GIFT OF 
 A. F. Morrison 
 
A WOMAN S POEMS. 
 
A WOMAN S POEMS. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD & Co. 
 1871 
 

 Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
 
 MRS. S. M. B. PIATT, 
 In the office of the/Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. (J. 
 
 ; OF 
 
 PRESS OF K. W. CARROLL & CO., 
 CINCINNATI, O. 
 
IS"?) 
 
 i i 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To MY NEAREST NEIGHBOR, iii 
 
 The Fancy Ball, 1 
 
 After Wings, . . 3 
 
 Her Metaphors, 4 
 
 The Little Stockings. 6 
 
 Lion or Lamb, 8 
 
 Twelve Hours Apart, 9 
 
 To-Day, ........ .11 
 
 My Babes in the Wood, . 13 
 
 My Ghost, 15 
 
 Shapes of a Soul, 18 
 
 Death before Death, . 20 
 
 Meeting a Mirror, 23 
 
 The Brother s Hand, .25 
 
 The Highest Mountain, . . 45 
 
 Offers for the Child, . . . . . . . .46 
 
 Her Last Gift, . .48 
 
 A Sister of Mercy, .50 
 
 Earth in Heaven, ......... 52 
 
 Last Words, . . -54 
 
 My Artist, 56 
 
 In the Graveyard, .....,.,. 59 
 
 The End of the Rainbow, 62 
 
 Two Blush-Roses, . .64 
 
 Of a Parting, 66 
 
 M107310 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Child s First Sight of Snow, 68 
 
 A Lily of the Nile, . 69 
 
 A Disenchantment, 71 
 
 The Flowers in the Ground, ... v ... 73 
 
 Questions of the Hour, 74 
 
 Gaslight and Starlight, .76 
 
 A Dream s Awakening, 78 
 
 Talk about Ghosts, 79 
 
 A Year MDCCCLX, 81 
 
 On a Wedding Day, 88 
 
 The Dove and the Angel, 90 
 
 Her Talk with a Redbird, 92 
 
 My Wedding Ring, 93 
 
 A Falling Star, 94 
 
 Playing Beggars, 96 
 
 Stone for a Statue, 99 
 
 A Bird s Wing and a Soul s, 100 
 
 Fallen Angels, 102 
 
 To Marian Asleep, 103 
 
 A President at Home, 105 
 
 An Eagle s Plume from Palestine, 107 
 
 A Chain from Venice, ........ 109 
 
 A Walk to My Own Grave, 110 
 
 Paris, 113 
 
 An After Poem, . .114 
 
 WITH DISTANT ECHOES. 
 
 Hearing the Battle, . . . . . . . . -117 
 
 The Christmas Tree Out-of-Doore, 119 
 
 A Night and Morning, ........ 121 
 
 Army of Occupation, .123 
 
 April at Washington. 125 
 
 to 127 
 
MY NEAREST NEIGHBOR. 
 
 LOVED AS MYSELF AND MOKE ! 
 
 THIS BOOK IS TOUES, NOT MINE, TO GIVE OE TAKE. 
 YOTTK HAND, NOT MINE, HAS SENT IT FEOM YOUR DOOR. 
 
 MY HEAET GOES WITH IT ONLY FOE YOUE SAKE. 
 
 WASHINGTON, D. C. 
 
A WOMAN S POEMS. 
 
 THE FANCY BALL. 
 
 As Morning you d have me rise 
 
 On that shining world of art; 
 You forget : I have too much dark in my eyes 
 
 And too much dark in my heart. 
 
 Then go as the Night in June : 
 
 Pass, dreamily, by the crowd, 
 With jewels to mock the stars and the moon, 
 
 And shadowy robes like cloud. 
 
 "Or as Spring, with a spray in your hair 
 
 Of blossoms as yet unblown ; 
 It will suit you well, for our youth should wear 
 
 The bloom in the bud alone. 
 
TKE FAITCY BALL. 
 
 " Or drift from the outer gloom 
 
 With the soft white silence of Snow :" 
 
 I should melt myself with the warm, close room- 
 Or my own life s burning. No. 
 
 "Then fly through the glitter and mirth 
 
 As a Bird of Paradise :" 
 Nay, the waters I drink have touch d the earth 
 
 [ breathe no summer of spice. 
 
 "Then " Hush: if I go at all, 
 
 (It will make them stare and shrink, 
 
 It will look so strange at a Fancy Ball,) 
 I will go as Myself, I think ! 
 
 2 
 
AFTER WINGS. 
 
 THIS was your butterfly, you see. 
 
 His fine wings made him vain ? 
 The caterpillars crawl, but he 
 
 Pass d them in rich disdain? 
 My pretty boy says, "Let him be 
 
 Only a worm again ?" 
 
 Oh, child, when things have learn d to wear 
 Wings once, they must be fain 
 
 To keep them always high and fair. 
 Think of the creeping pain 
 
 Which even a butterfly must bear 
 To be a worm again ! 
 
 3 
 
HER METAPHORS. 
 
 A FAIRY dream that stole, 
 With evanescent light, 
 
 Across thy waken d soul, 
 One early Autumn night 
 
 Am I not this to thee? 
 
 A lone and languid rose 
 
 That in thy care might bloom, 
 
 But on the distance throws, 
 Vainly, its vague perfume 
 Am I not this to thee ? 
 
 A faint and trembling star 
 That drew thine eyes awhile, 
 
 Still shining on afar, 
 Deserted by thy smile 
 
 Am I not this to thee ? 
 
 4 
 
HER METAPHORS. 
 
 A pearl cast at thy feet 
 And worn by tliee an hour, 
 
 Then left where fierce waves beat, 
 The plaything of their power- 
 Am I not this to thee? 
 
 A half-remember d strain, 
 
 That once could charm thine ear, 
 Whose music thou again 
 
 Wilt sometimes sigh to hear 
 Am I not this to thee ? 
 
 5 
 
THE LITTLE STOCKINGS. 
 
 (OX CHRISTMAS EVE.) 
 
 HE will see sweet Stockings, cunning and new, 
 Warm in scarlet, and dainty in white 
 
 Stockings that never have crept in a shoe 
 Waiting his morning s enchanted light. 
 
 And other glad Stockings, that he should know 
 Grown larger, perhaps, than they were last year ! 
 
 In many a pretty, half-sleepy row 
 
 They wonder, no doubt, if he is near! 
 
 This Saint of the children, who loves them so, 
 
 Fairily filling each color d space, 
 Will touch clear dreams with his kiss and go 
 
 With tears, I think, in his tender face. 
 
 Ah, spite of his furs, he will shiver, I fear, 
 
 At the thought of some Stockings, bright and small, 
 
 Whose curious looks are no longer here, 
 Awake for him, by the lonesome wall ! 
 
 6 
 
THE LITTLE STOCKINGS. 
 
 Oh, you whose little hands reach no more 
 
 Toward his gray, kind beard in their dimpled play, 
 
 Whose little feet pass d through the great, dim Door, 
 With never a step nor a sound, away : 
 
 Have you found Another, who lights with love 
 His Birthday Tree for your charmed eyes ? 
 
 Do you see in its branches the snow-white Dove ? 
 Is it fair with the flowering fruit of the skies ? 
 
LION OR LAMB? 
 
 WHICH of the Two shall be victor at last, 
 After this desperate battle is done? 
 
 Temper the wind, for the shorn strength fails fast. 
 Look how the yellow Life shakes with the sun 
 
 It has fed on afar in wastes of its own ! 
 Then the cruel wild glitter of sand 
 Looks hot in its eye ! Shall I stand, 
 
 And watch them, and leave them alone? 
 
 Let them fight on, as they will and they must 
 
 Yet somehow the one is so pretty and white ! 
 Say, dainty wool, must the blood and the dust 
 
 Hide your soft snowiness all from my sight ? 
 Ah wait ? I have waited so long 
 
 The roar of the desert, it dies ; 
 
 A timid bleat goes to the skies : 
 The Lamb of the Two is the strong ! 
 
