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Simple enthusiast! why do you require

A budding rose for every thorny stalk?

Why must we poets always bear the lyre

And sing, when fashion forces us to talk?

Only at moments comes the muse's light.

Alone, like shy wood-thrushes, warble we.

Catch us in traps like this dull crowd to-night,

We are but plain, brown-feathered birds, you see!


Tears wash away the atoms in the


That smarted for a day; Rain-clouds that spoiled the splendors of the sky The fields with flowers array.

No chamber of pain but has some hidden door

That promises release; [store No solitude so drear but yields its

Of thought and inward peace.

No night so wild but brings the constant sun With love and power untold; No time so dark but through its woof there run Some blessed threads of gold.

And through the long and storm-tost centuries burn In changing calm and strife The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er we turn,— The unquenched lamps of life.

O Love supreme! O Providence divine!

What self-adjusting springs of law and life, what even scales, are thine, What sure-returning wings

Of hopes and joys that flit like birds away,

When chilling autumn blows, But come again, long ere the buds of May

Their rosy lips unclose!

What wondrous play of mood and accident

Through shifting days and years; What fresh returns of vigor overspent In feverish dreams and fears!

What wholesome air of conscience and of thought When doubts and forms oppress; What vistas opening to the gates we sought Beyond the wilderness;

Beyond the narrow cells where selfinvolved, Like chrysalids, we wait The unknown births, the mysteries unsolved Of death and change and fate!

O Light Divine! we need no fuller test

That all is ordered well; We know enough to trust that all is best

Where Love and Wisdom dwell.


Amid the elms that interlace
Round Harvard's grounds their
branches tall,
We greet no walls of stateless grace
Than thine, our proud Memorial

Through arching boughs and roofs of


Whose dappled lights and shadows lie

Along the turf and road, is seen
Thy noble form against the sky.

And miles away, on fields and streams,

Or where the woods the hilltop crown,

The monumental temple gleams, A landmark to each neighboring town.

Nor this alone; New England knows A deeper meaning in the pride

Whose stately architecture shows How Harvard's children fought and died.

Therefore this hallowed pile recalls The heroes, young and true and brave,

Who gave their memories to these walls,

Their lives to fill the soldier's grave.

The farmer, as he drives his team
To market in the morn, afar

Beholds the golden sunrise gleam
Upon thee, like a glistening star.

And gazing, he remembers well
Why stands yon tower so fair and

His sons perhaps in battle fell;
For him, too, shines Memorial

And sometimes, as the student glides
Along the winding Charles, and sees

Across the flats thy glowing sides Above the elms and willow-trees,

Upon his oar he'll turn and pause,

Remembering the heroic aims of those who linked their country's cause

In deathless glory with their names.

And as against the moonlit sky
The shadowy mass looms overhead,

Well may we linger with a sigh
Beneath the tablets of the dead.

The snow-drifts on thy roof shall wreathe

Their crowns of virgin white for them;

The whispering winds of summer breathe

At morn and eve their requiem.

For them the Cambridge bells shall chime

Across the noises of the town; The cannon's peal recall their time Of stern resolve and brief renown.

Concord and Lexington shall still, Like deep to deep, to Harvard call;

The tall gray shaft on Bunker Hill Speak greetings to Memorial Hall.

Oh, never may the land forget

Her loyal sons who died that we Might live, remembering still our debt,

The costly price of Liberty!


Thought is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils;
Man by man was never seen;
All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company
But a babbling summer stream?
What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love
Melts the scattered stars of thought,
Only when we live above
What the dim-eyed world hath

Only when our souls are fed

By the fount which gave them birth,

And by inspiration led

Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.


I Am but clay in thy hands, but Thou art the all-loving artist. Passive I lie in thy sight, yet in my selfhood I strive So to embody the life and the love thou ever impartest, That in my sphere of the finite, I may be truly alive.

Knowing thou needest this form, as I thy divine inspiration, Knowing thou shapest the clay with a vision and purpose divine, So would I answer each touch of thy hand in its loving creation, That in my conscious life thy power and beauty may shine,

Reflecting the noble intent thou hast in forming thy creatures; Waking from sense into life of the soul, and the image of thee; Working with thee in thy work to model humanity's features Into the likeness of God, myself from myself I would free.

One with all human existence, no

one above or below me; Lit by thy wisdom and love, as

roses are steeped in the morn; Growing from clay to a statue, from

statue to flesh, till thou know


Wrought into manhood celestial, and in thine image re-born.

So in thy love will I trust, bringing me sooner or later Past the dark screen that divides these shows of the finite from thee.

Thine, thine only, this warm, dear life. O loving Creator! Thine the invisible future, born of the present, must be.


Soft, brown, smiling eyes,

Looking back through years, Smiling through the mist of time,

Filling mine with tears; On this sunny morn,

While the grape-blooms swing In the scented air of June,—

Why these memories bring?

Silky rippling curls,

Tresses long ago
Laid beneath the shaded sod

Where the violets blow;
Why across the blue

Of the peerless day
Do ye droop to meet my own,

Now all turned to gray?

