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And in the fierce strife Which winter brings to me amain,
Sapless. I waste my life, And, murmuring at my fate, complain.
I am a worthless reed;
No flower for beauty's meed,
Hollow and gaunt, my wand
Leafless and sad I stand,
O foolish reed! to wail!
And, wandering through the dale, Saw thee and claimed thee for his prize.
He plucked thee from the mire; He pruned and made of thee a pen,
And wrote in words of fire
Till thou, so lowly bred,
Utt'rest such paeans overhead That angels listen at their gate.
Louisa Parsons Hopkins.
Passionate, stormy ocean,
Spreading thine arms to me, The depths of my soul's emotion
Surge with the surging sea: Waves and billows go o'er me,
Give me thy strong right hand! The throes of my heart's vain struggle
I know thou wilt understand.
Break with thy hidden anguish,
restless and yearning main! y my sighs; I languish,
Moaning in secret pain.
The hopes I would rest in, flee;
Comfort me, answering sea!
Mightily tossed with tempest,
Lashed into serried crest, roaring and seething billows
Give thee nor peace nor rest: Oh, to thy heaving bosom
Take me, wild sobbing sea! For the whole earth's groaning and travail
Utters itself in thee.
Blow, northern winds! To brace my fibres, knit re cords. To gird my soul, to fire my words, To do my work,—for 't is the Lord's, —
To fashion minds.
Come, tonic blasts! Arouse my courage, stir my thought. Give nerve and spring, that as I ought I give my strength to what is wrought.
While duty lasts.
Glow, arctic light, And let my heart with burnished steel.
That bright magnetic flame reveal which kindles purpose, faith, and zeal
For truth and right.
Shine, winter skies! That when each brave day's work is done,
I wait in peace, from sun to sun.
The chrysalid with rapture stirs;
And nectar fills the flower-spurs.
Down in the confidential green
And live their busy life unseen.
The flowers of the Indian corn Droop their fair feathers o'er the sheath,
And all their pollen grains bequeath That golden harvests may be born.
The summer-tide swells high and full;
I sit within the waving grass; The scented breezes o'er me pass, The thistles shed their silky wool.
The ox-eyed daisies hail the sun, And sprinkle all the acres bright With golden stars of radiant light
Amid the feathery grasses dun.
The plaintive brook reflects the glow
Breathes through the sunset soft and low.
I see the dear Persephone Trailing her purple robes more slow,
Her lovely eyelids drooping low, And gazing pensive o'er the sea.
The fringed gentians kiss her hand, The milkweed waves its soft adieus; Theirtender words she must refuse,
For dark steeds wait upon the strand.
Erkwhii.e the sap has had its will,
Demeter's arms have had their fill.
The seed has dropped into the mould,
Persephone is still and cold.
For Nature's dream is all fulfilled, Her clinging robes she folds once more,
And glides within her close-locked door,
For all the wine of life is spilled.
HYMN FROM "MOTHERHOOD."
0 beautiful new life within my
New life, love-born, more beautiful than day.
I tremble in thy sacred presence,
What holy miracle attends my way!
My heart is hushed, I hear between its beating The angel of annunciation say, "Hail, blessed among women!" while I pray.
O all-creative Love! thy finger touches
My leaping pulses to diviner heat. What am 1, that thy thought of life
should blossom In me, in me thy tide of life should
Beat strong within me, God-tide, in com passion. With quickening spirit earth-born
essence greet! Fountain of life! flow through me pure and sweet.
O all-sustaining Love! come close beside me, — Me, so unworthy of this wondrous gift.
Purge me, refine me, try me as by fire,
Whiten me white as snow in glacier-rift,
That neither spot, nor stain nor
blemish darken These elements that now to being
Inspire, sustain me, all my soul uplift!
O all-sufficient Love 1 I am as nothing;
Take me, thy way, most facile to
thy need; Enraptured, let me feel thy spirit
moulding The germ that thou hast made a
living seed. And while the currents of my life are
speeding This life immortal in its growth to
To one dear purpose, all my forces lead!
Ellen Mackay Hutchinson.
The tide slips up the silver sand,
Dark night and rosy day;
Then bears them all away.
O tide, that still doth ebb and flow
Through night to golden day: — Wit, learning, beauty, come and go,
Thou giv'st— thou tak'st away. But sometime, on some gracious shore,
Thou shalt lie still and ebb no more.
ON THE ROAD.
Dost know the way to Paradise? Pray, tell me by thy grace.
"Any way thou canst devise That leads to my love's face — For that's his dwelling-place."
How far is it to Paradise?
