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Title: In the Morning
Author: Allen, Willis Boyd
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "In the Morning" ***


  Footnotes have been placed at the end of their respective poem.





  Den Abend lang währet das Weinen,
    Aber des Morgens die Freude.

                          LUTHER’S VERSION.

  Hear what the Morning says, and believe that.





  _Copyright, 1890_,

  University Press:

To my Mother.


  AT CHRYSTEMESSE-TYDE                                  9

  VITA NUOVA                                           11

  NOT IN THE WHIRLWIND                                 15

  DIAPASON                                             17

  CHAMOUNIX                                            20

  IN THE MORNING                                       22

  MARIGOLD                                             25


  TO M----, ON HER BIRTHDAY                            29

  “YOURS TRULY”                                        30

  A SERMON BY A LAY PREACHER                           32

  IN SOMNO VERITAS                                     36

  THALATTA                                             38

  UNKNOWN                                              39

  MY CROSS                                             41

  A VALENTINE                                          42

  WHITE PINK                                           44

  APRILLE                                              45

  MAY                                                  46

  AUGUST                                               47

  CARLO’S CHRISTMAS                                    48

  THE SUN WAS RED AND LOW                              50

  TWO VISIONS                                          52

  MY CREED                                             54

  AGAIN?                                               55

  PANSY                                                56

  GOLDEN-ROD                                           57

  TO MARGARET, ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY                  58

  TO A VERY SMALL PINE                                 59

  MOSSES                                               61

  THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS                          63

  CHRISTMAS SNOW                                       64

  THE “CREATION”                                       65

  THE HAPPY VALLEY                                     67

  DOLLIE’S SPRING                                      71

  THE THIRD DAY                                        73

  THE SEVENTH DAY                                      73

  FERN LIFE                                            75

      Its Home                                         75

      At School                                        76

      Asleep                                           76

      A Cradle-Song of the Night Wind                  77

      The Chime                                        77

      The Hymn of the Northern Pines                   78

      At Last                                          79

  PAUSES AND CLAUSES                                   80


  MEMORIAL POEM                                        83

  DANDELION                                            90

  MARJORIE                                             92

  PRIMROSE                                             94

  CONTENT                                              96

  WITH A SMALL LETTER-OPENER                           98

  SEA-GIRLS                                           102

  HOMEWARD                                            104

  A NONSENSE-SONG FOR M----                           107

  TRANSLATIONS                                        113

      In the North-land                               113

      A Lovely Flower                                 113

      Eagerly I cry                                   114

      He who for the first Time                       114

      Little Maid                                     115

      It was as if the Heavens                        115

  IN MORNING-LAND                                     117

  SIC ITUR AD ASTRA                                   119

  THE COMET, NOVEMBER, 1882                           121

  “HIS STAR”                                          122

  “LICHT, MEHR LICHT!”                                124

  PSALM LXXX                                          126

  UNTO THE PERFECT DAY                                127

  HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS EVE                              128

  BLIND                                               130

  REFUGE                                              133

  GUIDO RENI’S “ECCE HOMO”                            135

  ON CHRISTMAS EVE                                    136

  BY NIGHT                                            139

  “STAR OF BETHLEHEM”                                 141

  “BLESSED”                                           143

  A CHRISTMAS PASTORAL                                146

  THE FOURTH WATCH                                    148

  “WITH YOU ALWAY”                                    151

  DECEMBER 31                                         152

  IN MY ARM-CHAIR                                     154


      _Two sorrie Thynges there be,--
            Ay, three:
      A Neste from which ye Fledglings have been taken,
          A Lamb forsaken,
      A Petal from ye Wilde Rose rudely shaken._

      _Of gladde Thynges there be more,--
            Ay, four:
      A Larke above ye olde Neste blithely singing,
          A Wilde Rose clinging
      In safety to ye Rock, a Shepherde bringing
      A Lamb, found, in his arms,--and Chrystemesse
          Bells a-ringing._



      A desert, treeless, boundless,
        The low sun round and red,
      Air stifling, moveless, soundless--
        And I alone with my dead.

      Her head lay on my shoulder,
        The crimson light ebbed fast;
      Her face grew paler, colder--
        The face of my own dead Past.

      Then darkness, black and frightful,
        Dropped from the eastern sky,
      With never a star, but a night-full
        Of horrors creeping by.

      I saw how fiercely glistened
        Their mad eyes, two by two,--
      They screamed, and as I listened
        They laughed like a demon crew.

      See how that huge hyena
        Grows bolder than the rest--
      Slinks--snarls--in the arena,
        For the corpse upon my breast!

      I laughed like the brutes around me,
        I snarled on my stony bed,
      I severed the ties that bound me
        And gnashed upon the dead.

      The tawny-sided creatures,
        Red claw and dripping fang,
      The hideous, grinning features,
        The awful mirth that rang,--
      All vanished. Starless, boundless,
        The night stretched o’er my head.
      In the gray dawn, soulless, soundless,
        I sat alone with my dead.

      Then rustling forms drew nearer.
        By the faint approaching day
      The frightful things grew clearer,--
        Great, unclean birds of prey
      And carrion beasts, that waited
        Until, on the booty rare,
      Their hunger foul should be sated
        With my poor Past, lying there.

      Oh, I, too, sullen-hearted,
        No word of anguish said;
      Till bird and beast departed
        I waited--dumb--by the dead.

      The white east flickered with fire,
        A lark flew singing by,
      The glad light mounted higher,
        Up-spread o’er all the sky.

      My burden, fair and human,
        Still rested on my hands,
      When lo! a gracious Woman,
        Swift walking o’er the sands,
      Until she stood before me,
        Breathed words of hope and cheer;
      Her radiant eyes were o’er me,
        Her presence warm and near,

      And at her voice--oh, wonder!--
        The dead herself awoke;
      The birds no longer shunned her,
        She smiled, and moved, and spoke,
      Then, “FUTURE” named, to guide me
        She softly sprang away;
      The Woman stayed beside me--
        Sun rose--it was full day.


      A poet sat in his oaken chair,
        The pen in his eager hand,
      Awaiting the voice that should declare
        His Lord’s divine command.

      The sad winds sobbed against the pane,
        The tempest’s tramp he heard
      As it scourged the night with a hissing rain--
        But the Poet wrote never a word.

      Then came a burst of martial mirth,
        And mighty cannon roared
      Till they shook the beams of the steadfast earth--
        ’Twas not the voice of the Lord.

      In the Poet’s heart a memory rose
        Of love’s first passionate thrill
      That, kindling, grows as the red fire glows--
        But the pen was idle, still;

      When lo, a timid voice at the door,
        And a child, with sweet delight,
      Called “Father!” and “Father!” over and o’er--
        The poem was written that night.


      On the crags of a far-off mountain-top
        At earliest dawn a snowflake fell;
      The North Wind stooped and cried to her, “Stop!
        There is room in my icy halls to dwell!”
      The snowflake gleamed like a crystal clear,
      Then wept herself to a single tear,
      Paused, trembled, and slowly began to glide
      Adown the slopes of the mountain-side.

      Desolate ledges, frost-riven and bare,
        A tiny rivulet bore on their breast;
      Cloud-gray mosses and lichens fair
        Mutely besought her to slumber and rest.
      The rivulet shone in the morning sun,
      And touching them tenderly, one by one,
      With dewy lips, like the mountain mist,
      Each waiting face as she passed she kissed.

      Among the shadows of pine and fir
        A stream danced merrily on her way;
      A thrush from his hermitage sang to her:
        “Why dost thou haste? Sweet messenger, stay!”
      The noontide shadows were cool and deep,
      The pathway stony, the hillside steep,
      The bird still chanted with all his art--
      But the stream ran on, with his song in her heart.

      Through broadening meadow and corn-land bright,
        Past smoke-palled city and flowery lea,
      A river rolled on, in the fading light,
        Majestic, serene, as she neared the sea.
      The sins and uncleanness of many she bore
      To the outstretched arms of the waiting shore,
      Till moonlight followed the sunset glow
      And her crimson waves were as white as snow.

      On the lonely ledges of Appledore
        I listen again to the ocean’s song,
      And lo! in its music I hear once more
        The North Wind’s clarion, loud and long.
      In that solemn refrain that never shall end
      The murmurs of swaying fir-trees blend,
      The brooklet’s merry ripple and rush,
      The evening hymn of the hermit thrush,
      The undertone of the mountain pine,--
      The deep sweet voice of a love divine.


      Within Thy holy temple have I strayed
      E’en as a weary child, who from the heat
      And noonday glare hath timid refuge sought
      In some cathedral’s vast and shadowy aisle,
      And trembling, awestruck, croucheth in his rags
      Where high upreared a mighty pillar stands.

      Mine eyes I lift unto the hills, from whence
      Cometh my help. The murmuring firs stretch forth
      Their myriad tiny crosses o’er my head;
      Deep rolls the organ peal of thunder down
      The echoing vale, while clouds of incense float
      Around the great white altar set on high.

      So lift my heart, O God, and purify
      My thought, that when I walk once more
      Amid the busy, anxious, struggling throng,
      One cup of water from these springs of life,
      One ray of sunlight from these golden days,
      One jewel from the mountain’s spotless brow,
      As tokens of Thy beauty, I may bear
      To little ones who toil, and long for rest.