 8 
 
TWELVE HOUKS APART. 
 
 HE loved me. But he loved, likewise, 
 This morning s world in bloom and wing 
 
 Ah, does he love the world that lies 
 
 In dampness, whispering shadowy thing,*, 
 Under this little band of moon? 
 
 He loves me? Will he fail to see 
 
 A phantom hand has touch d my hair 
 
 (And waver d, withering, over me) 
 To leave a subtle grayness there, 
 Below the outer shine of June ? 
 
 He loves me? Would he call it fair, 
 The flush d half-flower he left me, say? 
 
 For it has pass d beneath the glare 
 And from my bosom drops away, 
 Shaken into the grass with pain ? 
 
TWELVE HOURS APART. 
 
 He loves me? Well, I do not know. 
 
 A song in plumage cross d the hill 
 At sunrise when I felt him go 
 
 And song and plumage now are still. 
 He could not praise the bird again. 
 
 He loves me? VaiPd in mist I stand, 
 My veins less high with life than when 
 
 To-day s thin dew was in the land, 
 Vaguely less beautiful than then 
 Myself a dimness with the dim. 
 
 He loves me? I am faint with fear. 
 
 He never saw me quite so old ; 
 I never met him quite so near 
 
 My grave, nor quite so pale and cold : 
 
 Nor quite so sweet, he says, to him ! 
 
 10 
 
TO-DAY. 
 
 AH, real thing of bloom and breath, 
 I can not love you while you stay. 
 
 Put on the dim, still charm of death, 
 Fade to a phantom, float away, 
 And let me call you Yesterday! 
 
 Let empty flower-dust at my feet 
 Remind me of the buds you wear ; 
 
 Let the bird s quiet show how sweet 
 The far-off singing made the air ; 
 And let your dew through frost look fair. 
 
 In mourning you I shall rejoice. 
 Go : for the bitter word may be 
 
 A music in the vanish d voice ; 
 And on the dead face I may see 
 How bright its frown has been to me. 
 
TO-DAY. 
 
 Then in the haunted grass I 11 sit, 
 Half tearful in your wither d place, 
 
 And watch your lovely shadow flit 
 Across To-morrow s sunny face, 
 And vex her with your perfect grace. 
 
 So, real thing of bloom and breath, 
 I weary of you while you stay. 
 
 Put on the dim, still charm of death, 
 Fade to a phantom, float away, 
 
 And let me call you Yesterday ! 
 12 
 
MY BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 I KNOW a story, fairer, dimmer, sadder, 
 Than any story painted in your books. 
 
 You are so glad ? It will not make you gladder ; 
 Yet listen, with your pretty restless looks. 
 
 "Is it a Fairy Story?" Well, half fairy 
 At least it dates far back as fairies do, 
 
 And seems to me as beautiful and airy; 
 Yet half, perhaps the fairy half, is true. 
 
 You had a baby sister and a brother, 
 
 (Two very dainty people, rosily white, 
 Each sweeter than all things except the other !) 
 
 Older yet younger gone from human sight ! 
 
 And I, who loved them, and shall love them ever, 
 And think with yearning tears how each light hand 
 
 Crept toward bright bloom or berries I shall never 
 Know how I lost them. Do you understand ? 
 
 13 
 
MY BABES IN THE WOOD. 
 
 * 
 
 Poor slightly golden heads! I think I miss d them 
 First, in some dreamy, piteous, doubtful way; 
 
 But when and where with lingering lips I kiss d them, 
 My gradual parting, I can never say. 
 
 Sometimes I fancy that they may have perish d 
 In shadowy quiet of wet rocks and moss, 
 
 Near paths whose very pebbles I have cherish d, 
 For their small sakes, since my most lovely loss. 
 
 I fancy, too, that they were softly cover d 
 By robins, out of apple-flowers they knew, 
 
 Whose nursing wings in far home sunshine hover d, 
 Before the timid world had dropp d the dew. 
 
 Their names were what yours are ! At this you wonder. 
 
 Their pictures are your own, as you have seen ; 
 And my bird-buried darlings, hidden under 
 
 Lost leaves why, it is your dead selves 1 mean ! 
 
 14 
 
MY GHOST. 
 
 A STORY TOLD TO MY LITTLE COUSIN KATE. 
 
 YES, Katie, I think you are very sweet, 
 
 Now that the tangles are out of your hair, 
 And you sing as well as the birds you meet, 
 
 That are playing, like you, in the blossoms there. 
 But now you are coming to kiss me, you say : 
 
 Well, what is it for ? Shall I tie your shoe, 
 Or loop your sleeve in a prettier way ? 
 
 " Do I know about ghosts ?" Indeed I do. 
 
 "Have I seen one?" Yes: last evening, you 
 know, 
 
 We were taking a walk that you had to miss, 
 (I think you were naughty and cried to go, 
 
 But, surely, you ll stay at home after this !) 
 And, away in the twilight lonesomely 
 
 (" What is the twilight ?" It s getting late ! ) 
 I was thinking of things that were sad to me 
 
 There, hush! you know nothing about them, 
 Kate. 
 
 15 
 
MY GHOST. 
 
 Well, we had to go through the rocky lane, 
 
 Close to that bridge where the water roars, 
 By a still, red house, where the dark and rain 
 
 Go in when they will at the open doors ; 
 And the moon, that had just waked up, look d through 
 
 The broken old windows and seem d afraid, 
 And the wild bats flew and the thistles grew 
 
 Where once in the roses the children play d. 
 
 Just across the road by the cherry-trees 
 
 Some fallen white stones had been lying so long, 
 Half hid in the grass, and under these 
 
 There were people dead. I could hear the song 
 Of a very sleepy dove, as I pass d 
 
 The graveyard near, and the cricket that cried ; 
 And I look d (ah ! the Ghost is coming at last !) 
 
 And something was walking at my side. 
 
 It seem d to be wrapp d in a great dark shawl, 
 
 (For the night was a little cold, you know.) 
 It would not speak. It was black and tall ; 
 
 And it w^alk d so proudly and very slow. 
 Then it mock d me every thing I could do : 
 
 Now it caught at the lightning-flies like me ; 
 Now it stopp d where the elder-blossoms grew ; 
 
 Now it tore the thorns from a gray bent tree. 
 
 16 
 
MY GHOST. 
 
 Still it follow d me under the yellow moon, 
 
 Looking back to the graveyard now and then, 
 Where the winds were playing the night a tune 
 
 But, Kate, a Ghost does n t care for men, 
 And your papa couldn t have done it harm ! 
 
 Ah, dark-eyed darling, what is it you see ? 
 There, you needn t hide in your dimpled arm 
 
 It was only my Shadow that walk d with me ! 
 
SHAPES OF A SOUL. 
 
 WHITE with the starlight folded in its wings, 
 And nestling timidly against your love, 
 
 At this soft time of hush d and glimmering things, 
 You call my soul a dove, a snowy dove. 
 
 If I shall ask you in some shining hour, 
 
 When bees and odors through the clear air pass, 
 
 You 11 say my soul buds as a small flush d flower, 
 Far off, half-hiding, in the old home-grass. 
 
 Ah, pretty names for pretty moods ; and you, 
 Who love me, such sweet shapes as these can see; 
 
 But, take it from its sphere of bloom and dew, 
 And where will then your bird or blossom be? 
 
 Could you but see it, by life s torrid light, 
 
 Crouch in its sands and glare with fire-red wrath, 
 
 My soul would seem a tiger, fierce and bright 
 Among the trembling passions in its path. 
 
 18 
 
SHAPES OF A SOUL. 
 
 And, could you sometimes watch it coil and slide, 
 And drag its colors through the dust a while, 
 
 And hiss its poison under-foot, and hide, 
 
 My soul would seem a snake Ah, do not smile! 
 
