      Oh, gladly know this wondrous muse
        Who walks the aisles of Time,
      And not so thoughtlessly refuse
        Her book of lore sublime;

      For in it is the precious force
        Of spirit-life divine,
      Which even through a winding course
        Leads in to Wisdom's shrine.


  (_Written for G. H. T., on the death of W. S. T., March, 1889._)

      As brothers here we've shared the smiles,
        The tears of boyhood's hour,
      And felt the sweet companionship
        Of manhood's love and power.

      But now the tie is snapped. He's fled
        Beyond the mortal sight.
      The grave with all its mystery
        Asserts Death's power to blight.

      Alas! Death seems the cruel thing
        In this bright world of ours.
      The bravest soul shrinks from its hold
        Though loving faith empowers.

      But, hark! Is 't not his voice I hear,
        With comfort as of yore?
      "Dear brother, Death is but more Life,
        The grave is heaven's door."


_July 12, 1886._

            Another birthday here?
            It hardly seems a year
            Since I these words did hear,--
      When three score years and one did crown thee,--
        "Not till I am an octagon,
        Or, worse still, a centurion,
        Shall I be old, with factories gone
        All idiomatic and forlorn."

      But thou art still a "membrane" dear
      Of what we call society's cheer;
      "Ordained beforehand, in advance."
      ('Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,)

      To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting,
      But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring,
      Of "fluid" thoughts which counteract
      The "bigamies" of fate and fact.

      Alas! thy crutch of many years
      Still hints "romantic" pains and fears;
      A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say,
      To keep "plumbago" still at bay!

      Its helpful mission has a share
      In "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare.
      And, by the way, not crutch alone
      Finds in that book its value shown.

      There in the depths of friendship's mines
      Are seen thy tenderest, purest lines;
      Impromptus born at love's command
      To deck occasion's wise demand.

      One finds no "Sarah's desert" there,
      No "reprehensible" despair;
      But teeming thoughts on Mounds and Press
      Poured out in pure unselfishness.

      This brings to mind thy _Knitting-Work_,
      Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk,
      And other books with humor rife,
      Done in the priming of thy life.

      "Contusion of ideas." O no;
      What "Angular Saxon" would say so?
      "Congestive thoughts then so inane
      They'd decompose the soundest brain."

      Yes, there it is, thy humor still,
      Not seventy years and two can kill.
      'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore,
      A "wholesome" not a "ringtail" store.


    BIRTHDAY, AT CAMDEN, N.J., MAY 31, 1889, AT 5 O'CLOCK P.M.

      "Splendor of ended day floating and filling me,"[B]
        Comes to my mind as I think of the hour
      When our poet and friend will be lovingly drinking
        The mystical cup of the seventy years' power.

      Were I the man-of-war bird he has pictured
        Nothing could keep me from flying that way.
      But, though absent in body, there's nothing can hinder
        My tasting the joys of that festive birthday;

      For on the swift wings of the ending day's splendor
        My soul will glide in to drink deep the cup's wealth.
      Who knows but the poet's keen sense of pure friendship
      Will feel, 'midst the joy, what I drink to his health?--
                Splendor of ended day
                  Be but the door
                Opening the endless way
                  Life evermore.

  [B] "Song at Sunset."--_W. W._



  (_Suggested by Arlo Bates' sonnet, "The Unknown God," published
    in the_ BOSTON COURIER _of August 21, 1887_.)

      If Paul in Athens' street left nothing more
        Than what he found when deep in sacred thought,
        He stood and marvelled o'er what had been wrought,--
      The _To the Unknown God_ of heathen lore,--
      Then were he only one on thought's wide shore
        To lose his name in others. But, heaven-taught,
        Undaunted, and in words experienced-fraught,
      Declared he God as known forevermore.

      Paul's words, made deep and strong by martyred life,
        Are more than vision deified. They are
      Love's balm to permeate true mental strife,
        And bring to sin-sick weary souls a star
      Of hope born of temptation's struggles rife.
        _To the Known God._ Through Paul we dare thus far.

_August, 1887._


      O type of manhood, strong, serene, and chaste,
        Attuned to law of man as well as God,
        We hail thee as a guide, who, having trod
      With Christ the spirit-fields, in eager haste
      Makes glad return to give us blessed taste
        Of fruit there found. Through thee our feet are shod
        With gospel-peace, while thy imperial rod
      Becomes our need in times of drought or waste.

