“She Came And Went.”

As a shy bird that startled from her nest Wings her far way into the highest blue, Nor dreams that she has left us any clue To find which elm tree had been loved the best;

Though all the while its light boughs, fluttering In the deep noonday silence, softly beat Their soundless echoes to her flying feet Now swiftly in the blue air vanishing:--

So haply you would keep a secret, dear, Your unseen presence in my little room, That glorified into unwonted bloom Betrays to me what fair guest has been here.

Who else, dear, in my absence would have thought To close the favorite book, left open here Where a disputed passage was made clear By a few words with tedious patience sought;--

Then with a sudden and repentant grace That all the mischief of its fault bereft, Have found the very page again, and left A rose in the shut book to mark the place.

DREAMERS.

I.

I saw her, though with earnest eyes bent low, Unheedful of the violets at her feet, That clustering in purple fragrance sweet Touched her white dress; absorbed in revery so, She knew not that the morning sunshine’s glow Was for her sake; and robins, fain to greet So fair a lady with a love-song meet, No recognition won from her below. O dreamer of a dream thy heart shall see Crowned with fulfillment when the dawn of day Has deepened into noontide’s richer gleam,-- Lest I too rudely should awaken thee, With hushed and reverent step I steal away, Praying God bless the dreamer and the dream!

II.

I saw her with her tearful eyes raised high, Unheedful of the whirling flakes of snow, That flitting through the sad air to and fro Flecked her dark dress; cold from the leaden sky, The autumn winds came sobbing restless by, Wailing to find it still so cold below; While faded violets of a year ago, Pressed to her lips, hushed her own rising cry. O lonely dreamer of a dream long flown, I come to waken thee! for dying day In purple twilight shrouds the noontide gleam; And when the lovely visions that have grown So fair and dear flit vanishing away, God blesses dreamers who no longer dream.

ANDROMEDA.

Loosen my arms! leave me one poor hand free, That I may shut one moment from my sight The dreadful heaving of the shuddering sea! For as it creeps back slowly from my feet, Rise from its inky depths swift-coming waves Big with the terrible and nameless thing That soon along the shrinking sands will crawl To wrap me in its hideous embrace. I will not struggle! leave me but one hand To shield the poor eyes that refuse to close; For stretched and wide the fascinated lids Deny their office, and I needs must look! What have I done, that these fair limbs of mine, (Nay, nay; I meant not fair; the gods forbid That I should boast!) but young and piteous And tender with soft flesh--O mother, take Your proud words back! O nymphs, be pitiful! The green waves part, and poisonous is the air! Red the fangs glitter! save me, O ye gods!

Nay, what is this that wraps my shuddering limbs With sudden coolness?--Can it be that now The merciless tall cliff which all day long Refused its wonted shadow to protect My burning body from the dazzling sun, Relents, and spreads its gentle shade around To calm my reeling senses? Nay, for more It seems to me like white o’ershadowing wings, Circling above my head. Alas! so dim My poor eyes are with tears, I cannot see What this may be so near me; yet it seems Like some young, gallant knight. Alack, good sir, If thou art come to free my quivering limbs, Know that against the gods contend in vain The bravest knights. And yet how like a god Himself he stands! See how he spurns the ground, Poised with sustaining wings upon the air, And deals the monster a sharp, sudden blow That sends him reeling from the trembling shore! Shattered, I hear the chains fall to my feet; Yet much I fear another gentler fate Fetters my heart anew. O valiant knight, If in thy sight this tearful face was fair,-- (Fair dare I call it now; since thou art near To shield me ever from the envious hate Of those less fair!) if worth it seemed to thee The dreadful daring of the doubtful fight, Surely that best should be thy dear reward Which prompted thee to struggle; all is thine! The dim eyes, dull with weeping bitter tears, Shall brighten at the sound of thy strong voice; The frail hands, red with struggling to be free, Once more shall turn to lilies in thy clasp; Rose-red for thee shall flush with happiness The poor, pale cheeks, still white with sickening fear; The tired feet sustained and strong shall grow, Walking beside thee; nay, dear love, not yet; For still they tremble, still I seem to need Thy firm supporting arm around me thrown. Fold me then, dearest, in thy close embrace; Bear me across the treacherous, yielding sands, To that far country which must needs be fair, Since thou hast followed from its chivalry, Where I may now forget all else but thee.

LOVE SONG.

Dreaming of love and fame, sweetheart, I dreamed that a sunbeam shone For a wavering instant, and where it played A hundred flowers had grown. The sunshine flitting so soon away Was a smile thou hadst given me; And the flowers that bloomed in the world for aye, Were the songs I wrote for thee.

Waking to love and life, sweetheart, I saw fair flowers fade; While still from the measureless heavens above The flickering sunshine played. The flowers fading from all men’s sight Were the songs they had heard from me; And the light that illumined the world to them, Was a single smile from thee!

CLOSED.

Within her soul there is a sacred place, Forever set apart to holy thought; There once a miracle divine was wrought, And common things grew fair with heavenly grace. Think not to know the secret of that room;-- Closed is the door, even to herself; no more She lingers there, though well our hearts are sure It is no spot of shadowy, haunted gloom. The violets that blossom there unseen Were never gathered, and so never fade; Breathing serenely through the gentle shade Their memories of all that once had been. When in the thoughtful twilight we, her friends, Walk with her, and in spirit dimly feel A strange, rare fragrance o’er the senses steal, Let us speak softly of a Past that sends Through the closed crevice of its silent door, No bitterness in those remembered hours; But in the delicate breath of such fair flowers Only the sweetness of the days of yore.

BABY-HOOD.

M. W. R.

Dear bird of mine, with strong and untried wing, Ignorant yet of restless fluttering, How long will you be so content to sing

For me alone? when will the world be stirred By notes that even I have scarcely heard, Since you are still only a mocking-bird?

My little Clytie with the constant eyes Turned to me ever, though the true sunrise Burns far above me in God’s holy skies,--

How can you know, my sweet unconscious one, In the bright days for you but just begun, That I am worthy to be held your sun?

My little loyal worshipper, the bloom Of whose fair face makes bright the midnight gloom, Turned ever steadily to my near room,

Knowing so well, with instinct fine and true, The one glad door through which I come to you, Caring for naught but what that hides from view,--

How long, dear one, how many precious years, Will this fair chamber where I hush your tears Be the one Mecca for your hopes and fears?

Not long, alas! not long; the mother heart Knows well how quickly she will have to part With all this wonder;--she who tries each art

To lure him on; the first to coax and praise Each added grace; then first in sore amaze To mourn that he has lost his baby ways!