 Yet fiercer forms and darker it can wear ; 
 
 No matter, though, when these are of the Past, 
 If as a lamb in the Good Shepherd s care 
 
 By the still waters it lie down at last. 
 
 19 
 
DEATH BEFOKE DEATH. 
 
 ARE mine the empty eyes 
 That stare toward the little new grave on the beautiful 
 
 burial-hill? 
 
 Was mine the last wet kiss t^at lies 
 Shut up in his coffin, kissing him still, 
 Kissing him still? 
 
 Is mine the hollow room? 
 Was it not cruel to take all the pretty small furniture, 
 
 say? 
 
 The fairy pictures and heaps of bloom, 
 And music of mock-harps so far away, 
 So far away? 
 
 Is mine the hidden face 
 That one night s sudden dread watching has thinn d 
 
 and faded so much ? 
 
 Mine the lonesome hands through bitter space, 
 Yearning for something they never can touch, 
 Never can touch? 
 
 20 
 
DEATH BEFORE DEATH. 
 
 Is mine the passionate pain 
 That will hearken the trembling wind and feel the wide 
 
 still snow, 
 
 And sob at night with the sobbing rain, 
 And only feel that I can not know, 
 I can not know? 
 
 Was mine that lovely child? 
 
 Did he drop from my heart and go where the Powers 
 of the Dust can destroy? 
 
 Can I see the very way he smiled 
 
 " Let God keep his angels"? Do I want my boy 
 I want my boy? 
 
 Is he gone from his air, 
 From his sun, from his voice, his motion, his mother, 
 
 his world, and his skies, 
 From the unshorn light in his sweet hair, 
 From the elusion of his butterflies, 
 His butterflies? 
 
 If not, why let me go 
 
 Where another sorrow is watching a small, cold bed 
 alone, 
 
 And whisper how I have loved her so, 
 21 
 
DEATH BEFORE DEATH. 
 
 That to save her darling I gave my own, 
 I gave my own ! 
 
 Ah ! if I learn d her part, 
 And my dark fancies but play d in despair like tragedy 
 
 queens, 
 
 Then my only audience was my heart, 
 And my tears, that were tears, were behind the scenes, 
 Behind the scenes. 
 
 22 
 
MEETING A MIRROR 
 
 BELOVED of beautiful and eager eyes, 
 It had its honors from the guests below ; 
 
 But it went somewhat nearer to the skies 
 As it grew old, you know. 
 
 Still, from the gilded splendor of the day 
 That Vanity sees shining in its place, 
 
 I turn d with yearning for the pleased, slow way 
 It used to hold my face. 
 
 Far up the stair and shunn d of faded eyes 
 I found the thing that I had loved before: 
 
 It took my face, grew dead-white with surprise. 
 Held it then saw no more ! 
 
 Suddenly blinded : for the Mirror shed 
 
 Tears for dim hair, it praised to suns gone by, 
 
 And One to whom once of it I gayly said, 
 "My rival dear as I!" 
 
 23 
 
MEETING A MIRROR. 
 
 Companions, in our time, of pleasant lights, 
 I thought, and music and rich foreign blooms, 
 
 What shall we find for those fair evening-sights 
 In lonesome upper rooms? 
 
 The misty Mirror show d a calm reproof, 
 Receiving there a higher company, 
 
 In dust and empty silence near the roof, 
 Than we were wont to see. 
 
 Its pride in jewel d reverence was gone, 
 And quiet tenderness was in its place, 
 
 That took the sweet stars, as they glimmer d on 
 In chill clouds, to its grace. 
 
 24 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 LOST somewhere in the wilds of Mexico, 
 A poor dry mountain crouches in the sand. 
 
 About it, goldeuly, the Summers go 
 
 And feed with fruit the gorgeous-colored laud, 
 
 Yet leave it starving on its empty plain, 
 
 Forgotten almost by the tender rain, 
 With loneliness around it like a band. 
 
 Nor wing d nor odorous life glows in the air, 
 That, dull and dying, toward it heavily creeps, 
 
 Yet on its breast, among the clouds, how fair 
 A strange calm Image sleeps and sleeps and 
 sleeps ! 
 
 It is a Man, gigantic, gray in stone, 
 
 With dropping eyelids, lying there alone 
 With the old awful silence that he keeps. 
 
 25 
 
THE BROTHERS HAND. 
 
 Sharp Southern lightnings on his rocky height 
 Against him in their glittering fury fall ; 
 
 The desert s dumbness smites him day and night ; 
 Suns scorch him but he does not stir at all. 
 
 Ages, like bubbles, on his slumber break: 
 
 But glimmering legends say he will awake, 
 And simple hearts are listening for his call. 
 
 For once he was that fabled king, they say, 
 Whose savage splendor, wavering from the dark 
 
 Of long tradition, seems a dream to-day, 
 
 Yet still the traveler sometimes stops to mark 
 
 In solitary places, shining slow, 
 
 (Ah, beautiful belief in long ago!) 
 
 The faithful fire in many a tremulous spark. 
 
 The languid Spaniard rose and sank again. 
 
 Ardent and light-heroic over seas 
 The young fair Austrian alien drifted then, 
 
 And made him a mock throne and tried to please 
 Himself with playing till his play was doom d 
 And through the world his echoing death-shot boom d. 
 
 The sleeping monarch hears not sounds like these. 
 
 He waits. And waiting bosoms know, at last 
 
 Those faithful fires they keep will charm him down 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 Into the jewel d glory of his Past, 
 
 To beat the dust from off his buried crown, 
 And trail the brightness of his risen name 
 Across the risen kingdom he shall claim, 
 
 Though at his coming newer kings may frown. 
 
 So there are lives about us, every-where, 
 Fruit-fed by tropic suns, yet poison creeps 
 
 Across one mountain held by desert air, 
 
 Whereon one Image sleeps and sleeps and 
 sleeps ! 
 
 It is a Man, gigantic, gray in stone, 
 
 With dropping eyelids, lying there alone 
 With the old awful silence that he keeps. 
 
 And if one stranger waste their wealth awhile, 
 
 And if another act a tragedy 
 And close the last scene with a desperate smile : 
 
 The sovereign sleeper may not wake to see ; 
 The image on the mountain may not hear 
 The play-king s death-shot, though it hisses near, 
 
 Or cries afar for many an echoing mile. 
 
 He waits. And waiting bosoms know at last 
 
 The faithful fires they keep will charm him down 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 Into the jewel d glory of his Past, 
 
 To beat the dust from off his buried crown, 
 And trail the brightness of his risen name 
 Across the risen kingdom he shall claim, 
 
 Though at his coming newer kings may frown. 
 
 Here, see what I have brought you from the hill 
 
 A brier-rose lingering late into July. 
 Oh, it may tell you, if it can and will, 
 
 In its small way, so pink and timid, why 
 It waited after all its mates w r ere dead, 
 And wore for mourning-garments only red 
 
 While its step-mother month was fierce and dry. 
 
 There is no flower with look and bloom and breath, 
 I faintly fancy, like the faint brier-rose ; 
 
 No flower so fair for life, so sweet for death, 
 That in the dew or in the darkness grows ; 
 
 No flower that has so fairily heard and seen 
 
 What fairy things the hum and honey mean, 
 When in the wind the bee about it blows. 
 
 Far off, by black-gray stone, in shatter d heaps, 
 The beautiful, familiar, sad home-grace, 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 Like love itself made palpable, it keeps 
 
 Through all the sorrowful forsaken place. 
 Nor can you find the scented presence there, 
 On the green ground or in the pensive air, 
 Of any other of the blossoming race. 
 
 A very lovely woman loved to wear 
 
 Its cluster of blushes once upon her breast. 
 
 She brought it from the woods and set it where 
 She always loved to be, herself, the best. 
 
 The very flowers we think so frail outstay 
 
 Our frailer selves and she is gone away : 
 Away and, therefore, as we think, to rest. 
 