      How can we thank thee for thy helpful cheer,
        O master-spirit of the priests of earth?
      By daily doing penance without fear,
        Or resting satisfied in deeds of worth?
      O no! 'Tis when we breathe love's atmosphere,
        And live like thee the life of heavenly birth.

_Boston, 1890._


  [That part of the Porter Manse containing the room referred to
    was built early in the last half of the seventeenth century.
    It was the house which Wenham (the first distinct township set
    off--in 1639--from Salem) gave to the second pastor of its
    church, Rev. Antipas Newman, who married, while living there,
    Governor Winthrop's daughter. It was bought by John Porter in
    1703, and has remained in his family name without alienation to
    this day.]

      Before a smouldering fire at twilight hour
        I muse alone. The ancient room, low-beamed,
        Holds for my ear thoughts voiced by forms that teemed
      Two hundred years ago with life and power.
      I breathe the essence of sweet joys that flower
        In light of home; while life that only _seemed_
        On history's page becomes the real, redeemed
      From all the chaff that time fails not to shower.

      Ah, such old places, holding through the years
        Continuous life of man's activity,
      Reveal a wealth beyond that which appears
        In modern homes built e'er so lovingly.
      Imbued so long with human hopes and fears,
        Have they not claim to personality?


      Of all those born into the name to share
        The charming freedom of the Porter Manse,
        None were more worthy of inheritance
      Than she who now presides as lady there.
      Her gracious calm makes hospitality wear
        A beauteous crown of peace. Kind tolerance
        And wide-embracing sympathy enhance
      Her power to please and lighten daily care.

      'Tis only such rare souls who pierce the truth
        Of home-life secrets, and through tact and grace,
      Make growing years reflect the joys of youth.
        They lose not hope, though sorrow leave a trace
      In all their joy. Such cannot fail, forsooth,
        Of making home a loved abiding place.


_July 12, 1888._

      When lingering Day at last recedes from sight,
        And Night comes slowly forth to fill her place,
        Preceded by a twilight-hour's loved face
      Reflecting glorious rays of sunset light,
      'Tis then my thoughts go wandering with delight
        Through oft-frequented avenues of space
        To those dear souls--the dearest of the race--
      Who've dwelt with me on friendship's purest height.
      From this old mountain-top I come to you,
        My large souled trusted friend of many a year,
      With birthday greetings of the roseate hue
        Left by a perfect Day just lingering here.
      Oh, may life's twilight hold a peace as true,
        And be as filled with hope of dawn's sweet cheer!

_Mount Wachusett, Mass._


      Sweet sister, thoughtful ever of our need,
        Forgetting self, if only we be served,
        How oft thy loving sympathy has nerved
      Our fainting hearts to kinder, nobler deed,
      Or brought to being thoughts that intercede
        For others' progress. We, all undeserved,
        Cannot forget that life to ends thus curved
      Made time for us to plant our own pet seed.

      The world owes much to many a sister dear,
        Who, banishing with tears in midnight hour
      A fond desire for larger, happier sphere,
        Strives faithfully in lowly life to shower
      Rich daily blessings. Such may know e'en here
        A Christ-like joy unknown to worldly power.

_Chelsea, Mass., 1887._


TO F. D. L.

_September 26._

      Time brings to thee from out his storehouse old
        Another year, which graciously awaits
        Thy fair soul's bidding, as it estimates
      The wealth the parting year has left untold.
      Clothed in chameleon garments, which unfold
        The fresh new days thine eye ne'er underrates,
        It brings continued hope of life that dates
      Man's finest being. Thou its secrets hold!
      Are not such birthdays restful stepping stones,
        To aid the growing soul pick out the way
      To life eternal? Not earth's bitterest moans
        Or wildest joys can man's true progress stay,
      If, in these pauses, he but hear the tones
        Of immortality's soothing, deathless lay.



  (_After hearing him play at Boston Music Hall in 1888._)

      O marvellous child, a temple where in ease
        Expectant Genius dwells, while lingering here
        On earth to fit us for the heavenly sphere,
      Dost feel awe-struck to know thou hast the keys
      To new and wondrous unheard harmonies?
        O favored boy, marked out to be the peer
        Of those who in all ages God's voice hear,
      Hushed are our souls before what thy soul sees!