Time loiters and my heart it flies -
September waves his golden-rod
And saunters round the sunny fields
The corn has listened for his step,
And gay coquetting Sumach dons
Come to the hearth. O merry prince,
For all your tricks of frosty eyes,
Red leaf, gold leaf, flutter down the wind: Life is brief, oh! Life is brief, But Mother Earth is kind; From her dear bosom ye shall spring To new blossoming.
The red leaf, the gold leaf, They have had their way; Love is long if life be brief, —
Life is but a day; And love from grief and death shall spring To new blossoming.
the Last Words.
[The last words written by Dr. Holland, Oct. 1Kb., ISsl, — referring to President Garfield: "By sympathy he drew all hean* to him.") I,
We may not choose! Ah, if we
might, how we Should linger here, not ready to be
Till one more loving thing were
looked, or said,— Till some dear child's estate of joy
should be Complete,—or we triumphant, late,
Some great cause win for which our hearts had bled. —
Some hope come true which all our lives had fed,—
Some bitter sorrow fade away and flee,
Which we, rebellious, had too bitter thought;
Or even, — so our human hearts would cling,
If but they might, to this fair world inwrought
With heavenly beauty in each smallest thing,
We would refuse to die till we had sought
One violet more, heard one more robin sing!
We may not choose: but if we did
foreknow The hour when we should pass from
human sight, What words were last that we should
say, or write, Could we pray fate a sweeter boon
Than bid our last words burn with
loving glow of heartfelt praise, to lift, and make
more bright A great man's memory, set in clearer
Ah yes! Fate could one boon more
sweet bestow: So frame those words that every
heart which knew. Should sudden, awe-struck, weeping
turn away, And cry: "His own hand his best
wreath must lay! Of his own life, his own last words
So true, love's truth no truer thing
can say, — "By sympathy, all hearts to him he
Month which the warring ancients
strangely styled The month of war,—as if in their
Were any month of peace! — in thy
rough days, I find no war in nature, though the
Winds clash and clang, and broken
boughs are piled At feet of en trees. The violets
Their heads without affright, or look of maze,
And sleep through all the din, as
sleeps a child. And he who watches well, will well
Sweet expectation in each living thing.
Like pregnant mother, the sweet
earth doth yearn; In secret joy makes ready for the
And hidden, sacred, in her breast
doth bear Annunciation hlies for the year.
Some flowers are withered and some
joys have died; The garden reeks with an East Indian
From beds where gillyflowers stand
weak and spent; The white heat pales the skies from
side to side; At noonday all the living creatures
But in still lakes and rivers, cool, content.
Like starry blooms on a new firmament,
White lilies float and regally abide.
The lily does not feel their brazen "glare;
In vain the pallid clouds refuse to share
Their dews: the lily feels no thirst,
no dread: Unharmed she lifts her queenly face
and head; She drinks of living waters and keeps
Quaint blossom with the old fantastic name, By jester christened at some ancient feast! How royally to-day among the least Considered herbs, it flings its spice
and flame. How careless wears a velvet of the same
Unfathomed red, which ceased when Titian ceased
To paint it in the robes of doge and priest.
Oh, long lost loyal red which never came
Again to painter's palette — on my sight
It flashes at this moment, trained
and poured through my nasturtiums in the
morning light. Like great-souled kings to kingdoms
full restored. They stand alone and draw them to
their height. And shower me from their stintless
Lucia W. Jennison
There came a breath, out of a distant time.
An odor from neglected gardens where
Unnumbered roses once perfumed the air
Through summer days, in childhood's happy clime.
There came the salt scent of the sea, the chime
Of waves against the beaches or the bare,
Gaunt rocks; as to the mind, half unaware,
Recur the words of some familiar rhyme.
And as above the gardens and the sea
The moon arises, and her silver light touches the landscape with a deeper grace,
So o'er the misty wraiths of memory, Turning them into pictures clear
and bright, Rose in a halo the beloved face.
Against her mouth she pressed the
rose, and there, 'Neath the caress of lips as soft and
As its own petals, quick the bright
bud spread And oped, and flung its fragrance on
It ne'er again a bud's young grace
can wear? O love, regret it not! It gladly
Its soul for thee, and though thou
kiss it dead It does not murmur at a fate so
Thus, once, thou breath'dst on me, till every germ
Of love and song broke into rapturous flower,
And sent a challenge upwards to the sky,
What if too swift fruition set a term
Too brief to all things? I have lived my hour,
And die contented since for thee I die.
Suppose the dreaded messenger of death
Should hasten steps that seem, though sure, so slow,
And soon should whisper with his chilly breath:
"Arise! thine hour has sounded, thou must go;