 On the seventh birthday of her fair twin-boys, 
 She gave the two a boat, as they were one, 
 
 (For until then each own d the other s toys ;) 
 But when they saw it floating in the sun, 
 
 With sails of stained silk so prettily blown, 
 
 Each felt that he was now himself alone : 
 
 The golden chain that bound them was undone. 
 
 "No, it is mine," each to the other said, 
 
 And one raised up an angry arm and made 
 
 29 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 A quick wide wound, that look d so strange and red 
 
 Each of the other dimly felt afraid. 
 Then a child-Cain in shadowy terror stood, 
 And, crying from the ground, his brother s blood 
 Rose from the pleasant shore where they had play d. 
 
 That sharp, swift cut had cleft the two apart. 
 
 And, under his light, lovely hair, one wore 
 A strange-shaped scar. And in the other s heart, 
 
 A heart that had been very sweet before, 
 The snake-like passions started from their sleep 
 And over it began to writhe and creep. 
 
 And so the two were two forevermore. 
 
 As they grew older, he who wore the scar 
 Saw it was like a hand his brother s hand, 
 
 It seem d, against him. Then he went afar 
 With a kind kinsman to a colder land, 
 
 After he heard the dust begin to fall 
 
 On his young mother s coffin. She was all 
 
 He had dear. And she was what the shadows are. 
 
 Blue-eyed and stately, with a bright, brave scorn 
 
 Of wrong, he in a calmer climate grew, 
 so 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 The other, tropic-nursed as tropic-born, 
 
 Was fierce and swarthy, and imperious too, 
 And restless as the wind that bloweth where 
 It listeth : so he wander d here and there. 
 And neither of the other clearly knew. 
 
 At last there came a heavy hail of lead 
 
 Out of the Northern sky, that Southward fell. 
 
 The fields were blasted and the men lay dead ; 
 The women ruoan d ; and flying shapes of shell 
 
 Their ways from roof to hearth -stone madly tore, 
 
 And open d suddenly the deserted door, 
 By the brier-roses guarded once so well. 
 
 And Kuin glided up the weedy path, 
 
 And cross d the moldy threshold and went in, 
 
 And sat there, with a sort of a sullen wrath, 
 Gathering about her all that once had been 
 
 Dear and familiar save the rose, beside 
 
 The crumbling porch, from which she vainly tried, 
 Tearing her hands with thorns, the flowers to win. 
 
 And once, when a great ghastly Sight close by 
 Was terrible in the stillness of the moon, 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 A tall, slight soldier, with a smother d cry, 
 
 Crept close and broke some buds and vanish d soon ; 
 But, with an almost human joy-in-grief, 
 The desolate rose-tree thrill d from root to leaf 
 When he said wearily : " Yes it is I." 
 
 A whole year more, when summer flush d again, 
 Near to the same place, in the glitter of heat, 
 
 (The earth was red, the sky was smoky then,) 
 One lay in agony. Against his feet 
 
 A gash d and gory flag from its shot staff 
 
 Flutter d and fell. There was a cruel laugh 
 From one he had not fear d again to meet ; 
 
 And a swift horse, deep-black, with foaming mouth 
 And angry eyes full of wild wonder, sprung 
 
 From its light rider one who loved the South 
 With his whole bitter soul. And, as he flung 
 
 The reins away and stood in tears beside 
 
 The dying creature, gentle, till it died, 
 
 He show d that he was desperate, dark, and young. 
 
 There was a beautiful and dreadful charm 
 About that youthful captain, as he stood 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 Bare-headed, swordless, with his dead right arm 
 
 Loose at his side, his left, whose strength was good, 
 About his horse forgetting his own wound, 
 Forgetting all the horrible things around 
 Calling it all the tender names he could. 
 
 But when his horse was gone, he turn d away 
 And stamp d the fallen flag and cursed, and shook 
 
 The tall, slight soldier in whose blood it lay, 
 Till he half-raised himself with a dim look, 
 
 That made the other loose his hateful hold 
 
 And tremble for an instant and grow cold, 
 As if his thought some deadly trouble took. 
 
 Then he crept closer to the wounded youth 
 And lifted, vaguely, his light lovely hair, 
 
 And that strange scar the brother s hand, in truth 
 Against him as in distant days was there. 
 
 But now that brother look d at his distress 
 
 With a remorse that changed to tenderness, 
 And tried to raise him with a timid care. 
 
 And watch d him many a moaning after-night, 
 Through which the shine of spectral steel would go, 
 
 33 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 Through which lost armies would rise up and fight 
 Lost battles, in the air then waver slow 
 
 And haze-like down, and whiten toward the dust, 
 
 Leaving behind a little blood and rust 
 
 And glory. Glory? Why, I do not know. 
 
 At last the War s fierce music left the wind, 
 And they who answer d to its infinite cries 
 
 With their whole breath were gone where God can find 
 Them, when He searches land and sea and skies ; 
 
 And Peace remain d a beautiful white vail, 
 
 Wrought by hurt hands that dropp d off thin and pale, 
 To hide the tears in wan, wet, restless eyes. 
 
 And the twin-brothers one just from his wound 
 Talk d of their brier-rose that would blossom yet, 
 
 Talk d of the river with its far-back sound, 
 Talk d of their mother with a still regret, 
 
 And of the fairy boat she gave them both : 
 
 And then a sudden silence show d them loath 
 To talk of what they did not quite forget. 
 
 Just then it happen d that a pretty flash 
 
 Of small spring-lightning made their window bright : 
 
 31 
 
THE BROTHERS HAND. 
 
 They saw a fluttering dress, a bright-plaid sash, 
 A wide straw-hat, and loose hair falling quite 
 Half-way to eager feet. And so they guess d, , 
 Each in a shy half-dreaming way, the rest: 
 
 They thought the girl was lovely ? They were right. 
 
 Her face in glimpses came to haunt the two, 
 Her voice was not what common voices are ; 
 
 And soon the twin-born rivals darkly knew 
 
 The old feud was not dead. They saw the scar 
 
 Out of its dreary quiet rise again : 
 
 The brother s hand was terrible and plain 
 Against the brother, as in years afar. 
 
 She loved them both. Which most? I think that 
 she 
 
 At least not yet nor any other knew. 
 Sometimes she walk d with Frederick by the sea, 
 
 Sometimes she sung a tremulous song to Hugh, 
 And in a while, no doubt, began to know 
 That he was handsome, or she thought him so, 
 
 And that his eyes, perhaps, were frankly blue. 
 
 Out with the darker brother once, a storm 
 
 Broke sharply down the twilight. For a time 
 
THE BROTHERS HAND. 
 
 She clung to him. But, dry again and warm, 
 
 Among their lamps she sung a sobbing rhyme 
 To her piano and the gold-hair d man 
 Whose desolate music ended and began 
 "With a far, subtle, creeping, sea-like chime. 
 
 Then hush d and went half-tearful to her room, 
 Asking herself but this : " Which shall I choose? 
 
 Have I the saddest need of light or gloom? 
 The fair one surely is too fair to lose : 
 
 Without him half the world were empty, and 
 
 Without his brother if I understand, 
 
 The dark one is too dark to quite refuse. 
 
 " And sometimes if I only glance at him, 
 
 His richer, fiercer color seems to me 
 To make his stiller brother look as dim 
 
 As a star looks by lightning. Let me fie, 
 My star, with the white constant light you shed ; 
 Fade out, my lightning, or else strike me dead. 
 
 For star and lightning can but ill agree." 
 
 But something startled her brown window-bird, 
 Nested beloAV in perfume. As it flew 
 
THE BROTHERS HAND. 
 
 She heard her own name spoken, and she heard, 
 Out in the wind, one ask : " Which of us two ? 
 
 It is not well that both of us should stay. 
 
 Let her decide." In a bewildered way, 
 
 Not knowing what she did, she whisper d, " Hugh." 
 
 They heard below, and Frederick seem d to laugh 
 And said : " My boy, our paths again divide. 
 