      Guard tenderly, O earth, O sky, O fates,
        This precious earthly temple of Art's shrine!
      May chilling poverty, or sin that dates
        Soul loss, ne'er hinder Genius' wise design
      To have full sway--as she anticipates--
        In working out, in time, her laws divine.



_John 21: 15-18._

      When fast was broken on Tiberias' shore,
        The risen Lord, still anxious that his own
        Should know love's secret as to him 'twas known,
      Thrice asked of Peter, "Lovest thou me more
      Than these?" The third time Peter's heart was sore.
        Must even love divine have doubt's sad tone?
        "Thou knowest, Lord, I love thee," was his moan.
      Then, "Feed my sheep," Christ answered as before.
      Still in these days the risen Lord bends o'er
      The shores of time, and longs for human love;
      The love that hears his voice, awake, asleep,
      And makes response as Peter did of yore.
      "Lovest thou me?" O Christ, from heights above,
      Thou knowest that we love thee. "Feed my sheep."



_Matthew 26:36-46._

      "Could ye not watch with me one hour?" O heart
        Of Christ, still longing in the bitterest hour
        For human sympathy and love to shower
      A needed strength beyond words to impart!
      Humanity is richer for this art
        Of seeing in poor finite man a power--
        Before which even ministering angels cower--
      To know all truth, e'en dread Gethsemane's smart.
      Alas! the power to know will bring the pain.
        But through the pain of wisdom's true insight
      Is Christ's own perfect sympathy made plain.
        Possessed of this, we see in tenderest light
      His sorrowing heart in failing to obtain
        The longed-for love in hour of darkest night.


      By old Owl's Head on Memphremagog's side,
        In hammock-nook 'midst scenery wild and bold,
        The spirit of the waters, as of old,
      Broods o'er my soul, its secrets to confide,
      It whispers of the anguish, joy, and pride,
        The heart of man has on its bosom told;
        And hails as conqueror Him who once did hold
      Its heart in peace when tempest-tossed and tried.

      Loved spirit of the waters, we too hail
        The power of Him who walked the holy sea
      Of Galilee. Capacity to fail
        Were harder to believe than victory.
      May He who conquered wildest Nature's heart
      His infinite power and rest to us impart!

_August, 1891._

LUKE 23:24.

      From holy depths he to the Father prayed,
        "Forgive them, for they know not what they do."
        His heart, pierced then with anguish through and through,
      Cried out "'Tis finished," as he death obeyed.
      In bitterest wrong this marvellous soul was weighed
        With tenderest love and longing towards those who,
        Through ignorance of what they might be too,
      Were now the slaves of evil passion's raid.
        "They know not what they do." O blessed sight
        Into the heart of sin's great mystery.
      Forgiveness here is shown in sweetest light,
        Clothed in her garment of sincerity.
      Blest are those souls who reach this precious height;
        They know the secret of Christ's victory.


      While dwelling in sweet wisdom's fruitful ways,
        In company with poets grand and good
        Who met our human nature's every mood,
      What life was ours, beyond our words to praise!
      In seeking for the secret of the lays
        Which clothed in art pure Nature's daily food,
      Or brought to light a Christian brotherhood,
        Did we not garner thoughts for future days?
      'Tis one of wisdom's joys, while lingering here
        To plant her seeds of righteousness and peace,
      To give a sweet companionship and cheer
        To those who seek from her their soul's increase.
      This, friends, we've felt in our Club atmosphere.
        May its sweet memory linger till life cease!

_Chelsea, Mass., 1888._

  [C] For an account of this Home Club, see the _Boston Literary
      World_, of July 9, 1887, and June 9, 1888; also, _Lend a Hand_,
      for September, 1889.



      Dream of loveliest beauty in thine hour of sleep,
              Harold, baby boy.
            Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby.
      Catch the sweetest glimpses of the heavenly bliss,
      While the holy angels bless thee with a kiss.
                  Lullaby, lullaby.
              So shall mamma feel a breath
                Of celestial power,
              To beautify the ministry,
                Of baby's waking hour.
              Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby,
                Harold, baby boy.
                  Lullaby, lullaby.