                  ’Twas morn,
                And day was born.
      Bright in the west the stars still burned,
      But ever, as the great earth turned,
      The eastern mountain-tops grew dark
      Against the rosy heaven--and hark!
      A single note from flute-toned thrush
      Drops downward through the twilight hush;
      Half praise, half prayer, I heard the song:
                “Oh, sweet, sweet,
      Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”

                  The sun
                Touched one by one
      The firs along the distant crest,--
      A silent host, with lance at rest;
      Flashed all the world with jewels rare,
      Quivered with joy the maiden-hair
      Beside the brook that downward sprang
      And rippling o’er its mosses, sang
      With silvery laugh the same glad song:
                “Oh, sweet, sweet,
      Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”

                  When lo!
                Swift, to and fro,
      A sombre shadow crossed its path,
      Deep thunders rolled in awful wrath,
      The thrush beneath the fir-trees crept,
      The maiden-hair bowed low and wept;
      The heavens were black, the earth was gray
      The hills all blanched in the spectral day,--
      The night-wind rose, and wailed this song:
                “Oh, long, long,
      Oh, joy is fleeting, life so long!”

                A shaft of gold
      Shot through the wrack of cloud and storm,
      The heart of heaven beat quick and warm;
      From bird and stream, with myriad tongue,
      The glad day carolled, laughed, and sung.
      ’Twas morning still! Her tear-drops bright
      The maiden-hair raised to the light;
      I heard, half prayer, half praise, the song:
                “Oh, sweet, sweet,
      Oh, life is sweet, and joy is long!”


      Marigold, marigold, wi’ thy wee cup o’ gold,
        What is it mak’s thee sae bonnie an’ gay?
      Sunshine has drappit, an’ filled up my cup o’ gold
        Fu’ to the brim wi’ the licht o’ the day.

      Marigold, marigold, surely ye canna hold
        A’ the sweet sunshine ’at draps frae the sky!
      Nay, I’ve a muckle o’ licht ’at I winna hold,
        Saved up for you an’ for ithers to try.

      Marigold, marigold, stan’in’ there a’ sae bold,
        What’s in thy een, ’at mak’s ’em sae bright?
      I keep ’em wide open, stan’in’ here a’ sae bold,
        Luikin’ at heaven frae mornin’ to nicht.

      Marigold, marigold, bairnie wi’ cup o’ gold,
        What’s i’ thy hert, ’at mak’s thee sae strang?
      Trust i’ the One ’at gave me my cup o’ gold
        Lattin’ Him love me, a’ the day lang.


      Eighteen years ago the sunshine
      Laughed to find a baby face;
      Laughed to see the blue eyes sober,
      In that golden, glad October,
      Softly kissed the wisps of hair,
      Softly kissed, and lingered there,
      Like an answer to a prayer,
      Like a whispered benediction,
      Token bright of heavenly grace.

      Standing on life’s sunlit threshold,
      Gazing forth with eyes of blue
      On the great round world before her,
      On the kind skies brooding o’er her,--
      From the baby hair the light
      Never has departed quite;
      Still it lingers, pure and bright.
      Yes, the little maid is waiting,
      With a purpose grand and true;

      Waiting for whate’er the Father
      Calls His child to do and bear;
      Waiting, as a thirsty flower
      Waits the morning dew and shower.
      Summers come and summers go,
      Sparrows flutter to and fro,
      Autumn breezes murmur low;
      “Seventeen, eighteen, Maidie’s waiting,
      With the sunshine in her hair!”



      Your turn to move again, dear,
        I’ the gude auld game ca’d Life;
      It’s a warstle o’ joy an’ pain, dear,
        A mixin’ o’ lauchter an’ strife.

      An’ I fain wad be yer knight, dear,
        To serve ye the livelong day;
      Ready in armor to fight, dear,
        To live or to dee, as ye say.

      Near at han’ i’ the gloamin’ I’d bide, dear,
        I’ saddle at gray o’ dawn--
      Na, na, I’m no worthy to ride, dear,
        Lat me be the White Queen’s pawn!


      “Yours truly,” she signs the note; ah, me!
      How little she dreams what that would be
      To him who, trembling, reads the line,--
      What if, indeed, she were truly mine!

      What visions those two dear words can bring
      To the lonely heart that is hungering
      For a single touch of her dainty hand,
      One swift, shy glance he could understand,

      And know that the formal greeting sent
      But half concealed what the writer meant,--
      That she gave, throughout the eternities,
      Her own sweet self, to be truly his!

      There, there!--that fire, how it smokes--what, tears?
      I’ll answer her letter--

                          “Dear Friend, I’ve fears
      Your kind invitation I can’t accept; still
      I’ll come if it’s possible.
                        _Yours truly_,      WILL.”


      The morning of Sabbath; a city at rest,
      But waking serenely and donning its best,
      For the warm March sun already is high.
      Above, the arch of a white-blue sky;
      Brown earth, with a touch of green, below;
      Elm-boughs, uptost with a lift superb;
      The melting ice and grimy snow
      Playing meadow from curb to curb,
      With small mud-rills in place of brooks,
      And a sewer for sea!

                              Ah, hold, my friend,
      I grant how childish-foolish it looks,
      But perhaps they’ve faith for the very end,--
      For streams and sewers, greatest and least,
      Find ocean at last, in the misty East.

      The good people all are off to the churches,
      While I, left here in the idlest of lurches,
      Must seek a preacher to preach me a sermon,
      Ordained with open-air dews of Hermon;
      A discourse conservative, grave, edifying,
      And--come, sir, no laughing! I really am trying
      To find, if I can, the road steep and narrow;
      Ah, here he comes, flying, a straw in his bill!
      I’ll beg him take pulpit; now hear, if you will,
              A sermon preached by a sparrow.

      “My text”--hear the bird!--“I take
      From the street,”--that’s better,--“and make
                  Application as follows:
      Down there where my comrades are basking,
      There’s food to be had for the asking,--
                  Understand me,--no shirking,
                  Our _asking_ means _working_,--
                    Each swallows
      The meal that’s laid on his plate,
      Content with enough. There’s my mate,
      Her feathers a-fluff in the sun.
      That brownest, prettiest one--
      Your pardon! I ought to be preaching.
      This, sir, is the gist of my teaching:
      We sparrows take things as they come,
      From four A. M. until six,
      We work (using straw without bricks);
      We stop now and then for a crumb
      Thrown down by a child; full of cheer,
      We twitter throughout the whole year,
      Investing in no loans of trouble
      Where the borrower always pays double.”

      But your text was the Street, my good bird.
      This sounds like the Bible!--
                                  “I’ve heard
      That life was the same, sir, in each;
      And, though you want me to preach,
      You’ll find that men, fowls, and book,
                          If you look,
      Are all connected together,--
      In short, are birds of a feather;
      And from a genuine sermon
      You’ll learn, sir,--this I’m firm on,--
      The same Hand guides and governs all
      Which holds us sparrows when we fall.”

      No more. Before I could even remind him
      Of lack of an adequate exhortation,
      Proper pauses, and peroration,
      He was off, his straw streaming far behind him.

      His advice--well, certainly not very new,
      Yet perhaps worth trying, I think--don’t you?


      I dreamed that I sat in my chamber
        And watched the dancing light
      Of the blaze upon my hearthstone,
        And the red brands, glowing bright.

      I listened to the rustle
        Of the flames that rose and fell,
      And I dreamed I heard a whisper,
        A voice I knew full well.

      The room no more was lonely,
        A Presence sweet was there,
      A girlish figure, standing,
        Beside my own arm-chair.

      I dreamed I spoke, and trembling
        Lest she should prove to be
      The creature of a vision,
        I bade her sit by me.

      Her grave brown eyes she lifted,
        Her dear hand placed in mine,--
      The air was sweet with incense
        Of odorous birch and pine,--

      And as we watched together
        Those eager, dancing flames,
      We talked of days forgotten,
        And spoke our childish names.

      I dreamed that heaven seemed nearer,
        The skies a lovelier blue,
      Then--was it still a vision?--
        I dreamed my dream came true!


      Far over the billows unresting forever
        She flits, my white bird of the sea,
      Now skyward, now earthward, storm-drifted, but never
        A wing-beat nearer to me.

      With eye soft as death or the mist-wreaths above her
        She timidly gazes below;
      Oh, never had sea-bird a man for her lover,
        And little recks she of his woe.

      One sweet, startled note of amazement she utters,
        One white plume floats downward to me;
      Far over the billows a snowy wing flutters--
        Night--darkness--alone with the sea.


      There’s a star a-light in the gloaming,
        A gleam in the skies above;
      There’s a flower at rest on her bosom,--
        On the heart of her I love.

      What says the star of the twilight?
        What is the song of the flower?
      A cloud has covered the star-beam;
        The blossom lived but an hour.

      Nay, ’tis the infinite heaven,
        The depth beyond, that speak;
      ’Tis the heart that throbs ’neath the blossom,
        Not the lip nor the fair white cheek.

      The voice of the heavens is tender,
        Its whisper is fond and low;
      But the voice of the heart that is throbbing--
        Its message I cannot know.


                Only a tiny cross;
      She plucked it from a mountain fir,
      And wreathing it in soft, gray moss,
      Gave it in memory of her,--
                Yet--’tis a cross!

                Only a soft, gray cross;
      But, half-concealed, full many a thorn
      Lay waiting there, beneath the moss,
      To pierce the bosom where ’tis worn,
                This wee, sweet cross.

                Only a thorny cross,
      Unconscious of the pain it gives;
      Lifeless the fir, faded the moss,
      Yet, while the hand that plucked them lives,
                It is my cross.