 Your joy is great. If you could give me half, 
 Enough were left. Good-by. The world is wide, 
 
 But all too narrow to hold you and me. 
 
 Good-by and shall we let the Future be ? 
 
 Upon my faith you have a charming bride." 
 
 Next morning he was gone. And then, somehow, 
 Hugh chanced in his vex d dreamy way to throw 
 
 The yellow hair from his unquiet brow, 
 
 And started from a glass which seem d to show 
 
 That fearful scar, looking more deadly-white, 
 
 More like his brother s hand, too, since last night ; 
 Then scarlet suddenly it seem d to grow. 
 
 She saw it : " Ah, you have a scar," she said. 
 " How strange it is and how much like a hand." 
 
"It is a hand," he answered. " See how red 
 
 It threatens now. It cut the gentle band 
 Between us while we yet were children." " Who ?" 
 " We twins that called each other Fred and Hugh, 
 And play d beside a river in the sand." 
 
 A troubled paleness fell upon her face. 
 
 She look d at him an instant. " If I may ? " 
 She said, and, bird-like, flutter d from her place, 
 
 And flush d and doubted, and I must not say 
 She kiss d the scar. But I can say it grew 
 Yet deeper scarlet, and look d darker too, 
 
 And seem d to move motioning her away. 
 
 The leaf-bloom of the Fall was in the woods 
 
 (The next day was to be their wedding-day.) 
 
 A cruel rain whirl d down in pitiless floods 
 And fretted the poor leaves that tried to stay 
 
 And wear their splendor for a little yet. 
 
 The butterflies were faded out and wet, 
 Or else the wind had blown them all away. 
 
 The crimson-curtain d, pleasant parlor glow d 
 With ferns and asters, and a sparkling fire ; 
 
 38 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 The next-day s bride before the mirror show d 
 
 The trailing mistiness of a bride s attire. 
 And Hugh look d at her, smiling from his dream : 
 He was not happy, quite, nor did he seem ; 
 Yet such sweet vanity he must admire. 
 
 She turn d to take a letter that came in, 
 And read it, and look d at him as she read, 
 
 And threw it at his feet. " And be your sin," 
 
 She hoarsely whisper d, " upon your own head. " 
 
 "My sin?" "See there, and say it is not true." 
 
 " I will not. All I say is this : if you 
 Believe it let to-morrow not begin! " 
 
 Then there were angry words, and " Let us part," 
 She moan d, and reach d to him her frightened hand, 
 
 Thinking that he would hold it to his heart 
 And kiss her pain away, as she had plann d : 
 
 For she forgave him what he had not done. 
 
 He answer d : "As you please. " And there was none 
 To come between them, or to understand. 
 
 What then ? The thistles blew across the rain, 
 The gray, wet thorn-tree glimmer d once and shook. 
 
THE BROTHERS HAND. 
 
 She thought: "If one should never come again 
 
 Should never come after a bitter look?" 
 And the dry asters from the mantel fell: 
 She brought no fresk ones for the vases. Well ? 
 And silence settled in his favorite book. 
 
 She did not thin her beauty with her tears, 
 But was she tearless ? Doubtless she was not. 
 
 But all the outward gladness of her years 
 Was not because of one great grief forgot. 
 
 Loose hair and laughter, singing quick and sweet, 
 
 Follow d about the green home-grass her feet, 
 And quieted all wordless, kindly fears. 
 
 She had no mother. But her father said : 
 " You are too hasty, little girl, I fear. 
 
 Hugh is a manly fellow ; as for Fred 
 
 The villian ! Hugh will come again, my dear, 
 
 Before the fashion of your dress shall change, 
 
 And we shall have our wedding." Was it strange? 
 The dress grew quaint. And Hugh did not appear. 
 
 Once at the sea-side, in an evening dance, 
 
 She felt and, fluttering, tried to fly away 
 
 40 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 The bird-like terror of the snake-like glance. 
 
 Poor, charmed little thing and must it stay ? 
 "Frederick?" "Well yes." "Where is your 
 
 brother, Hugh ? " 
 "Am I my brother s keeper? Doubtless you 
 
 Who wounded and deserted him, can say." 
 
 Hurt and bewilder d, then she brokenly tried 
 
 The secret of his letter to recall. 
 His letter? With feign d anger he denied 
 
 That he had written any thing at all ! 
 " What a mysterious piece of villiany ! 
 Hugh never could have thought so ill of me. 
 
 He did not read it?" Then he heard her fall. 
 
 It was the crowded room, and they must go 
 
 Into the wide moonlighted air apart. 
 Where was his brother, then? He said, to know 
 
 He would give up the last throb of his heart ; 
 It was two years or more since he had heard 
 Of Hugh one word, one single precious word: 
 
 Then broke into a cry that made her start. 
 
 By dim degrees he made himself grow dear, 
 By seeming every thing his brother was. 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 Whatever in the other had been clear, 
 
 In him she saw darkly as in a glass. 
 At last, in some weird, subtle way, he grew 
 The shadow, or the very self, of Hugh. 
 
 And well, the Summer withered from the grass. 
 
 What then? The asters in the vases glow d 
 Again ; the parlor held the shining fire 
 
 Again ; the mirror, three years older, show d 
 The trailing mistiness of a bride s attire ; 
 
 And, this time, Frederick watch d her from his dream, 
 
 He was not happy, quite, nor did he seem, 
 Yet such fair vanity he must admire. 
 
 Once more the thistles blew across the rain, 
 
 The gray, wet thorn-tree glimmer d once and shook ; 
 
 And then she thought: " If one should come again 
 Or should not come after a bitter look ! " 
 
 And then a sudden voice, familiar-low, 
 
 And phantom-sweet, but heavily-bent and slow, 
 Read out the silence of the old favorite book. 
 
 No matter. In a wedded year or two, 
 In a far Western land a cottage rose, 
 
THE BROTHERS HAND. 
 
 "With sand and sea and sea-shell shining through 
 
 Its many windows so the story goes. 
 Frederick was happy there. But his late bride 
 Had backward-yearning eyes, and sometimes sigh d 
 A little as all women may ? Who knows ? 
 
 Once bitterly he ask d : "What makes you sad?" 
 She answer d languidly : "Perhaps the sea. 
 
 I sometimes think it surely has gone mad: 
 It foams and mutters till it frightens me. 
 
 Sometimes when it looks only golden, and 
 
 All things look golden in this Golden Land, 
 Blackly below it threatens things to be." 
 
 And, as her childish words fail d at her lip, 
 From silks and spices and a foreign sail, 
 
 She saw a man drop from a landing ship 
 As heavily as he had been a bale 
 
 Of precious merchant-freight. With the great light 
 
 Ol the great evening smitten, he was bright 
 But all who look d at him were dull and pale. 
 
 A life-boat brought him strangling to the coast. 
 He motion d them, in a despairing way, 
 
THE BROTHER S HAND. 
 
 To drown his body. For his soul was lost, 
 He said : it shook him off and plunged away 
 
 From the dark deck into the gulfs below, 
 
 For utter loneliness. And he must go 
 
 And find it, somewhere for the Judgment Day. 
 
 Then he died, smiling. Frederick and his wife 
 
 Look d at him and each other, and then wound 
 
 Their arms about him. What was calm or strife 
 To him or them ? What had they lost and found ? 
 
 What thing was near ? What things were gone afar ? 
 
 With tears, and without words, they kiss d the scar 
 His brother s hand against him all his life. 
 
 44 
 
THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN. 
 
 I KNOW of a higher Mountain. Well ? 
 
 " Do the flowers grow on it? " No, not one. 
 " What is its name ? " But I can not tell. 
 
 " Where ? " Nowhere under the sun ! 
 
 " Is it under the moon, then ? " No, the light 
 Has never touch d it, and never can ; 
 
 It is fashion d and form d of night, of night 
 Too dark for the eyes of man. 
 
