“I Know Myself The Best-Beloved Of All.”

I know myself the best-beloved of all The many dear to him; yet not indeed Because of his swift thought for every need Of my love’s craving; I could scarcely call My very own the power to enthrall Such chivalry as his, that turns to heed Each slightest claim, nor thinks to ask the meed Of love returned where love’s sweet offerings fall. Not then because of all he is to me; But by this surer token; when he earns The right to his own happiness, or yearns For some sweet, sudden, answering sympathy, Ah me! with what quick-beating heart I see For his own joy it is to me he turns!

OCTOBER.

The very air Has grown heroic; a few crimson leaves Have fallen here; yet not to yield their breath In pitiful sighing at so sad a fate, But royally, as with spilt blood of kings. The full life throbs exultant in my veins, Till half ashamed to wear so high a mood, Not for some splendid triumph of the soul, But simply in response to light and air, Slowly I let it fall. And later, steal Down the broad garden-walk, where cool and clear The sharp-defined white moonlight marks the path. Not the young moon that shy and wavering down Trembled through leafy tracery of the boughs In happy nights of June; the peace that wraps Me here is not the warm and golden peace Of summer afternoons that lull the soul To dreamy indolence; but strong white peace, Peace that is conscious power in repose. No fragrance floats on the autumnal air; The white chrysanthemums and asters star The frosty silence, but their leaves exhale No passion of remembrance or regret. The perfect calmness and the perfect strength My senses wrap in an enchanted robe Woven of frost and fire; while in my soul Blend the same mingled sovereignty and rest; As if indeed my spirit had drained deep Some delicate elixir of rich wine, Ripened beneath the haughtiest of suns, Then cooled with flakes of snow.

SERENITY.

Her days are as a silver-flowing stream;-- Above, the rippling sunbeams flash and gleam; Beneath, strong currents noiseless as a dream.

Her heart is like the lilies that bloom wide In restful beauty on the restless tide, Asking not where the eager waters glide.

Her thoughts are white-winged birds, that from below To the high heavens soar and vanish so-- Alas! mine cannot follow where they go.

Her joys are bright-winged birds that from on high Come singing down, and tempt the stream to try And sing with them as they flit singing by.

Her sorrows--she has none her heart will own; The air is silent when the birds have flown; But the poor stream still sings the song, alone.