      If but the furry catkin small
        Could speak with gentle voice
        And bid the sad, Rejoice!
      A pussy-willow should be all
              My valentine.

      If but the golden daffodil,
        With many a cheerful word,
        Could tell what it hath heard
      By meadow, wood, or murmuring rill,
              It should be mine.

      If but the valley-lilies pure
        Could whisper in thine ear
        A message thou wouldst hear,
      Of One whose promises are sure,
              Whose love divine,

      Such flowers my valentine should be.
        Yet sought I none of those,--
        Only one crimson rose
      To bear its Maker’s heart to thee,--
              Lo, it is thine!


      The maiden left a timid kiss
        Upon the mossy stone;
      Her lover true, the maiden knew,
        Would seek and find his own.

      The lover never came again,
        Nor guessed the woe he wrought;
      Day after day neglected lay
        The maiden’s kiss, unsought.

      At length, upspringing from the moss
        Through kindly sun and shower,
      Its petals fair unfolded there
        This gentle, snow-white flower.


      Aprille, alacke!
      With sunnie laugh her snow-white cloke flung backe,
                    And gailie cast aside;
                    Then cryed,
      With little wilfulle gustes of raine,
      Because she could not have her cloke againe.


      Over the hilltop and down in the meadow-grass
        Heaven like dew on the waking earth lies:
      Part of it, dear, is the blue of these violets;
        Best of it all I find in your eyes.


      August, the month of virgins, is at hand.
          Shrill-voiced, the locust pipes a-field;
          With flash of burnished shield
        Hovers the dragon-fly athwart the stream;
        Like sea-bird slumbering in mid-day dream
      Floats one white cloud above the drowsy land.
      August, the month of virgins, is at hand.

      Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy,--
          Scarce heeds the softly murmurous tide,
          Fair sky, nor aught beside;
        Gazing afar, half troubled, half content,
        Awaits with folded hands a message sent
      Across the gleaming, restless, longing sea,--
      Silent upon the shore sits Dorothy.


      May I come to your side, dear Mistress?
        I am only a dog, you see,
      And the Christmas joy and gladness
        Perhaps are not meant for me.

      Yet I think the Master would let me,
        If I only begged to eat
      The crumbs that fell from His table,
        And to lie at His blessèd feet.

      I have heard the wonderful story
        Of the sleeping flocks by night,
      Of Bethlehem and the angels
        And the one Star, shining bright;

      And I’ve longed, when I heard the story,
        A shepherd-dog to be,
      For then it might seem that Christmas
        Was partly meant for me.

      But I only look up at the Master
        With a life that is veiled and dumb,
      Content to share with the sparrow
        His love, and the falling crumb.

      May I lie at your feet, dear Mistress?
        I am only a dog, you see,
      But if I may serve you and love you,
        Why, that is Christmas for me!


      In her palace porch a Princess--
        The sun was red and low--
      At her feet a subject kneeling--
      Sweet, far-off bells were pealing--
        He rose and turned to go.
      “I give you my love!” quoth the Princess
        To the subject, bending low.

      Ah, Goldenhair, what hast thou given!--
        The sun is round and red--
      As thou standest there in the portal,
      A Princess’ love, to a mortal!--
        The bells toll for the dead--
      A kiss from the lips of the Princess,
        But never a word she said.

      Still radiant stood the Princess--
        The bells no longer tolled--
      At her feet the subject kneeling--
      The far-off chimes were pealing
        Their sweet notes as of old--
      “I give you my love!” quoth the Princess;
        And the sun was a crown of gold.


      A vision of Morn,--the dew’s on the grass,
      The ocean’s aflame, and a sweet fisher-lass
          On its bosom’s unrest is afloat;
      The sunlight is fair on her shy, upturned face,
      As she dips the bright oars with the daintiest grace,
          And the prow of her snowy-white boat
      Its way urges softly through each foaming crest,
      Like sea-bird, wings fluttering, closing to rest;
      In her eyes shines the light of the glad day, new-born,--
          The pure, gentle Spirit of Morn.

      A Vision of Night,--the silvery stars
      Alight in the East, ere its golden bars
          Have imprisoned the slumberous sun;
      The sea hoarsely breathing, the wind all astir,
      The sparrow crouched low in the boughs of the fir,
          But she, the Beautiful One,
      Is awake, oh, awake, with her glorious eyes
      Star-lighted and deep as the shadowy skies,
      O’er the mist of her draperies, fleecy and white,
          The radiant Spirit of Night.


      What is my creed, you ask, dear?
        I look in your grave brown eyes
      And believe--in your womanly sweetness,
        Your purity, clear as the skies.

      I’ve faith--in your true, brave heart, dear,
        Your life, with its joys and tears;
      And far beyond storm-mist and sunshine,
        Beyond weary days and long years,

      I hope--in a Love that is waiting
        With infinite tenderness there
      To comfort us both, you and me, dear,
        For the burden He gives us to bear.


      Side by side, from their misty home,
        Fell two bright drops of rain;
      The storm-wind hurled them far apart,
        Never to meet again.

      Hand in hand stood two dear friends,
        Hearts wrung with sudden pain;
      The storm-wind hurled them far apart,--
        Never to meet again?


      Little flower with golden heart,
      Strange, sweet mystery thou art.
      Who can tell the thoughts that lie
      In the depths of thy dark eye!
      Dost thou dream of other lands,
      Waving palm-groves, burning sands,
      Days of languor, twilights tender,
      Glorious nights of Orient splendor?
      Shy, sweet type of lovers’ bliss,
      Art thou an immortal kiss
      By some fair sultana breathed,
      To all faithful love bequeathed
      By the tiny-sandalled bride,
      Velvet-lipped, and starry-eyed?


      O’er the dusty roadside bending
        With its wondrous weight of gold,
      Can it be the rod enchanted
        Midas used in days of old?

      Hush! perchance it is a princess
        In the sunlight nodding there,
      Spell-bound by the wicked fairy,--
        Sleepy little Golden-Hair!

      Nay, it is Belshazzar’s banquet,
        Where the drowsy monarch sups
      With his swarm of courtiers, drinking
        From the sacred, golden cups.

      See, I pluck his tiny kingdom--
        Long ago it was decreed--
      And divide it, dear, between us,
        You the Persian, I the Mede.



      Margaret, pearl of dainty pearls,
        Fairest of dimpled daisies,
      My rose its velvet sail unfurls
        To bear thee love and praises.
      It drifts from port, no longer mine--
      Bring back, wee boat, my Valentine!


      What song is in thy heart,
          Thou puny tree?
      Weak pinelet that thou art,--
        Trembling at every shock,
        Thy feebleness doth mock
          Thy high degree.

      When rage o’er sea and land
          The tempests wild,
      How canst thou e’er withstand
        Their might, or baffle them
        With that frail, quivering stem,
          Poor forest child?

      Nay, wherefore scoff at thy
          Dimensions small?
      For, folded close, I spy
        A tiny bud, scarce seen
        Within its cradle green;
          And after all,

      In ages yet to come
          Thy stately form,
      No longer dwarfed and dumb,
        But chanting to the breeze
        Sublime, sweet melodies,
          Shall breast the storm!

      Beneath thine outstretched arms
          Shall children rest;
      While, safe from all alarms,
        Within thy shadows deep
        Wild birds their tryst shall keep
          And weave their nest.

      May such a lot be his
          Who tends thee now!
      With heavenly harmonies
        Serene amid his foes,
        Outstretching as he grows
          In root and bough.


      Children of lowly birth,
      Pitifully weak;
      Humblest creatures of the wood,
      To your peaceful brotherhood
      Sweet the promise that was given
      Like the dew from heaven:
      “Blessed are the meek,
      They shall inherit the earth.”

      Thus are the words fulfilled:
      Over all the earth
      Mosses find a home secure.
      On the desolate mountain crest,
      Avalanche-ploughed and tempest-tilled,
      The quiet mosses rest;
      On shadowy banks of streamlets pure,
      Kissed by the cataract’s shifting spray,
      For the bird’s small foot a soft highway;
      For the weary and sore distressed
      In hopeless quest
      Of a fabulous golden fleece,
      Little sermons of peace.
      Blessed children of lowly birth--
      Thus they inherit the earth.


      Down the rocky slopes and passes
        Of the everlasting hills
      Murmur low the crystal waters
        Of a thousand tiny rills;

      Bearing from a lofty glacier
        To the valley, far below,
      Health and strength for every creature,--
        ’Tis for them “He giveth snow.”

      On thy streamlet’s brink the wild deer
        Prints with timid foot the moss;
      To thy side the sparrow nestles,--
        Mountain of the Holy Cross!

      Pure and white amid the heavens
        God hath set His glorious sign:
      Symbol of a world’s deliverance,
        Promise of a life divine.


          What so merry as snow?
      Gleefully robing the grave old town
      In garb fantastic of ermine and down;
      Whispering at the window pane,
      Then spreading its wee, white wings again
      Till, alighting at last with noiseless feet,
      On tiptoe in the muffled street
          It dances to and fro.

          What so pure as snow?
      Flakes like the thoughts of a little child,
      Undefiling and undefiled;
      Wonderful, starry mysteries
      Falling softly out of the skies,
      Decking with white the bare, brown earth
      In memory of the holy birth
          At Bethlehem, long ago.