 Yet I sometimes think, if my Faith had proved 
 
 As a grain of mustard seed to me, 
 I could say to this Mountain : " Be thou removed, 
 
 And be thou cast in the sea !" 
 
 45 
 
OFFERS FOR THE CHILD, 
 
 IN the dim spaces of a dream, you see 
 Somewhere, perhaps, or else not anywhere, 
 
 (Remember in a dream what things may be) 
 I met a stranger with the whitest hair. 
 
 From his wide, wandering beard the snow-flakes 
 
 whirl d 
 
 (His face when young, no doubt, was much admired :) 
 His name was Atlas, and he held the world ; 
 I held a child and both of us were tired. 
 
 A handsome boy," he courteously said ; 
 
 "He pleases my old fancy. What fine eyes ! " 
 "Yes, father, but he wearies me. My head 
 
 Is aching, too, and listen how he cries ! " 
 
 " If you would let me take him " and he spread 
 
 All his fair laces and deep velvets wide ; 
 
 Then hid them from my smile, and, in their stead, 
 Sweet jewels and vague sums of gold he tried. 
 
 46 
 
OFFERS FOR THE CHILD. 
 
 Then ships, all heavy with the scents and sounds 
 Of many a sea, the stains of many a sun ; 
 
 Then palaces, with empires for their grounds, 
 Were slowly offer d to me, one by one. 
 
 " Then take the world ! It will amuse you. So, 
 Watch while I move its wires." An instant, then, 
 
 He laugh d. "Look, child, at this quick puppet- 
 show : " 
 I saw a rich land dusk with marching men. 
 
 " This puppet, with the smile inscrutable, 
 You call The Emperor ; these, Statesmen ; these 
 
 No matter; this, who just now plays the fool, 
 Is _ Not our " " It is, madam, if you 
 please!"* 
 
 "Hush! " "Take the world and move them as 
 
 you will ! 
 Give me the boy." 
 
 Then, shivering with affright, 
 
 I held the close cheek s dimples closer still, 
 And bade the old Peddler for I woke good-night 1 
 
 *18G 
 
 47 
 
HER LAST GIFT. 
 
 COME here. I know while it was May 
 My mouth was your most precious rose, 
 
 My eyes your violets, as you say. 
 
 Fair words, as old as Love, are those. 
 
 I gave my flowers while they were sweet, 
 And sweetly you have kept them, all 
 
 Through my slow Summer s great last heat 
 Into the lonely mist of Fall. 
 
 Once more I give them. Put them by, 
 Back in your memory s faded years 
 
 Yet look at them, sometimes ; and try, 
 
 Sometimes, to kiss them through your tears. 
 
 T ve dimly known, afraid to know, 
 
 That you should have new flowers to wear ; 
 
 Well, buds of rose and violets blow 
 Before you in the unfolding air. 
 
 48 
 
HER LAST GIFT. 
 
 So take from other hands, I pray, 
 Such gifts of flowers as mine once gave 
 
 I go into the dust, since they 
 
 Can only blossom from my grave. 
 
A SISTER OF MERCY. 
 
 THERE, by the man condemn d to die, she read 
 Christ s promise in the Crucifixion tale. 
 
 He moan d a name 
 
 She dropp d her cross and fled 
 From the long shadow of the veil ! 
 
 And, as from her loosed convent coif she shook 
 Her youthful hair s free length of beauty, he 
 
 Threw from his face the scarr d and sinful look, 
 And follow d her across the sea! 
 
 There, in a Land of Distance vague with Spring, 
 She, fair as that one morning-bud she wore, 
 
 Held him her frighten d hand to take the ring 
 
 They found upon his prison floor! 
 
 "The ring was full of poison" so they said ; 
 
 "A Sister of Mercy left it at his side!" 
 The gathering crowed must, know the wretch was dead, 
 
 Nor blame his jailer that he died. 
 
 50 
 
A SISTER OF MERCY. 
 
 Perhaps their prisoner gray and ghastly lay; 
 
 Perhaps the black-robed Sister, worn and bow d, 
 Who pray d there with that prisoner yesterday, 
 
 Was at St. Mary s in her shroud. 
 
 Yet, in some Land of Distance full of Spring, 
 Whither their Youth of Love had pass d before, 
 
 He gave her hand the spirit of the ring 
 They found upon his prison floor! 
 
EARTH IN HEAVEN. 
 
 SOMEWHERE, my friend, in the beautiful skies, 
 
 Awaiting us lovely and clear, 
 We shall find all beauty that leaves our eyes 
 
 So vacant in vanishing here : 
 Not the human alone has died 
 To go up and be glorified. 
 
 I shall find my childhood playing there 
 In the grass where it used to play, 
 
 And see our red-birds brighten the air ; 
 Again as a girl I shall stray 
 
 On the hills where the snow-drops grew, 
 
 And hear the wild doves in the dew. 
 
 I shall feel the darkness dripping with rain 
 On the old home-roof; I shall see 
 
 The white rose-bud in the yard again, 
 And the sweet-brier climbing the tree, 
 
 52 
 
EARTH IN HEAVEN. 
 
 With its pretty young blooms that fell 
 Below to be drown d in the well. 
 
 And sometimes a night, with blossoming hours 
 
 In a crescent s early gleam, 
 Will let a Dream flutter out of its flowers, 
 
 With no other name but a Dream, 
 To my breast, with a timid grace 
 And wings o er its blushing face. 
 
 Ah ! you smile in the dark ; you smile, and refuse 
 My faith in these sweet faded things ; 
 
 But I tell you I know that my soul would lose 
 One-half of the strength in its wings 
 
 If these were not keeping their light, 
 
 As the angels in Heaven, to-night. 
 
 53 
 
LAST WORDS. 
 
 OVER A LITTLE BED AT NIGHT. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT, pretty sleepers of mine 
 
 I never shall see you again : 
 Ah, never in shadow nor shine ; 
 
 Ah, never in dew nor in rain! 
 
 In your small, dreaming-dresses of white, 
 With the wild-bloom you gather d to-day 
 
 In your quiet shut hands, from the light 
 And the dark you will wander away. 
 
 Though no graves in the bee-haunted grass, 
 
 And no love in the beautiful sky, 
 Shall take you as yet, you will pass, 
 
 With this kiss, through these tear-drops. Good-by ! 
 
 With less gold and more gloom in their hair, 
 When the buds near have faded to flowers, 
 
 Three faces may wake here as fair 
 But older than yours are, by hours ! 
 
LAST WORDS. 
 
 Good-night, then, lost darlings of mine- 
 I never shall see you again : 
 
 Ah, never in shadow nor shine ; 
 Ah, never in dew nor in rain ! 
 
MY ARTIST. 
 
 With locks that might be better shorn. 
 
 High on a steeple who is that ? 
 " It is the man who I forget 
 Stood on a tower in the wet." 
 
 His faults ? He yet is young, you know- 
 Four with his last year s butterflies. 
 
 But think what wonders books may show 
 When the new Tennysous arise! 
 
 For fame that he might illustrate 
 
 Let poets be content to wait! 
 
 58 
 
IN THE GRAVEYARD. 
 
 THE sweetness dropp d from the cherry-blooms 
 
 Over the sleep that is never stirr d, 
 And the twilight droop d on her purple plumes, 
 
 And flutter d and moan d, like a dying bird, 
 Till I hid my face in the scented glooms. 
 
 The grasses were damp where the thorns had grown; 
 
 The bats flew close to the mouldering staves ; 
 Some wild, white buds, with a windy moan, 
 
 Fell with their faces against the graves, 
 And the moss-veils hung on the broken stone. 
 
 Out of the dim and dusky sky 
 
 A golden blossoming broke ere long, 
 And glitter d and fell on the spring-woods nigh, 
 
 Where a dove was hushing her sleepy song ; 
 And we were together, the dead and I. 
 
 59" 
 
IX THE GRAVEYARD. 
 