Voice whose tender tones

Break in sudden mirth, Heard far back in boyhood's spring,

Silent now on earth; Why so sweet and clear,

While the bird and bee Fill the balmy summer air,

Come your tones to me?

Sweet, ah, sweeter far

Than yon thrush's trill, Sadder, sweeter than the wind,

Woods, or murmuring rill,
Spirit words and songs

O'er my suns creep.
Do I breathe the air of dreams?

Do I wake or sleep?


Why was I born, and where was I
Before this living mystery
That weds the body to the soul?
What are the laws by whose control

I live and feel and think and know?
What the allegiance that I owe
To tides beyond all time and space?
What form of faith must I embrace?
Why thwarted, starved, and over-

By fate,— an exile, driven forlorn
By fitful winds, where each event
Seems but the whirl of accident?
Why feel our wings so incomplete,
Or, flying, but a plumed deceit,
Renewing all our lives to us
The fable old of Icarus?

Tell me the meaning of the breath That whispers from the house of death.

That chills thought's metaphysic strife,

That dims the dream of Afterlife.
Why, if we lived not ere our birth,
Hope for a state beyond this earth?
Tell me the secret of the hope
That gathers, as we upwards ope
The skylights of the prisoned soul
Unto the perfect and the whole;
Yet why the loveliest things of earth
Mock in their death their glorious

Why, when the scarlet sunset floods
The west beyond the hills and woods,
Or June with roses crowds my porch,
Or northern lights with crimson

Illume the snow and veil the stars With streaming bands and wavering bars,

Or music's sensuous, soul-like wine
intoxicates with trance divine,—
Why then must sadness like a thief
Steal my aromas of belief,
And like a cloud that shuts the day
At sunrise, turn my gold to gray?

Tell me why instincts meant for good
Turn to a madness of the blood;
And, baffling all our morals nice,
Nature seems nearly one with vice;
What sin and misery mean, if blent
With good in one divine intent.
Why from such source must evil

And finite still mean suffering?

Look on the millions born to blight; The souls that pine for warmth and light:

The crushed and stifled swarms that pack

The foul streets and the alleys black, The miserable lives that crawl Outside the grim partition wall 'Twixt rich and poor, 'twixt foul and fair,

'Twixt vaulting hope and lame despair.

On that wall's sunny side, within, Hang ripening fruits and tendrils green,

O'er garden-beds of bloom and spice,
And perfume as of paradise.
There happy children run and talk
Along the shade-flecked gravel-walk,
And lovers sit in rosy bowers,
And music overflows the hours,
And wealth and health and mirth

and books
Make pictures in Arcadian nooks.
But on that wall's grim outer stones
The fierce north-wind of winter


Through blinding dust, o'er bleak

highway, The slant sun s melancholy ray Sees stagnant pool and poisonous


The hearts that faint, the feet that bleed,

The grovelling aim, the flagging faith,

The starving curse, the drowning death!

O wise philosopher! you soothe
Our troubles with a touch too

Too plausibly your reasonings come.
They will not guide me to my home;
They lead me on a little way
Through meadows, groves, and gar-
dens gay,
Until a wallshuts out my day,—
A screen whose top is hid in clouds,
Whose base is deep on dead men's

Could I dive under pain and death, Or mount and breathe the whole heaven's breath,

I might begin to comprehend
How the Beginning joins the End.

We agonize in doubt, perplexed
O'er fate, free-will, and Bible-text.
In vain. The spirit finds no vent
From out the imprisoning tempera-

Therefore I bow my spirit to the Power

That underflows and fills my little hour.

I feel the eternal symphony afloat, In which I am a breath, a passing note.

I may be but a dull and jarring nerve In the great body, yet some end I serve.

Yea, though I dream and question

still the dream thus floating by me upon Being's


Some end I serve. Love reigns. I cannot lose

The Primal Light, though thousandfold its hues.



St eve is purpling cliff and cave, Thoughts of the heart, how soft ye flow!

Not softer on the western wave
The golden lines of sunset glow.

Then all, by chance or fate removed,
Like spirits crowd upon the eye;

The few we liked — the one we loved!
And the whole heart is memory.

And life is like a fading flower,
Its beauty dying as we gaze;

Yet as the shadows round us lour, Heaven pours above a brighter blaze.

I can believe that somewhere Truth abides;

Not in the ebb and flow of those

small tides That float the dogmas of our saints

and sects; Not in a thousand tainted dialects. But in the one pure language, could

we hear,

That fills with love and light the seraphs' sphere.

I can believe there is a Central Good,

That burns and shines o'er temperament and mood;

That somewhere God will melt the clouds away,

And his great purpose shine as shines the day.

Then may we know why now we could not know;

Why the great Isis-curtain drooped so low;

Why we were blindfold on a path of light;

Why came wild gleams and voices

through the night; Why we seemed drifting, storm-tost,

without rest, And were but rocking on a mother's



When morning sheds its gorgeous


Our hope, our heart, to earth is given;

But dark and lonely is the eye
That turns not, at its eve, to heaven.


There was once a gentle time
When the world was in its prime;
And every day was holiday.
And every month was lovely May.
Cupid then had but to go
With his purple wings and bow:

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