      Winter is past. The changing, softened sky,
      The robin’s cheery note, the sea-bird’s cry,
      The willow pussies peeping from their nest;
      The modest sparrow, with his dappled breast,
      Flitting beneath the lilacs by the wall;
      The budding tree, the tender grass, with all
      Its tiny hands uplifted to the sun,
      Who reaches down and clasps them, one by one;
      The mayflower sleeping on her snowy bed,
      And while the night winds murmur, “She is dead!”
      Her shy sweet eyes unclosing joyfully
      As if she heard the “Talitha, cumi!”
      The stream, escaping from the winter’s wrath,
      And leaping swiftly down its rocky path,
      Or pausing in some shadowy, foam-flecked pool,
      Among the nodding ferns and mosses cool;
      The floating clouds, the fragrant earth, the sea,
      With its low whispers of eternity,--
      All join in one grand harmony of praise
      To Him, Creator, Lord, Ancient of Days.


      Far away there sleeps a valley,
        Cradled by the mighty hills,
      Lulled to rest by sweetest music,--
        Whispering winds and laughing rills.

      Naught it knows of stormy passion,
        Pestilence, or war’s alarms;
      O’er it graze the peaceful cloud-flocks,
        And the everlasting arms

      Of the mountains, underneath it,
        Fold it closely to their breast,
      While at nightfall, on its bosom,
        Golden moonbeams softly rest.

             *       *       *       *       *

        Seasons come and seasons go,--
        Summer heats and winter’s snow,
        Spring’s surprises, autumn’s peace,
        Indian-summer’s golden fleece,
        Purple-bordered, crimson-clasped,
        By a hand already grasped
        That hath costlier treasures brought
        Than the wandering Argonaut.

             *       *       *       *       *

      A solemn hush is in the air.
        Happy voices die away;
        Dark-robed fir-trees murmur, Pray!--
      Pray for Summer, young and fair.
            Crosses wave,
            Souls to save,
            Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

      Dead! the weeping autumn wind
        Shrouded her in fallen leaves;
        Dead! amid her golden sheaves,--
      Pray--ye that are left behind!
            Crosses wave,
            Souls to save,
            Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

      Pray ye, pray! for Summer lies
        Dead, upon the icy ground;
        Heap for her a snow-white mound,
      While the winter wind replies:
            Crosses wave,
            Souls to save,
            Chant a requiem o’er her grave.

             *       *       *       *       *

      Sweetly, through the low, sad murmur
        Of the fir-trees’ requiem,
      Flows a song of hope and gladness,
        Strong, triumphant over them.

      Summer is not dead, but sleepeth!
        Soon the maiden shall arise,
      And the world again be gladdened
        With the sunshine of her eyes.

      Then the valley, too, shall waken
        From the pale trance of her night;
      Breezes soft shall kiss her forehead,
        Radiant in the morning light.

      Years may come and go, but ever
        Shall the valley rest among
      Mountain mists and golden moonbeams;
        While the hills, with myriad tongue,

      Lullabys shall croon above it,
        Streamlets laugh, and harebells chime,
      Fir-trees murmur, cloud-lambs wander,
        Storms chant harmonies sublime.

      And for those who love the valley
        Peace and rest are waiting there,
      With the seasons onward moving,
        Each more gladsome, each more fair.


      Deep within a mountain forest
        Breezes soft are whispering
      Through the dark-robed firs and hemlocks,
        Over Dollie’s Spring.

      Swiftly glides the tiny streamlet,
        While its laughing waters sing
      Sweetest song in all the woodland,

      In the dim wood’s noontide shadow
        Nod the ferns, and glistening
      With a thousand diamond dew-drops,
        Bend o’er Dollie’s Spring.

      Shyly on its mossy border
        Blue-eyed Dollie, lingering,
      Views the sweet face in the crystal
        Depths of Dollie’s Spring.

      Years shall come and go, and surely
        To the little maiden bring
      Trials sore and joys uncounted,
        While, by Dollie’s Spring,

      Still the firs shall lift their crosses
        Heavenward, softly murmuring
      Prayers for her, where’er she wander,--
        Far from Dollie’s Spring.



      Many thousand years ago
      God looked down and bade me grow;
      Why it was, I never knew--
      Now I see it was for you!



      Doubtless you are much surprised
      That we are not fossilized,
      Geologic, or antique,--
      Only little ferns and meek.
      Yet we grew at His command,
      Touched by that same loving Hand
      Which the day from night divided,
      Planets on their courses guided,
      Set on high the firmament,
      Alps from Alps asunder rent,
      All the earth with life invested;
      And He made us while He--“_rested_.”



      Within a shadowy ravine
        Far hidden from the sun,
      A fern its wee, soft fronds of green
        Unfolded, one by one.

      From morn till eve no twittering flock
        Nor insect hovered nigh:
      Its cradle was the lichened rock,
        The storm its lullaby.

      By night above the dark abyss
        The stars their vigils kept,
      And white-winged mists stooped low to kiss
        The baby, while it slept.


      Weeks passed away; the tiny fern
        Frond after frond unfurled,
      And waited patiently to learn
        Its mission in the world.

      By fir-trees draped in mosses gray
        The willing fern was taught,
      And once each day a single ray
        Its sunny greeting brought.


      Her cradle songs the North Wind sung
        And whispered far and wide,
      Until a thousand harebells swung
        Along the mountain side.

      She sung of far-off twilight land,
        Moss-muffled forests dim,
      And, to her mountain organ grand,
        The aged pine-trees’ hymn.


      The pines have gathered upon the hill
        To watch for the old-new moon;
      I hear their murmuring--“Hush, be still!
       ’Tis coming--coming soon!”

      The brown thrush sings to his meek brown wife
        Who broods below on her nest:
      “Of all the world and of all my life
        ’Tis you I love the best!”

      But the baby moon is wide awake,
        And its eyes are shining bright;
      The pines in their arms this moon must take
        And rock him to sleep to-night.


      Softly swinging to and fro,
      Harebells tinkle, sweet and low!
        All the world is fast asleep,
        Birds and folks and woolly sheep;
      Far above us towers the mountain;
      Far below, an unseen fountain
        From its rocky cradle deep,
        Like a child, laughs in its sleep.
      All our faces shyly hidden,
      As the fir-trees oft have bidden,
        Softly bending, sweet notes blending,
              Moonbeams climbing,
              Wee bells chiming,
      Harebells tinkle, star-gleams twinkle,
                  To and fro,
                  To and fro,
              Sweet--sweet and low.


      Are the promises He hath spoken,
      His word hath never been broken.
      Are the thoughts and the hearts of His chosen,
      As crystals the North Wind hath frozen.
      Underneath are the arms everlasting;
      On them our cares we are casting.
      Have we sung of the life He doth give us--
      His mercy and love shall outlive us.


      Far from its mountain home the fern
        Has found a resting-place;
      A maiden has begun to learn
        To love its winsome face.

      But when at night the north winds smite
        Against the frosty pane,
      The fern is listening with delight
        To hear their voice again.

      For in their solemn murmuring
        The pine-trees chant once more,
      The harebells chime, the thrushes sing,
        The mountain torrents roar;

      Again the dark-robed fir-trees stand
        About its mossy bed,
      And hold aloft with trembling hand
        Their crosses o’er its head.



[With a Maltese Kitten.]

      Kittie Mabel, will you take
      This gift, for the giver’s sake?
      Verse and song and roundelay
      Will be yours this merry day;
      Mine are all unfit to send,
      Tattered rhymes, too poor to mend.

      But, although I haven’t any
      Songs, my thoughts are swift and many.
      All are flying straight to you,
      And your heart, so sweet and true,
      I am sure, dear, won’t decline
      This small, furry Valentine.


      A Boston girl prefers a set of volumes that are uniform,
      In Syriac, Chaldaic, Sanskrit, Arabic, or Cuneiform,
      For these will test her paleontological ability,
      And not insult her culture by superfluous facility.
      She loves a scientific pedant, or, to use a synonyme,
      A specimen, with printed name and label fair to pin on him.
      Alas! I fear she will despise a book without a mystery,
      That never once alludes to Art, or Mediæval History;
      But as she is compelled each day to recognize and meet her kin,
      I trust she will accept at least this tale of Mrs. Peterkin.


APRIL 29, 1886.

      A Latin-School poem? ’Twere easy to write
      On a theme so suggestive an epic at sight,
      An ode, full of fire, or, if that wouldn’t do,
      An Eclogue, or even a Georgic or two,
      With allusions to classical roots, and Greek ponies
      Hard ridden and worn--I confess that my own is.
      A poet could scarce fail of making a hit,
      Inspired by the presence of beauty and wit!

      Alas, for the days of our ancestors bold,
      When the wassail was drunk, brave stories were told,
      While the mirth of the feasters grew louder and higher,
      And the bard struck the quivering chords of the lyre,
      Without an apology, blush, or evasion,
      Or stammering reference to--“this occasion,”
      As raising his voice o’er the tumult and din,
      He recounted in song all the fights they’d been in.

      Let bygones be bygones, the past be the past;
      We live in the world of to-day, and at last
      Society calls for less noise, more decorum,
      Remarks less akin to the street than the forum;
      Nay, mounting in civilization still higher,
      The bard soon must go--perhaps even the lyre!
      And if things should be ever at sixes and sevens,
      There lies an appeal to his Honor Judge Devens.[1]

      And what, do you ask, is this tirade about?
      Why not, as in Hunting the Snark, “leave that out”?
      Ah, can I forget why we schoolmates are here?
      How often we laugh when we’d fain hide a tear!
      The ripples are bright on the waves of mid-ocean;
      Eyes dance and smiles play over depths of emotion;
      Oh, dear Alma Mater, be patient to-night,
      Our hearts, misconstrued, thou canst translate aright!