 " The heart above, with its breaking strings, 
 Wails dissonant music, stormy or slow ; 
 
 But ah ! what a beautiful stillness clings, 
 Sweet Death," I said, " to the hearts below, 
 
 That are touch d with the calm of your pallid wings. 
 
 " But is memory still where the vanished go ?" 
 Then I thought of a tender dream of the past, 
 
 That faded and fell in a passionate woe, 
 Like a lotus-flower in a poison d blast ; 
 
 And I stared in the shadow and said, " You know. 
 
 " Come out of your silence once more, and seem 
 The thing that I loved in the years afar, 
 
 While the wild-bird flutters and sings in its dream, 
 And the yellow bloom of the evening star 
 
 Drops, as of old, in the whispering stream." 
 
 You came, and I saw the tremulous breeze 
 Blow the loose brown hair about your head ; 
 
 You came, thro a murmur of melodies ; 
 You came, for love can awaken the dead ; 
 
 You came, and stood by the cherry-trees. 
 
IN THE GRAVEYARD. 
 
 You came, and your white hand was not cold, 
 And your quiet eyes, they were not dim ; 
 
 And we watched the moon-rise dripping with gold, 
 While the waters chanted a vesper hymn, 
 
 And your lip was flush d with the tales it told. 
 
 I could see the wings of the sun s pet birds, 
 I could hear the delicate sigh of the shells, 
 
 And the giant cry of the seas in your words ; 
 Yet others had heard but the distant bells, 
 
 And seen but the glimmer of rocks and herds. 
 
 I whisper d like one that is not awake : 
 " Does sorrow die with our dying breath ? 
 
 Did it drop from your life like a wounded snake, 
 When the dust of your beauty was touch d with 
 death ? 
 
 Oh, tell me, oh, tell me, for love s sweet sake. 
 
 " Say, is memory still, where the vanished go ? 
 
 Say, Presence out of the spicy zones- 
 Let your sweet lip whisper the secret low, 
 
 While I wait by the mosses and broken stones : 
 Ah, you hide in your silence, and yet you know." 
 
 61 
 
THE END OF THE KAINBOW. 
 
 MAY you go to find it ? You must, I fear ; 
 
 Ah, lighted young eyes, could I show you how 
 " Is it past those lilies that look so near ? " 
 
 It is past all flowers. Will you listen, now ? 
 
 The pretty new moons faded out of the sky, 
 The bees and butterflies out of- the air, 
 
 And sweet wild songs would flutter and fly 
 Into wet dark leaves and the snow s white glare. 
 
 There were winds and shells full of lonesome cries, 
 There were lightnings and mists along the way, 
 
 And the deserts would glitter against my eyes, 
 Where the beautiful phantom-fountains play. 
 
 At last, in a place very dusty and bare, 
 Some little dead birds I had petted to sing, 
 
 Some little dead flowers I had gather d to wear, 
 Some wither d thorns and an empty ring, 
 
THE END OF THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Lay scatter d. My fairy story is told. 
 
 (It does not please her : she has not smiled.) 
 What is it you say ? Did I find the gold ? 
 
 Why, I found the End of the Rainbow, child ! 
 
TWO BLUSH-ROSES. 
 
 A BLUSH-ROSE lay in the summer ; 
 
 There were golden lights in the sky, 
 And a woman saw the blossom 
 
 As she stood with her lover nigh. 
 
 A band in the flowering distance 
 
 Play d a dreamy Italian air, 
 Like a memory changed to music, 
 
 And it drifted everywhere. 
 
 T was an exiled love of its Southland, 
 That air, and its delicate wails 
 
 Were only the wandering echoes 
 Of the songs of nightingales. 
 
 " I love you," he tenderly whisper d ; 
 
 " I love you," she answer d as low : 
 And the music grew sweeter and sweeter, 
 
 Because it had listen d, I know. 
 
 64 
 
TWO KLUSH-KOSES. 
 
 But she look d at the rose in the summer, 
 
 And said, with a tremulous tear, 
 " The love that now beats in my bosom 
 
 "Will bloom in a blush-rose next year." 
 
 A blush-rose lay in the summer ; 
 
 There were golden lights in the sky, 
 And a woman saw the blossom 
 
 As she stood with her lover nigh. 
 
 The band in the flowering distance 
 
 Play d the dreamy Italian air, 
 Like a memory changed to music, 
 
 And it drifted everywhere. 
 
 " I love you," he tenderly whisper d ; 
 
 " I love you," she timidly said : 
 And the music grew sadder and sadder, 
 
 And the blush-rose before them dropp d dead. 
 
 Then he knew that the music remember d, 
 
 And knew the love that had beat 
 Last year in her beautiful bosom 
 
 Lay dead in the rose at his feet. 
 
 65 
 
OF A PARTING. 
 
 a calm of stars, my own, 
 Under a drooping crescent light, 
 You go, while fairy sounds are blown 
 Out of the dreams of winds, my own 
 
 You go across the night ; 
 But on some far-off strand of sunrise 
 Our hearts meet in a radiant bliss, 
 Not damp, like this ! 
 
 You go ; the calm of stars must go, 
 The crescent light, the fairy sounds ; 
 
 Billows of cloud will overflow 
 
 The golden skies : but you must go. 
 And in its stormy rounds 
 
 The dark will hear low, fluttering voices 
 Cry in my heart, like lonesome birds, 
 For your sweet words. 
 
 You go, and twilights made for love 
 
 Will gloom between us, dim with dew ; 
 The spring-loosed music of the dove 
 Will search the emerald woods for love, 
 
OF A PARTING. 
 
 And I will long for you, 
 Among the blue and pearly blossoms 
 Far on the mossy hills, alone, 
 
 My own, my own. 
 
 But you must loose my hands and go . 
 
 Haste with those tremulous words of pain, 
 For I, most loved of all, I know 
 (The thought is full of tears) some go 
 
 And never come again ; 
 So wait, and let me look forever 
 
 Into the tenderness that lies 
 
 In those deep eyes. 
 
 Ah ! you are gone ; and I I hold 
 My vacant arms to all who part, 
 
 And weep for them, and long to fold 
 
 Those strangers close, and say : "I hold 
 Your sorrow in my heart ;" 
 
 But look the calm of stars is o er us, 
 And we go toward their lighted shore, 
 And part no more. 
 
 67 
 
A CHILD S FIKST SIGHT OF SNOW. 
 
 OH, come and look at his blue, sweet eyes, 
 As, through the window, they glance around 
 
 And see the glittering white surprise 
 The Night has laid on the ground ! 
 
 This beautiful Mystery you have seen, 
 So new to your life, and to mine so old, 
 
 Little wordless Questioner "What does it 
 
 mean ? " 
 Why, it means, I fear, that the world is cold. 
 
 68 
 
A LILY OF THE NILE. 
 
 WHO was the beautiful woman whose lover 
 
 Once left her this dead old flower, did you say ? 
 
 Well, perhaps that is she in the picture over 
 
 The vase with the flowers which you gather d to-day. 
 
 The one with the deep strange dress, that is flowing 
 All purple and pearls through each stiffen d fold, 
 
 And the band on her forehead, whose dusk-red glowing 
 Shoots into great sharp thorns of gold. 
 
 Never mind the light. You will see, to-morrow, 
 That, with eyes raised darkly and lips close-prest, 
 
 She is giving away her awful sorrow 
 To the snake she keeps at her breast ! 
 
 " And who was her lover ? " Why, that may be he, there, 
 In the other picture glimmering nigh 
 
 Yes, the handsome and wretched man you see there, 
 Falling against his sword to die. 
 
A LILY OF THE NILE. 
 
 Will he die for her, do you say ? (Ah, will he ?) 
 
 No doubt he has often told her so ! 
 Did it bloom far away, this crumbling lily ? " 
 
 Very far and so long ago. 
 
 And who gave it to me? 
 
