“Vino Santo.”

TO H. H.

I taste the cup of sacred wine, Nor count with you the cost too great For those who steadfastly can wait; Though grapes of fragrance so divine Should ripen to their vintage late.

Gathered when only richest suns Pour down a wealth of golden fire; Pressed while the holy heart’s desire Breathes grateful for these perfect ones, And solemn prayer floats high and higher;--

Type of a love that lets no stain Of doubt or dullness mar its creed; But patient through its own great need Of loving, wins its sure domain,-- Such love, such wine, is pure indeed.

Yet as I turn to pour for you,-- Vivid and sparkling at your gaze,-- My own heart’s vintage,--let me praise This glowing wine as holy, too; Since love may come in many ways.

And mine came to me as a star Shines suddenly from worlds apart; And suddenly my lifted heart Caught the rare brightness from afar And mirrored its swift counterpart.

Love born of instant trust and need, Each heart of each; a love that knew No test of time to prove it true, No fostering care; without a seed It seemed as if the flower grew!

And you whose tender love was nursed In strong sweet patience, till the wine Of joy became for you divine, Ripened in sunlight from the first,-- Will not refuse to this of mine

A sacredness; remembering,-- By miracle changed instantly,-- The holy wine of Galilee;-- Even so the wine of joy I bring For you to taste, was changed for me!

CHARM.

One day in June a crimson-breasted bird Flitted from Heaven through the golden air, And lit upon an apple-bough, that stirred With rapture of delight to hold her there; And finding at the same time on its breast A wealth of flowers, rose-red lined with snow, Believed in joy its graceful little guest Had brought them with her, and so murmured low In greeting,--“Little bird, a poor old tree Scarce can breathe worthily its thanks to thee, For these sweet flowers thou hast brought to me!”

And then the pretty bird whose restless feet Danced in and out among the blossoms there, For very joyousness sent rippling sweet A carol of bright laughter through the air. Flushing with joy, the blooming sprays swung high, Responsive to the quiver of her wings; As light of heart beneath the summer sky Her voice ceased suddenly its twitterings, To murmur back, “Thou foolish, dear old tree, It is not I who bring the flowers to thee, But thy most tempting flowers that bring me!”

A FACE.

We have known Of many a man whose features were not carved By his own soul to their high nobleness, But handed down by some far ancestor. Strange, that a man a generation long Should do good deeds that mould his generous lips To noble curves, and then should die and leave His son the curves without the nobleness. We’ve known of many a woman, many a man, Whose own soul leaped in passionate high flames; But locked behind the fatal prison bars Of cold ancestral dignity of face, No glimmer of the light and warmth within Creeps to the surface.

But this face of hers Is not a face like those we’ve analyzed; True to its wearer, it is justly proud With her own pride and not her ancestors. Were you to chide her gently for some fault, Or promise that whatever grand mistakes Her woman’s impulses might lead her to, You would judge all with Christian charity, Tis not impossible that she would say, “Sir, I make no mistakes; I have no faults; I thank you, but I need no charity!” Well, what of that? I would that there were more Of us, who, bidden to confess our sins, Could say Job’s litany: “May God forbid That you be justified! my righteousness Will I hold fast and will not let it go; My heart shall not reproach me while I live!” Humility’s a grace at thirty-nine, But scarce a virtue in the very young, Who bend to us from fear, not reverence. Nor truly humble is the violet That keeps its face quite upturned to the sun And would grow higher if it could; it cannot. Better for our young friend the haughtiness Of strong white lilies that refuse to bloom Near the dark earth they rose from; eagerly They push aside the lazy weeds that hide The upper air; and keeping in their breasts The fair white secret of their blossoming, Rise to the heaven they worship. Suddenly, Awed at the vast immensity of light That wraps the earth as with a garment; awed By the deep silence of that upper air, They bend their stately heads, to breathe to earth A murmured penitence for olden pride. The fair white bells they kept so jealously Lifted to heaven, now they overturn, And let the cherished fragrance of their souls Swing censer-like upon the general air.

You’ll look at it again? No, I have put it back; it’s not a face I like to argue over with a friend. It is a woman’s face; and what is more, A face I care for!