        How I love you, baby dear,
            Sister Rosamond!
            I must kiss you,
            I must hug you,
        I must be your little beau,
            To protect you
            Or to rescue
        From the faults of friend or foe.
      I must grow more wise and graceful
              Every way,
      That I may be true and helpful
              For the day
      When, as lovely fair young woman,
          You will need my stay.
            Darling Rosebud,
          How I love you,
      How I love you, sister dear!
      Oh, I will be good and pure,
      Striving always to endure
      What will make me honest, kind,
      Generous, manly, strong in mind,
        Worthy of my Rosebud.
          Darling Rosebud,
          Sweetest Rosebud,
      How I love you, sister dear!


      Darling baby Mildred, playing on the floor--
                  I see!
          Creeping here and creeping there,
          Into mischief everywhere,
          Mamma's little pet and care--
                  I see!

      Fearless baby Mildred, on her rocking horse--
                  I see!
          Never slipping from her place,
          Joyous laughter keeping pace
          With a motion full of grace--
                  I see!

      Thoughtful baby Mildred, papa's pet and pride--
                    I know!
          Lighting up the passing days
          With such happy, winsome ways,
          Joy of household life that pays--
                    I know!

      Tired baby Mildred, lovely eyes all closed--
                    Sleep on!
          Waking, heaven will be more near
          For the angels' presence here,
          Whispering secrets in her ear--
              Sleep on! Sleep on!


      Rosamond and Mildred, playing on the floor--
                  I see!
          Laughing blue eyes, dimpled face,
          Laughing brown eyes, ways of grace,
          Chubby hands that interlace--
                  I see!

      Rosamond and Mildred, trying hard to walk--
                  I see!
          Clinging now to mamma's dress,
          Trembling in new happiness,
          Then at last a sweet success--
                  I see!

      Rosamond and Mildred, born the same glad year--
                  I know!
          Cousins; each in her own way
          Growing wiser every day,
          Full of promise as of play--
                  I know!

      Rosamond and Mildred, parting to go home--
          Each a little picture fair,
          Carrying blessing everywhere.
          Grateful are we for our share--
              Good-bye! Good-bye!


      Chinchilla? Come, 'Chilla!--
      Ah, here she comes bounding,
      So quickly responding,
      Oh, who could but love her!
      Her fur like chinchilla--
      Her movements all grace--
      Such a wise little face--
      What kitty is like her?
      Oh, who could but love her,
      Our dear pretty 'Chilla!



      My little nephew, four years old,
        A sweet-faced, blue-eyed boy,
      Was one day playing by my side
        With this and that pet toy,

      When all at once he said to me,--
        As, laying down my book,
      I paused a while to watch with joy
        His bright, expressive look,--

      "If Mac and I should plant today
        Some paper in the ground,
      Say, would it grow to be a book
        Like yours, with leaves all bound?"

      These were the same two little boys
        Whose nurse searched far and wide
      For little sister's rubber shoes;
        "Where can they be?" she cried.

      "I know," replied Mac, eagerly,
        "We planted them last night,
      To see if they would bigger grow
        To fit our feet all right."

      Dear little boys! These fancies hint
        Of future questions deep,
      When evolution's grand idea
        Shall o'er their vision sweep.

      God grant that when these come to them,
        As at Truth's shrine they bow,
      A childlike faith and earnestness
        May fill them then as now.



      Our little Bertram, six years old,
        Sat on his grandpa's knee,
      Enjoying to the full the love
        That grandpa gave so free,

      When, looking up bewitchingly,
        He said,--the little teaze,--
      "Will grandpa give me just one cent
        To buy some candy, please?"

      Who could resist such loveliness?
        This grandpa could not, sure.
      So with a kiss he gave the cent--
        Ah, how such things allure!

      No sooner was the cent in hand,
        Than off the fair boy ran
      To buy his candy, "'lasses kind,"
        Or little "candy-man."

      Now on his way, in scanning well
        A window full of toys,
      He spied a ring with big red stone,
        O'erlooked by other boys.

      All thought of candy was forgot.
        He'd buy that ring so fine
      For his new sister, Rosamond--
        Oh, how his eyes did shine!

      How could he stop to calculate
        The size of such a thing;
      His only care was for the price--
        Would one cent buy the ring?

      Ah yes, it would. The ring was bought;
        And never girl or boy
      Went tripping homeward through the streets
        With greater wealth or joy.