      How memory pictures bright scenes to us all!--
      The old, shaky building, the school-room, the hall,
      The way the grim doctor read Greek verbs and Latin,
      The desk where he wrote and the chair that he sat in,
      His upraised forefingers and forehead portentous,
      The terror we felt when we found that he meant us;
      Eyes gleaming below that great frontlet of hair,--
      Ah, could we have known of what really was there,
      And fathomed that grand heart, so gentle and true,
      Beneath the stern front that bent o’er me and you!

      Those lessons--how useless and tiresome they seemed,
      While we “mulled” over Cæsar, drew pictures, and dreamed;
      How Xenophon’s mighty Anabasis came
      To cloud our young lives, till we hated his name,
      The characters playing strange pranks on the pages,
      While still we droned on, “He--advanced--thirteen--stages.”
      We wished the Ten Thousand had all broken loose
      Before they began on their endless σταθμοῦς;
      We preferred that they wouldn’t get on quite so fast;
      We wished that their leader had not ἀναβάσ-ed;
      But Xenophon brought them all safe to the sea,
      He got out of the woods, and, at last, so did we.

      Did you march on the Common? How proud were we then
      To be reckoned in newspapers “two hundred men”!
      How the uniforms shone as we wheeled o’er the grass--
      No koh-i-noor gleams like those buttons of brass!
      Our scabbards and sashes were artfully dangled,
      And if they at times in our ankles got tangled,
      The terror to others was full compensation
      For dangers attending our perambulation.

      Was it fun? There are those within reach of my words
      Who remember when ploughshares were cleft into swords;
      When hushed was the voice of youth’s laughter and mirth,
      As the flag, broken-winged, fluttered, bleeding, to earth.
      Are there men who will cherish their country’s last breath?
      Are there three hundred thousand who love--to the death?
      Hark!--the answering cry to that agonized call--
      And the Latin-School boys are the foremost of all!

      We have proved we’ve a banner, a country, a God,
      By thousands of arguments--under the sod!
      Who knows if the dear boys who fell in the fight
      May not hold their reunion, as we do, to-night?
      From the morning-land fair, and a rest never ending,
      Their voices, well-loved, with our own still are blending;
      Hark!--can we not hear the sweet echoes to-day,
      As from camp grounds afar comes the soft reveillé?

      Oh, soldiers, still serving in ranks like their own,
      But a little more quiet, more dignified, grown,
      Still fighting from morning till set of the sun,
      Each day new defeats or fresh victories won,
      Pressing onward, undaunted still, shoulder to shoulder,
      With our hearts growing young as our muskets grow older,
      Let us take for our motto, emblazoned in light,
      That stern old command of _Forward--Guide Right!_


  [1] Presiding at the Dinner.


      A dandelion in a meadow grew
        Among the waving grass and cowslips yellow;
      Dining on sunshine, breakfasting on dew,
        He was a right contented little fellow.

      Each morn his golden head he lifted straight,
        To catch the first sweet breath of coming day;
      Each evening closed his sleepy eyes, to wait
        Until the long, cool night had passed away.

      One afternoon, in sad, unquiet mood,
        I paused beside this tiny, bright-faced flower,
      And begged that he would tell me, if he could,
        The secret of his joy through sun and shower.

      He looked at me with open eyes, and said:
        “I know the sun is somewhere shining clear,
      And when I cannot see him overhead,
        I try to be a little sun, right here!”


      “Oh, dear,” said Farmer Brown, one day,
        “I never saw such weather!
      The rain will spoil my meadow hay
        And all my crops together.”
          His little daughter climbed his knee;
          “I guess the sun will shine,” said she.

      “But if the sun,” said Farmer Brown,
        “Should bring a dry September,
      With vines and stalks all wilted down,
        And fields scorched to an ember--”
          “Why, then, ’twill rain,” said Marjorie,
          The little girl upon his knee.

      “Ah, me!” sighed Farmer Brown, that fall,
        “Now, what’s the use of living?
      No plan of mine succeeds at all--”
        “Why, next month comes Thanksgiving!
          And then, of course,” said Marjorie,
          “We’re all as happy as can be.”

      “Well, what should I be thankful for?”
        Asked Farmer Brown. “My trouble
      This summer has grown more and more,
        My losses have been double,
          I’ve nothing left--” “Why, you’ve got me!”
          Said Marjorie, upon his knee.


      In the meadow, cool and sweet,
      Where the cowslips bathe their feet,
      On the banks of Scottish burns,
      Down among the nodding ferns,
      Where the shadows come and go,
      Cheerful Primrose loves to grow.

      Little flower she is, and meek;
      And if she could only speak,
      I am sure her words would be
      Whispered very timidly.
      Skylark, hush your joyous singing,
      Bonnie harebells, cease your ringing,
      Listen, listen, drowsy bee,--
      Is the Primrose calling thee?

      Tiny rootlets white and brown,
      Leaves as soft as cygnet’s down,
      Fringèd petals, dainty pink,
      Peeping o’er the burnie’s brink,--
      That is Primrose, sweet and true,
      And I love her--do not you?


      “Little Herb Robert, what makes you so pink?
        The daisy is taller and whiter.”
      “The sun came along, and, what do you think?
        It kissed me, and so I grew brighter.”

      “Grasshopper, why are you merry to-day?”
        “I always am glad, if you please, sir,
      Because I can hop on the clover and hay,
        Nor have to fly up in the trees, sir.”

      “Sea-weed, poor creature! you’re left high and dry,
        The tide has gone out; you are dying!”
      “Ah, no, I am sure ’twill come back by and by.
        I shall live, never fear; I’ll keep trying.”

      “Song-sparrow, how can you sing all the day?”
        “Sweet food to my young I am bringing,
      And when I am working for them, in this way,
        Of course I can never help singing.”

      “Child, leave the hot, dusty roadside, and come.”
        “I’d go, for I know that you love me;
      But, please, I’d rather stay here, near my home,
        For Papa’s in there, just above me.”


TO W. B. W.

      Once more ’tis the night before Christmas; once more
      The Christ-child is entering each open door;
      The holly-bough glistens, the earth is all white,
      In the jubilant heavens the Star is a-light.
      May I sit by your hearthstone once more, as of old?
      My story--a brief one--shall quickly be told.

             *       *       *       *       *

      We bring you no Sèvres nor Japanese Kaga,
      But only an innocent kind of a dagger.
      (Allow me a few editorial “we’s,”
      The plural is handy in rhymes such as these.)
      The blade is no marvel, ’tis not Muramasa--
      (“What’s that?” No one knows. Ask your daughter, from Vassar.)
      Nay, we must admit, if perchance you should ask us,
      ’Twas forged in the States, and not at Damascus.
      Too slim for a trinket, too large for a charm,
      Too small for a weapon, too dull to do harm;
      Too blunt for a bodkin, of life to deplete us,
      ’Twould not even serve for Hamlet’s _quietus._
      Cur igitur tibi gladiolum dabo--
      Quemadmodum hoc explicare parabo?
      Sie können nicht ganz die Verwerrung verstehen,
      Ich will zum Puncte deswegen nun gehen.
      Ce poignard petit est une clef de mon cœur,
      Que je donne quelquefois à mon ami, ma sœur,
      A celui, enfin, qui reçoit, dans mes lettres,
      Les mots le plus tendres que je puis y mettre.
      κἀγὼ πρὸς ὑμᾶς τὴν κλεῖδα λαβεῖν
      ἐθέλειν ἐλπίζω καί με νῦν φιλεῖν.
      (If once on a jingle like this voi entrate,
      You must finish, or--ogni speranza lasciate!)
      I wish I knew Indian, but somehow nobody
      Seems ever to learn more than “Passamaquoddy,”
      Or “Mooselucmaguntic,” “Welokennebacook,”
      “Oquossuc,” “Musketequid,” and “Quantibacook.”
      To compose in that language you will not deny
      Is difficult. If you don’t think so--just try.

             *       *       *       *       *

      ’Tis nonsense, dear friend, but I feel sure that you
      Good-naturedly smile, and yet see ’tis true.
      Unconscious as Lady Macbeth in her walking,
      We give in our letters more _self_ than in talking.
      Perhaps when our Father looks lovingly down
      On our wandering footsteps in country and town,
      Our burdens, our hindrances all, He can see,
      And read in His wisdom more surely than we.
      Far more than when kneeling by altar or crypt,
      Our deeds make the record, in broad, cursive script.
      Thank God that the Reader and Father are one,
      That the poor, blotted copy-book, hardly begun,
      Is read by Him only who wrote on the sand,
      And the torn covers folded at last by His hand.
      Hark! Christmas bells ring for the birth of the Son--
      Good-night! May He help us and bless us each one.


      A flutter of white
      On Appledore’s shoulder,--
      The prettiest sight!
      A flutter of white,
      One by one they a-light
      On the dark, jutting bowlder;
      A flutter of white
      On Appledore’s shoulder.

      Six girls in a flock
      Where the white sea is breaking
      Against the gray rock.
      Six girls in a flock--
      Their gay voices mock
      The din it is making;
      Six girls in a flock
      Where the white sea is breaking.

      Each flutters and clings
      To the torn granite edges,--
      The merriest things!
      Each flutters and clings.
      Have they feathers and wings,
      As they perch on the ledges?
      Each flutters and clings
      To the torn granite edges.



