Saxe Holm's Stories/Draxy Miller's Dowry

My little Tiarella, If thou art my own, Tell me how thus in winter Thy shining flowers have blown. Art thou a fairy smuggler, Defying law? Didst take of last year's summer More than summer saw? Or hast thou stolen frost-flakes Secretly at night? Thy stamens tipped with silver, Thy petals spotless white, Are so like those which cover My window-pane; Wilt thou, like them, turn back at noon To drops again?

Oh, little Tiarella, Thy silence speaks; No more my foolish question Thy secret seeks. The sunshine on my window Lies all the day. How shouldst thou know that summer Has passed away? The frost-flake's icy silver Is dew at noon for thee. O winter sun! O winter frost, Make summer dews for me!

The gold moon turns to white; The white moon fades to cloud; It looks so like the gold moon's shroud, It makes me think about the dead, And hear the words I have heard read, By graves for burial rite.

I wonder now how many moons In just such white have died; I wonder how the stars divide Among themselves their share of light; And if there were great years of night Before the earth saw noons.

I wonder why each moon, each sun, Which ever has been or shall be, In this day's sun and moon I see; I think perhaps all of the old Is hidden in each new day's hold; So the first day is not yet done!

And then I think—our dust is spent Before the balances are swung; Shall we be loneliest among God's living creatures? Shall we dare To speak in this eternal air The only discontent?

I cannot think but God must know About the thing I long for so; I know He is so good, so kind, I cannot think but He will find Some way to help, some way to show Me to the thing I long for so.

I stretch my hand—it lies so near: It looks so sweet, it looks so dear. Dear Lord," I pray, "Oh, let me know If it is wrong to want it so?" He only smiles—He does not speak: My heart grows weaker and more weak, With looking at the thing so dear, Which lies so far, and yet so near.

Now, Lord, I leave at thy loved feet This thing which looks so near, so sweet; I will not seek, I will not long— almost fear I have been wrong. I'll go, and work the harder, Lord, And wait till by some loud, clear word Thou callest me to thy loved feet, To take this thing so dear, so sweet.

My heart grows weaker and more weak With looking on the thing so dear Which lies so far, and yet so near!"