      When nearly eight years old, dear little Mac
      Was called from out his happy home-life here
              To that blest sphere
      Beyond earth's dearest power to call him back.

      "His questions wise will now sure answer find,"
      Said one who'd loved to watch his eager face,
              In happy chase
      Of many a thought which flitted through his mind.

      "Yes, he knows more than we," another said,
      "Instead of guiding him, he'll be our guide
              To where abide
      The things we need most to be comforted."

      While thus the older ones their comfort sought,
      Two of the children paused in midst of play,
              To have their say
      Concerning this great mystery Death had brought.

      "Dear little Mac," said Miriam, with a sigh,
      "He's gone way up to heaven where angels are,
              Way up so far
      That we can't ever see him till we die."

      "He's not up there," said Bertram. "He can't be.
      I saw them put him in the cold dark ground,
              And I went round
      And threw some flowers in for him to see."

      "He isn't there," replied the four-year old,
      "He's up in heaven. My mamma told me so.
              He _is_, I know.
      He isn't in the ground all dark and cold."

      A moment Bertram sat absorbed in thought,
      While Miriam felt the joy of victory.
              Then suddenly
      The lovely six-year-old this idea caught:

      "I tell you what, Mac's body's in the ground;
      His head, his feet, and every other part,
              But just his heart--
      And that's gone up to heaven, and angels found."

      The child thus solved the thought that troubled so.
      And as I overheard this earnest talk,--
              Which might some shock,--
      I wondered if we could more wisdom show.

      As each seemed satisfied, their play went on.
      But Bertram's thought sank deep in sister's mind,
              And left behind
      The wonder how dear Mac to heaven had gone.

      At last, when ready for their sweet "Good Night,"
      She softly said, "It can't be very dark,
              Not _very_ dark
      For Mac, I know, 'cause God will make it light."

      Oh, lovely faith of childhood's trusting days,
      Sent fresh from heaven to be our loving guide,
              When sadly tried
      By doubt or sorrow's strange, mysterious ways.

  [D] MacLaurin Cooke Gould, died in Maplewood, Mass., November 8, 1887.


_July, 1888._

      Happy little girl and boy,
        Dancing hand in hand
      Over hill and valley land,
        Filled with summer joy;

      Climbing up the steep path side
        To Wachusett's top,
      With that graceful skip and hop
        Born where fairies hide;

      Seeing Holyoke from the height,
        Old Monadnock clear,
      While Washacum twin-lakes near
        Sparkle in sun-light;

      Tripping down the mountain-road
        Back to cottage home,
      Only pausing there to roam
        Where laurel finds abode;

      Jumping on the new-mown hay,
        Sitting under trees,
      Feeling every mountain breeze,
        Hearing birds' sweet lay;

      Lying on the mossy stone
        By the brook's cascade,
      Listening 'neath the sylvan shade
        To its rippling tone;

      Down at pretty Echo Lake,
        Plucking maiden-hair,
      Gathering glistening "sundew" there
        For "dear mamma's sake";

      Picking in the pastures near
        Berries red and blue;
      Spying where the mayflowers grew
        Earlier in the year;

      Watching for the sun to rise,
        Following sunset-cloud,
      Singing low and singing loud
        While the swift day flies;

      Waiting for the "Tally-Ho,"
        With its looked-for mails,
      Hearing strangers tell their tales
        As they come and go;

      Happy little girl and boy,
        Dancing hand in hand
      Over hill and valley land,
        Filled with summer joy.



      'Twas in Brazil last Christmas day,
        While at a family feast,
      A little girl of five years old
        The merriment increased,

      By crying out,--as glasses held
        The ice she ne'er had seen,--
      "Oh see! what pretty little stones.
        What for? Where have they been?"

      "Here, give her one," the host exclaimed,
        Pleased with her childish glee.
      "'Twill show her as no words could show
        What ice is, and must be."

      She grasped the "white stone" in her hand,
        All watching eagerly,
      When suddenly she let it fall,
        And cried, "It's burning me."

      But, anxious still to see it more,
        She asked a servant near
      To hand it in a napkin wrapped--
        Then there would be no fear.

      Again the ice was in her hand,
        Her plaything for the day,
      When all at once she cried aloud,
        "The stone is running away."