      Away from the office and desk at last,
        The business-haunted room,
      The roar of a city, hurrying past,
        The heat, the worry, the gloom,
      To the glorious red of the sunset sky,
        The sweet, cold wine of the air,
      On the frozen road, my wheel and I,
        A dusty, rusty pair!

        Two birds in a bush
      Are laughing to see me hop;
        On, with a bound
        From the frozen ground,
      With never a sway nor stop.
      Over and over the pedals fly--
      “Come on!” to the twittering bird I cry,
        As over and over the wheels fly past her;
        Over and over, still faster and faster,
      On through the ice-cold stream of air,
      On where the road is frozen and bare.

      Silent and swift as a death-freed soul.
            On the smooth, black tide
      Of the ocean of night flowing in from the West,
      Over and over, and on without rest,
      Swifter and swifter, till over the crest
      Of the hill, and down to the valley below,
      Through the murk of the mist and the white of the snow--
      Now my steed falters, as, breathless and slow,
      Up the steep hillside he labors and grinds,
      Across and across he turns and winds,
      Sand-clogged and rock-hindered, without hope or faith,
      No longer a soul, but a sin-burdened wraith--
      Till, reaching the summit, he spurns the dark hill,
      And onward he plunges, for good or for ill,
      Over and onward, and onward and over,
      He reels and he spins like a jolly old rover.

      Backward he flies to our one dear goal,
      Where the whirling shall cease, and the rider shall rest,
      And soft, trembling lips to my own shall be pressed.
          Slowly--more slowly--we go--
      What, darling, so far on the road to-night,
      To welcome us both with your eyes’ sweet light!
      The wheel no longer has need to roam--
        Be quiet, old fellow! we’re safe, safe at home.




      Breathing, blowing,
        The cool breeze is blowing,
        High in the tree-tops,
        Low in the grasses,
        Softly it passes;
        The daisies it kisses
        And never one misses,
      And laughs at the buttercups,
        Breathing and blowing,
        Its blessing bestowing
        On all that it passes
        Among the low grasses
      And daisies and buttercups,
            Never one misses,
            But each one it kisses.
            Softer and fainter it grows,
            Faintly and softly it blows,
              Breathing, sighing,
            Sweetly and softly it goes,


      Hark to the wind from the mountain-tops blowing!
            Raining, snowing,
      Scattering ice-drops and crimson leaves blowing!
            Teasing the burnies
            With all their soft fernies,
            Bending and waving
            Among the green mosses;
            Roaring and raving,
            The long hair it tosses
            Of each little maiden
            Beside the brown burnies
            With crimson leaves laden
            All bound for the sea,
            With wee boaties laden,
            All crimson to see,
            And high in the tree-tops
            It rushes and roars;
            It leaps from the hill-tops
      And hurls with its might on the long, rocky shores
            The floods of the sea,
      All the time roaring and shouting and blowing,
            Icy drops throwing,
              Blowing, snowing,
                It roars!


      What shall the Soft Breeze do for thee?
      What shall I do with my faint, sweet blowing,
            Breathing, blowing,
          My blessing bestowing?
            I pray thee, Soft Breeze,
            Do thou blow, for me!
            Stir in the trees
          And breathe in the grasses,
            The soft, low grasses,
          And when the tall buttercup,
            Tall in the grasses,
            Thy light foot passes,
              Gather for me
      A wee grain of gold from its treasures rare,
      A ray of the sunlight it treasures there;
      Then beg of the daisies a bit of their white,
            Pure, pure white,
      And two tiny petals, crimson tipped,
      Because in God’s love they have just been dipped,
      And bearing the sunlight, the whiteness and love,
            Breathing, blowing,
            Fair blessings bestowing,
            Among the soft grasses
            And tree-tops above,
      High in the cloud-land’s silvery sheen,
      Low in the winding valleys between,
            Seek my wee girlie
            Who’s just thirteen,
            With hair so curly,--
      The curliest hair you ever have seen,
      The brownest hair you ever have seen,--
            With eyes so blue,
            Like skies so blue,
      And hide thy gifts in her heart so true,
          For to-day she’s just thirteen,


      What shall the Fierce Wind do for thee?
      What shall I do, with my terrible roaring,
            Raving, roaring,
            Icy drops pouring?

            I pray thee, Fierce Wind,
            Do thou roar, for me!
      Shatter the crags of the desolate mountain,
      Scatter the drops of the trembling fountain,
        Ride on the waves of the tossing sea,
            Tossing and spouting,
            Roaring and shouting;
      Snatch a bright leaf from the burnie’s brink,
      And a drop from the pool where the white lambs drink,
          A wisp of hair from the maiden fern,
          Bending over the laughing burn;
            The health of the seas,
            The life of the trees,
            The beauty of fernies,
            The faith of bright burnies,
      Life and beauty and health and faith,
      Whiteness and sunshine, love stronger than death,
        These to the maidie that’s just thirteen
        Shall all be given to-day, I ween,--
            Shall all be given,
            In blessing from Heaven,--
        For now she’s just thirteen,
            And her eyes are so blue,
            Sweet skies so blue,
            And her heart so true,
        And to-day she’s just thirteen,


  [2] Suggested by George MacDonald’s little book of that name.



      In the north-land standeth a pine-tree
        Alone, on a hill-top bare.
      It sleepeth beneath a mantle
        Of snow and frost-work rare.

      It dreameth long of a palm-tree
        Which, silent as a star,
      On the burning desert mourneth
        In Orient lands afar.

             *       *       *       *       *

      A LOVELY flower thou seemest,
        So tender, sweet, and true;
      And, as I gaze, steals o’er me
        A sadness strange and new.

      Upon thy peaceful forehead
        I’d lay my hands, in prayer
      That God may ever keep thee
        As tender, true, and fair.

             *       *       *       *       *

      Eagerly I cry, awaking,
        “Cometh she to-day?”
      Eventide--my sad heart, breaking,
        Speaks the answer, Nay!

      In the night I know but sorrow
        Till the dawn’s faint beam;
      Mist-enwrapped, in each to-morrow,
        Agony of dream.

             *       *       *       *       *

      He who for the first time loveth,
        Godlike, worlds of bliss doth rule;
      He who twice that joy essayeth,
        Luckless wight--he is a fool.

      Loving where no love returneth,
        Such a fool, alas!--am I;
      Sun and moon and stars are laughing,
        I laugh, too,--_and die_.

      Little maid, with lips so rosy,
        With thy blue eyes, sweet and clear,
      All my thoughts to thee are flying,
        All my life is with thee, dear!

      Slowly pace the leaden-footed
        Hours that mark the winter’s night;
      Ah, that I were now beside thee,
        Gazing, murmuring my delight!

      Kisses would I press, my darling,
        On thy little hand to-night;
      Nay--a tear should fall, unbidden,
        On thy little hand so white.

       *       *       *       *       *


      It was as if the heavens
        Had kissed the earth to rest,
      And she lay dreaming of them
        With flowers upon her breast.

      The fields and murmuring woodland
        Were bathed in fairest light,
      So soft the breeze’s whisper,
        So starry-clear the night!

      On outspread wings uplifted
        My spirit fain would roam
      Through cloudland realms unbounded,
        To rest at last--at home.


      In morning-land the radiant, rosy skies
      Each moment gleam with some new-born surprise,
      Or flush with dawning hope; the balmy air
      Is laden with a thousand perfumes rare
      And thrilled with chords of strange, sweet melodies.

      On that blest shore, which all around us lies,
      Peace reigns supreme, and joyous carols rise
      From every shaded copse and pleasaunce fair
                          In Morning-land.

      Knowst thou the land? Wherever friendly eyes
      Beam faith and constancy; where true love flies,
      Glad tidings of good-will and peace to bear;
      Where service is divine, God everywhere,--
      There dawns the perfect day that never dies
                          In Morning-land.


      I stood in a valley; above me
        Uprose a mighty hill;
      The air was vibrant with music
        Of insect, bird, and rill.

      The flowers among the grasses
        About my weary feet
      Swung all their tiny censers,
        Till perfume, heavy-sweet,

      Was shed abroad in the sunlight
        And wafted to and fro,
      While droning bees at the altar
        Their _Aves_ chanted low.

      A soft breeze touched my forehead,
        And whispered, “Peace, be still!”
      But ever above me towered
        That silent, awful hill,

      Whose peaks in mists were hidden,
        Whose slopes were brown and bare;
      And yet, as I gazed, I murmured,
        “O God! If I were there!”

      For I knew that the peace of the valley
        Was never meant for me;
      And I longed for the mountain summit,--
        Its pure winds blowing free,

      Its life of strength and vigor,
        Its thoughts of the good and true,
      Its steadfast crags of granite
        In the far-off, heavenly blue.

      I stand in the valley, and ever
        I gaze at the mountain bare,
      And I long for a hand to help me--
        O God! That I were there!


      Wondrous portent, set on high,
      Moving through the silent sky,
      Clothed in formless majesty,--

      Who can read those words of light
      On the star-lit wall of night?
      “_Mene, Tekel_,” dost thou write?

      Nay, thou bright Star in the East,
      O’er no haughty monarch’s feast,
      Prophet nor Chaldæan priest,

      Doth thy gentle radiance shine;
      Nobler resting-place is thine,
      ’Tis a Baby’s brow divine.

      With the waning of the year
      From afar thou dost appear,
      Telling us that Christ is near.


      Christmas Eve--and the mellow light
        Of the Star in the East was aglow
      O’er the Magi, hastening through the night,
          In the desert, long ago.