      A glass of water now was used,
        Sure that would keep it hers.
      But no! with all her loving watch
        The same result occurs.

      The plaything gone, at evening hour
        She sat on uncle's knee.
      "Who makes those white stones, you or God?"
        She asked, inquiringly.

      "In Miss Brown's land [a Boston friend]
        God makes them," answered he.
      "But in Brazil a factory-man
        Makes them for you and me."

      A moment's pause. Then said the child,--
        Heaven's blessing on her fall,--
      "Why doesn't God get from Brazil
        A man to make them all?"


      "Mamma, where is the sun to-day,
        While all this rain comes down?"
              Ah, little girl
              Of flaxen curl,
        Who has not asked before
        This question o'er and o'er?

      "Behind the clouds so thick and black
        The sun is shining still,"
      The mother quickly answered back,
        Her child with faith to fill.

      The child looked up in strange surprise,
        In doubt almost a pain,
      Then turned again her wistful eyes
        To watch the pouring rain.

      "I don't believe 'tis shining still,"
        She muttered to herself.
              Ah, little girl
              Of flaxen curl,
        Why doubt e'en mother's word,
        Because of feelings stirred?

      "I won't believe it till I see
        The sun behind that cloud,"
      She still went on, defiantly,
        To say in accents loud.

      Now, while she gazed as if to see
        The truth made known by sight,
      Behold the cloud did suddenly
        Become imbued with light.

      "There, there, mamma, the sun, the sun!"
        The little doubter cried.
      And, full of joy at victory won,
        She danced with childish pride.

      The mother watched with tearful eyes
        Her child's transparent joy,
      But dared not quench the glad surprise,
        Or victory's power destroy.

      "Perhaps she'll need this proof," she sighed,
        "Of hidden things made plain,
      When in the depths of life she's tried,
        And all fond hopes are slain."

      While thus she mused, as mothers will,
        The little daughter fair
      Rushed to her arms, all smiling still,
        And said, while nestling there,

      "Behind the clouds the sun _does_ shine,
        E'en while the rain comes down."
              Ah, little girl
              Of flaxen curl,
        This wisdom is indeed
        For future hours of need.


      I know that all the boys and girls
        Would be so glad to see
      Our kitty do the little trick
        She often does for me.

      When asked, "O kitty, where's the ball?"
        She to my shoulder leaps,
      And looks directly to the shelf,
        Where from a box it peeps.

      She will not cease to look and beg,
        Until I find the place
      Where she can take between her teeth
        The ball with easy grace.

      Then quickly to the floor she jumps;
        When, dropping first the ball,
      She runs behind the open door
        That leads into the hall.

      She waits, with only head in sight,
        The ball to see me throw;
      Then after it she scampers well
        Some forty feet or so.

      She never fails to bring it back;
        Then lifts with wondrous grace
      Her velvet paw to take the ball
        From out its hiding place.

      This done, she nestles by my side,
        And purrs while I caress,
      Unconscious of the trick she's done,
        Since three months old or less.

      She thus will lie in calm repose
        So long as I am still;
      But if I move to touch the ball,
        Then all her nerves will thrill,

      Her eyes will shine, she'll quickly find
        Her place behind the door,
      And wait again to see the ball
        Roll on the long hall floor.

      Ah, kitty dear, who told you how
        To join thought, act, and sight?
      Must not we think that in you dwells
        The germ of mental light,

      The germ that makes you kin to us
        In kind though not degree,
      But which was quickened by His touch
        For our supremacy?

  [E] These verses, true in every detail, are only preserved in
      remembrance of a pet cat of our family for many years.


      A mountain hides within itself
        This message grand and true,
      Which at my bidding came to-day
        For me to give to you:

      "Drink deep of Nature's sweetest life,
        While learning how to wait.
      Stand strong against the tempest's strife,
        Not questioning the fate.
      Then shalt thou live above the din
        Of petty things below,
      Absorbing depths of life within,
        The future to o'erflow."

_At the foot of Mount Holyoke._

Transcribers' Notes:

Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; inconsistent hyphenation
was retained.

Footnotes have been moved to the ends of the poems that reference them.

It sometimes was unclear whether or not a new stanza began on a new

Page 32: Unbalanced closing quotation mark retained after: God's

Page 78: "In perfect harmony" was printed as "perect".

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