      Christmas Eve--and the gentle light
        Of the Star in the East was aglow
      O’er the lambs, asleep with their shepherds by night,
          On the hillside, long ago.

      Christmas Eve--and the golden light
        Of the Star in the East was aglow
      O’er a Baby’s brow, in the holy night,
          In a manger, long ago.

      Christmas Eve--and the blessèd light
        Of the Star in the East is aglow,
      As it shone of old, through the sweet, still night,
          O’er Bethlehem, long ago.


      Sob, cold wind of the sky,
        For the rest that never shall come!
      The stars have gathered on high,
        The moon’s white lips are dumb,
      And over her face like a shroud
      Lies the wrack of the drifting cloud.

      Moan, dark sea of the night!
        Fling up thine arms and implore
      The heavens for light, sweet light,--
        One sparkle along the shore
      From the sun that left thee to moan
      In the horror of darkness--alone.

      Shudder, thou one human soul,
        Forever alone in the night;
      Whose billows unceasingly roll
        In desolate seeking for light!
      The moon’s white face is thine own,
      Thine, thine the wind’s monotone.
            Thyself art the night--
            O God, light, light!


      “Turn us again, O God of Hosts, and cause
        Thy face to shine.”
                        When fades the light of day,
      And night in silence steals across the sky,
      We know it is not that the glorious sun
      Has left his steadfast throne amid the heavens,
      But that our little earth has turned away
      And hid its face till morning shall appear.
      So may we, in our blackest night of doubt
      And troubled thought, return once more to Thee,
      Till Thou hast risen, O Sun of Righteousness,
      And all the evil things of darkness born
      Have fled before the shining of Thy face.


      A morning-glory bud, entangled fast
        Amid the meshes of its winding stem,
      Strove vainly with the coils about it cast,
        Until the gardener came and loosened them.

      A suffering human life entangled lay
        Among the tightening coils of its own past;
      The Gardener came, the fetters fell away,
        The life unfolded to the sun at last.


      A mighty world is hushed to-night
            In sweet expectancy;
      O’er snowy field and wood the stainless light
              Of the clear moon
              Shines broad and free;
          While peacefully the earth--
              A great white throne
              Prepared for One who soon
          Shall rise and claim it for His own--
                Awaits His birth.

      The hearts of all mankind are turned
            Toward lowly Bethlehem;
      For in the east the wondrous Star, that burned
                In days of old,
                Still beckons them.
          Back o’er the centuries,
              Storm-swept and bare,
              It moves, until, behold!
          It stands above the manger where
                The Young Child lies.

      O Christmas chimes, right joyfully
          Ring out the tidings glad
      To stars and frosty air and listening sky,--
              “Good-will to men!”
              Till all the sad,
          The weary and oppressed,
              Their gifts shall bring
              To Him whose birth again
          Sheds peace on earth, and, worshipping,
                Shall be at rest.


      Throughout the weary day an Eastern sun
      Had poured his beams upon the whitened walls
      Of Jericho, till e’en the drooping palms
      Refused to comfort with their wonted shade
      The passer-by. As in a furnace blast--
      The glaring pavement spread beneath, o’erhead
      A brazen, cloudless sky--all living things
      Had gasped, with parching lips, and feebly prayed
      For night.
              ’Twas eventide; the northern hills
      Breathed forth a blessing on the multitude
      That thronged incessant through the city gates.
      Softly the mist crept forth, and o’er their heads
      Her dewy wings unfolded. In the west
      The molten brass of noontide turned to gold,
      And shone like some fair missal’s page, with hymns
      And promises illumined.
                                One there was
      Among the restless souls beneath its glow,
      For whom the heavenly message was not writ;
      For whom no sunset gleamed, nor morning dawned.
      Oft had he listened to the merry shout
      And laughter of the children at their sports,
      But ne’er had looked upon their sparkling eyes.
      Alone, he walked in darkness through a life
      Of nights, with never hope of day. But hark!
      Upon his ear there falls a gentle voice,
      Whose tones of strange and heavenly sweetness thrill
      His very heart. “’Tis Jesus, ’tis the Christ
      Of Nazareth!” The woes of heavy years,
      The quick-born hope, the old-time, dull despair,
      The agony of help so near at hand,
      Yet passing, blend in one wild, bitter cry:
      “Jesus, thou Son of David, I am blind!
      Have mercy on me!”--and the Saviour hears.
      Blind Bartimeus by the road-side waits
      In anguish mute and trembling, when, O joy!
      The bringer of glad tidings is at hand:
      “Be of good comfort, rise, he calleth thee!”

      O weary, heavy-laden one, whose eyes
      Have long been sightless to behold the truth,--
      Perchance in darkness walking even now,
      And longing with an aching heart for light,--
      The Master’s message echoes sweetly still:
      “Be of good comfort, rise, He calleth thee.”
      And humbly kneeling at His feet, the words
      Of healing, spoken in the olden time
      To him who prayed for help, thou too shalt hear:
      “Receive thy sight, thy faith hath made thee


      How bad I am, O Lord, Thou knowest,
      Deserving naught that Thou bestowest,
                But wandering each day

      Thy gifts are perfect, never ceasing,
      The debt against me still increasing,
                And yet I turn to flee
                      From Thee!

      Oft when my path is dark and narrow
      There flutters down some tiny sparrow
                To tell me of that love

      When daylight comes, I’m e’er forgetting
      The message sweet; my sins besetting
                Return, my soul to stain

      And so I cling to Thee, my Saviour,
      Despairing by my own behavior
                To cleanse myself from sin

      My cares I yield--for me Thou carest;
      I take my cross--its weight Thou sharest
                Henceforth my will be Thine,
                      Not mine.


      O thorn-crowned head, the sins of all the world
                    Have pierced thy brow;
      O gentle face, the woes of all the world
                    Thou bearest now!

      O patient eyes, to heaven in meekness turned,
                    Meekness divine,
      Within your suffering depths what wondrous light
                    Of love doth shine!

      O faltering, parted lips, with anguish wrung,
                    Your words still live
      And plead for us,--“They know not what they do--
                    Father, forgive!”


      The day’s loud footfalls die away,
      And stealing forth from her retreat
      Like a hooded nun, the twilight gray
      Glides softly down the busy street.
      With healing touch her gentle hand
      Rests on the city’s fevered brow;
      Its throbbing pulse is quiet now,
      And peace descends on the weary land.
      Since morn the dull December sky
      Has wept and moaned incessantly;
      The tall, gaunt forms of shivering trees
      Have groaned and rattled their bony arms,
      Till, startled by the restless breeze,
      The withered sprites of summer leaves
      Have gathered to whisper their vague alarms,
      Now whirling aloft to the dripping eaves,
      Now wavering slow to earth again,
      Borne down by the pitiless, hopeless rain.
      Upon my hearth the ruddy light
      Dances and plays at the fire-dogs’ feet
      Chasing the shadows out of sight;
      Around the walls it follows them fast,
      Hunts them into a corner at last,
      Up the chimney, out into the night.
      The blaze laughs loud with a music sweet,
      My heart grows warm in its cheery glow,
      And a thousand fancies come and go.
      The perfumed breath of the birchen brand,
      Rich with forest spices rare,
      Bears heavenward many a hope and prayer
      That only One can understand.
      Oh that my life were sweet and pure
      As the incense of this burning wood!
      Oh that my faith were strong and sure
      As the flame that ever strives toward God!
      I hear the sound of the sleet and rain
      Brushing against my window-pane;
      The voice of the wind is sad and low,
      The shadows return, and to and fro
      They flit and hover uneasily,
      Until at last they rest on me.
      Heap high the sturdy fire-dogs’ backs
      With boughs of hemlock, birch, and pine.
      The crisp bark curls, and smokes, and cracks;
      It comes at last, the spark divine,
      And bursting forth in broad, free laughter,
      The glorious blaze comes hurrying after,
      Springs up the chimney with a roar,
      Chasing the shadows away once more,
      Shining far out upon the floor,
      And sweeping away on its gladsome tide
      The fears and doubts, o’er which I sighed,
      To the depths of the sea, to the depths of the sea,--
      The cares and sins that have haunted me!

      I thank thee for thy help, sweet hour,
      For thou hast helped me true and well;
      I thank thee for the gentle spell
      Beneath which thou dost wield thy power,
      And when the twilight seeks at morn
      Her convent walls within the west,
      My soul shall know its truest rest,
      And bless the day when Christ was born.


      O’er Judah’s dark hill-tops the starlight is shining;
          In silence the silvery light
      Falls soft on the white, sleeping lambs and their shepherds,
                        By night.

      Sleep on, trustful flocks, while shepherds are watching;
          Fear not, for soon shall be born
      The dear Lamb of God, in a Bethlehem manger,
                        This morn.

      Keep watch, faithful shepherds, through gathering shadows,
          Though the hillside be lonely and drear;
      For lo, in the darkness the Shepherd of shepherds
                        Is near!

      Sing on, ye bright angels, repeat the glad tidings,--
          Joy, peace, and good-will on the earth;
      Proclaim to the weary, the sad, and the suffering,
                        His birth.

      Shine, radiant Star in the East, till thy glory
          O’er Wise Men and manger is poured,
      For Mary’s dear babe is the blessèd Christ Jesus,
                        Our Lord.


      Gentle-Faced child-flower--
        One of the least--
      Dost thou remember
        The Star in the East,
      Bethlehem’s hill-tops
        Flushing with morn,
      When in a manger
        The dear Christ was born?

      Lambs on the hillside
        Peacefully slept;
      Shepherds, abiding near,
        Faithful watch kept.
      Bright in the heavens
        Shone a new star,
      Guiding o’er deserts
        Wise Men from afar.

      White Flower of Bethlehem,
        Lo, it is morn!
      Shine on the manger
        Where Jesus was born.
      We, too, shall find Him,
        Though humblest and least,
      Led by thy radiance,
        Bright Star in the East.


      “Blessed are they that mourn.”
      The gentle tones,
      A moment faltering, then strong and sweet,
      Ring out upon the morning air. The throng
      Wait silently, lest by a whispered sigh
      Or quick-drawn breath a word should fall unheard
      From Him, the wonderful, the Prince of Peace.
      “Blessed”--the widow, shuddering, draws more close
      Her sombre draperies, and bows her head
      In agony of dumb and hopeless grief.

      --“Are they that mourn!” A dry, half-stifled sob
      Bursts from a gray-haired man; ’twas yesterday
      They buried all most dear to him on earth,
      And sun and stars were blotted out. Hot tears
      Fall thickly on his knotted, sunburnt hands,
      And still he listens to that strange, sweet voice.

      “Blessed are they that mourn.” What aching hearts
      Among the eager, silent multitude
      Cry out in bitter anguish that His words
      Are vain and mocking!

                              Lo, the Saviour turns
      With infinite compassion in His eye,
      And stretching forth His hands as though to give
      The blessing He has promised, speaks again:
      “They shall be comforted!”

                              The morning sun
      Breaks forth in triumph from the heavy clouds
      That hid His face. The waves of Galilee,
      Gleaming far distant in the misty east,
      Cast off the shroud of night. The air is full
      Of waking glory. But of all who feel
      The gladness and the freshness of the morn,
      Those only who have passed through deepest gloom
      Receive the fulness of that new, sweet peace
      His words have given,--and they are comforted!


      The shepherds were keeping their watch by night,
        In the field with their flock abiding;
      And soft on the fleece of the lambs fell the light
              Of a new-risen star,
              From deserts afar
        The wise ones to Bethlehem guiding.

      What startles the watchers? A rustle of wings,
        And a radiant figure above them.
      The lambs are afraid, and the white, woolly things,
              With tremulous bleat,
              Nestle close to the feet
        Of the faithful shepherds who love them.

      “Fear not!” comes the message, exultant and strong,
        “Good tidings of joy I am bringing!”
      And lo! with the song of a heavenly throng,
              “Peace on earth! For this morn
              A Saviour is born!”
        The hillsides of Judah are ringing.

      The bright ones are gone; over thicket and stone
        The starlight of Christmas is falling;
      But the lambs, without even an angel, alone
              In the great silent night,
              With sudden affright,
        For their lost shepherds vainly are calling.

      They knew not a tenderer Shepherd was near,
        His flocks to deliver from danger,
      And comfort all desolate lambs in their fear,--
              For peacefully lay,
              On that first Christmas day,
        Lord Christ, in a Bethlehem manger.


      Midnight upon Gennesaret; the restless waves,
      Like jewels on the troubled bosom of the sea,
      Flash forth in rays of silvery light, or hide within
      Her dark and flowing tresses. Soft, as in a dream,
      The night-winds sigh and whisper o’er the little ship,
      While from the far-off, shadowy hills of Galilee
      Their cool breath gently fans the weary twelve, as rests
      A loving hand upon a fevered, aching brow.
      Deserted lies the quiet, moon-lit shore, but all
      The air is heavy with the perfume of the grass,
      Crushed into fragrance by the waiting multitude
      Whom Jesus fed. The Giver of the bread of life
      Has gone apart upon the mountain-side to pray,
        The night is dark, the Master is not come;
      The sea arises, and on every side the waves
      Gigantic, black, and topped with lurid crests of foam,
      Leap madly through the gloom. Labors the little ship,
      Hurled to and fro and beaten back upon her course.
      With slow and stubborn stroke the rowers wearily
      Are straining at the heavy oars. But hark! above
      The sullen roar of wind and sea, a well-loved voice,
      Vibrant and sweet with chords of heavenly music, speaks,
      And they were sore afraid; but He saith unto them,
      “Be of good cheer, ’tis I, be not afraid.”
        And lo,
      The tempest ceased! and when they had received their Lord,
      The ship had come unto the haven they desired.


      Why seek ye for Jehovah
      Mid Sinai’s awful smoke?
      The burning bush now shelters
      A sparrow’s humble folk;
      The curve of God’s sweet heaven
      Is the curve of the leaf of oak;
      The Voice that stilled the tempest
      To little children spoke,--
      The bread of life eternal
      Is the bread He blessed and broke.


                    Another year!
      What is the story by the twelve-month told?
      What treasure doth its memory enfold,--
                Base coin, or gold?
      Sternly hath it hard lessons taught,
      Hath it new cares, new joys, new burdens brought?
                Few smiles, and many a tear?

                    Another year!
      What good and perfect gifts have gently come--
      Knowing not whence, we have been blind and dumb!
                We ate the crumb
      Without the sparrow’s faith, but still,
      Father of Lights, Thou shinest on, and will,
                Thy frightened birds to cheer.

                    Another year!
      The sunlight pours its blessings as of old,
      Into the lap of each dear day,--its gold,
                Its wealth untold.
      As lessons new and sweet we gain,
      Still hoping to the highest to attain,
                We trust, and never fear.

                    Another year!
      But to the brave and true, lo, time is not!
      A thousand years are as a day, forgot
                The hardest lot,
      To those who walk beside their God,
      Loving the path His patient feet have trod,
                Knowing that He is near.


      Flickers the ruddy firelight on the wall;
      Now here, now there, the shadows restlessly
      Dance in and out among the gleaming bars
      That prison many a glimpse of sea and sky
      Upon the pictured canvas. Brightly falls
      The cheerful light upon familiar forms
      Of volumes clothed in sober garb and gay,
      Whose very names, in golden characters,
      Invite to solace sweet, and peace of mind.
      Footfalls incessant in the rainy street
      Mingle their dreary cadence with the roll
      And rhythmic echo of the iron wheel,
      Half muffled by the storm’s dull monotone.
      Within, the gentle presence of the flame,
      With its soft rustle ever and anon,
      Serves but to take away the very pain
      Of silence absolute.
                          It is the hour
      For contemplation meet. The air is thronged
      With thoughts innumerable, fancies light,
      That flit about on airy wing, or play
      Among the fireborn shadows on the wall;
      Till, touched by the Promethean glow, they take
      A seeming form substantial, animate.
      From out their thin octavo cells pour forth
      The shapes ethereal of poet, sage,
      Philosopher, and man of God, whose words
      Make wisdom beautiful, and beauty wise.
      Silent they rise before me, one by one,
      E’en as the fabled genius, close involved
      Within the tiny casket, gained at last
      His proper self, and towered high above
      His liberator. But of other mien
      Are these strange forms around my hearth to-night.
      With aspect grave, yet kind, they gaze on me
      As old companions might on one they loved,
      Who loved them in return. I know each one,
      And recognize the habit of his life.
      Old Gilbert White--whose flowing locks, and dress
      Of quaint antiquity, precise and neat,
      Recall his quiet walks in Selborne wood--
      Has paused with curious, meditative eye,
      Before an owl upon my mantle shelf,
      And rapidly, in shadowy script, records
      The sapient bird’s presentment.
                                    Near at hand,
      A man of kindly countenance and mild,
      Impressed with lines of pure and noble thought,
      Bends low in prayer; ere long resumes his pen,
      And adds one more sweet hymn to those that bear
      George Herbert’s name. Anon appears a face
      More gentle than the rest, it seems, with eyes
      Of deep and tender yearning. Silently
      The figure turns aside, and by the hearth
      Remains aloof, with dreamy gaze intent
      Upon the glowing coals. What fantasies
      Are imaged there, reflected from his mind,
      And striving for the elixir of his touch
      And wondrous pen, that give eternal life
      To such as they! Lo, built of candent fire
      The Old Manse drops its Mosses at his feet;
      Italia’s strange physician whispers now
      Of potent herb and flower. The Puritan,
      His wonted sternness softened, deigns to tell
      Of old-time guilt--the Scarlet Letter’s brand--
      Till, glancing up, he shudders at the approach
      Of stricken Hester, with her demon child.

      So wanes the night. In quick succession move
      Shades of the mighty dead before my eyes.
      Again is played the Comedy Divine,
      And gloomily the awful form of him
      Whose mind such Titan offspring bore, attends
      The movement of each scene. The cowl and robe,
      Close at his side, betray that zealous monk
      Whose life was Imitation of the Christ.
      Amid the still increasing throng, behold
      Sage Izaak Walton, creel and rod in hand;
      But while I gaze upon his visage mild,
      Expectant half to hear his counsel how
      The wily carp to ensnare, the fiery bridge
      O’er which my fancy boldly trod, and found
      Her way to realms unreal, topples down
      With mimic crash, and lies a ruined mass
      Upon the hearth. Yet by its waning glow
      I see the hurried parting of my guests,
      Retreating each within his narrow cell;
      As when beneath a monastery roof
      The low, sweet chant of vespers dies away,--
      The last faint echoes lingering still within
      The moonlit cloisters,--silently the forms
      Of holy men glide to and fro among
      The shadows, till the hush of night descends
      With brooding wings, and gathers all to rest.



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*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "In the Morning" ***

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