 So the wither d story 
 
 I ve dream d by the twilight all this while, 
 For some vanish d blossom s day of glory, 
 Is your truth, my Lily of the Nile. 
 
 For the beautiful woman is slowly dying 
 Of a snake as plain as this to my sight ; 
 
 And her lover who gave her this flower is lying 
 On the edge of a sword to-night. 
 
 70 
 
A DISENCHANTMENT. 
 
 AXD thou wast but a breathing May 
 
 Embodied by delicious dreams, 
 And drifted o er my wandering way 
 
 On fancy s swift and shining streams. 
 Thine eyes were only violets, 
 
 Thy lips but buds of crimson bloom, 
 Thy hair, coiled sunshine vain regrets ! 
 
 Thy soul, a brief perfume. 
 
 And when the time of mists and chills 
 
 Fell where the sweet wild roses grew, 
 And took them from the shadowy hills, 
 
 It took my lovely vision too ; 
 And when I came again to find 
 
 The charm which used to fill the air, 
 A sorrow struck me mute and blind 
 
 Thou wast not anywhere ! 
 
 Yet something met me in thy place, 
 
 Something, they said, with looks like thine, 
 
 With tresses full of golden grace 
 
 And lips flush d red with beauty s wine ; 
 
 71 
 
A DISENCHANTMENT. 
 
 With voice of silvery swells and falls 
 And dreamy eyes still sweetly blue 
 
 But, then, the reptile s nature crawls 
 Beneath the rainbow s hue. 
 
 Woman, all things below, above, 
 
 Look pale and drear and glimmering now, 
 For I have loved thee with a love 
 
 Whose passionate deeps such things as thou 
 May never sound. And, with a moan, 
 
 The chill d tide of that love has rolled 
 Above my heart, and made it stone, 
 
 And oh, so cold, so cold ! 
 
 I saw thee by a magic lamp 
 
 Whose warm and gorgeous blaze is gone, 
 And o er me shivers, gray and damp, 
 
 The dimness of the real s dawn. 
 Oh, I am like to one who stands 
 
 Where late a vision smiled in air, 
 And murmurs, with outstretching hands, 
 
 " Where is my Angel where ?" 
 
 72 
 
THE FLOWEKS IN THE GROUND. 
 
 UNDER the coffin-lid there are roses : 
 
 They bud like dreams in the sleep of the dead ; 
 
 And the long, vague dark that around them closes 
 Is flush d and sweet with their glory of red. 
 
 From the buried seeds of love they blossom, 
 All crimson-stain d from its blood they start; 
 
 And each sleeper wears them on his bosom, 
 Clasp d over the pallid dust of his heart. 
 
 When the Angel of Morning shall shake the slumber 
 Away from the graves with his lighted wings, 
 
 He will gather thoses roses, an infinite number, 
 A.ud bear them to Heaven, the beautiful things ! 
 
QUESTIONS OF THE HOUR. 
 
 "Do angels wear white dresses, say? 
 
 Always, or only in the summer ? Do 
 Their birthdays have to come like mine, in May ? 
 
 Do they have scarlet sashes then, or blue ? 
 
 " When little Jessie died last night, 
 
 How could she walk to Heaven it is so far ? 
 
 How did she find the way without a light? 
 There was n t even any moon or star. 
 
 " Will she have red or golden wings ? 
 
 Then will she have to be a bird, and fly ? 
 Do they take men like presidents and kings 
 
 In hearses with black plumes clear to the sky? 
 
 How old is God ? Has he gray hair ? 
 
 Can He see yet ? Where did He have to stay 
 Before you know he had made Anywhere? 
 
 Who does He pray to when He has to pray ? 
 
 74 
 
QUESTIONS OF THE HOUR. 
 
 "How many drops are in the sea ? 
 
 How many stars ? well, then, you ought to know 
 
 How many flowers are on an apple-tree ? 
 
 How does the wind look when it does n t blow ? 
 
 " Where does the rainbow end? And why 
 Did Captain Kidd bury the gold there ? When 
 
 Will this world burn ? And will the firemen try 
 To put the fire out with the engines then ? 
 
 " If you should ever die, may we 
 
 Have pumpkins growing in the garden, so 
 
 My fairy godmother can come for me, 
 
 When there s a prince s ball, and let me go ? 
 
 "Read Cinderella just once more 
 
 What makes men s other wives so mean ? " I know 
 That I was tired, it may be cross, before 
 
 I shut the painted book for her to go. 
 
 Hours later, from a child s white bed 
 
 I heard the timid, last queer question start : 
 
 " Mamma, are you my stepmother? " it said. 
 The innocent reproof crept to my heart. 
 
GASLIGHT AND STARLIGHT. 
 
 THOSE flowers of flame that blossom at night 
 From the dust of the city, along the street, 
 
 And wreathe rich rooms with their leaves of light, 
 Were dropping their tremulous bloom at my feet. 
 
 And the men whose names by the crowd are known, 
 And the women uplifted to share their place 
 
 Some of them bright with their jewels alone, 
 Some of them brighter with beauty and grace 
 
 Were around me under the flashing rays, 
 All seeming, I thought as I saw them there, 
 
 To ask the throng, in their pleased, mute ways, 
 For its bow, or its smile, or at least its stare. 
 
 But, faint with the odors that floated about, 
 And tired of the glory the few can win, 
 
 I turned to the window : the darkness without 
 Struck heavily on the glitter within, 
 
GASLIGHT AND STARLIGHT. 
 
 Still the glare behind me haunted my brain, 
 
 And I thought : " They are blest who are shining 
 so;" 
 
 But a voice replied : " You are blinded and vain 
 Such triumph when highest is often low. 
 
 " For some," it said, with a slow, sad laugh, 
 " Who wear so proudly their little names, 
 
 Have leant on the People, as on a staff 
 To help them up to their selfish fames. 
 
 " And others yet it is hard to know 
 
 Have crawl d through the dust to their sunny hour, 
 
 To crawl the same in its warmth and glow 
 And hiss the snake in the colors of Power. 
 
 " Yet it is comfort to feel, through the whole, 
 They only look great, in God s calm eyes, 
 
 Who lean on the still, grand strength of the soul 
 And climb toward the pure, high light of the skies." 
 
 77 
 
A DREAM S AWAKENING. 
 
 SHUT in a close and dreary sleep, 
 Lonely and frightened and oppress d 
 
 I felt a dreadful serpent creep, 
 
 Writhing and crushing, o er my breast. 
 
 I woke and knew my child s sweet arm, 
 As soft and pure as flakes of snow, 
 
 Beneath my dream s dark, hateful charm, 
 Had been the thing that tortured so. 
 
 And, in the morning s dew arid light 
 I seem d to hear an angel say, 
 
 " The Pain that stings in Time s low night 
 May prove God s Love in higher day." 
 
 78 
 
TALK ABOUT GHOSTS. 
 [AT BED-TIME.] 
 
 " Each of us carries within him a future ghost. " 
 
 WHAT is a ghost? "It is something white, 
 
 (And I guess it goes barefooted, too,) 
 That comes from the graveyard in the night, 
 
 When the doors are lock d, and breaks right through." 
 What does it do ? 
 
 "Oh, it frightens people ever so much, 
 And goes away when the chickens crow ; 
 
 And doesn t steal any spoons, or touch 
 One thing that is n t its own, you know." 
 Who told you so ? 
 
 " Somebody every body, almost ; 
 
 Or I knew, myself, when this world begun. 
 Not even a General could kill a ghost 
 
 I wish the Lord had never made one. 
 They hate the sun ! " 
 
TALK ABOUT GHOSTS. 
 
 No, sweetest of all wee brown-eyed girls, 
 They love the light t is the dark they fear ; 
 
 Love riches and power, love laces and pearls ; 
 Love all the -preacher calls vanity here. 
 This much is clear. 
 
 "Do they love to be dead?" I can but tell 
 That few of them greatly love to die : 
 
 Perhaps they doubt whether all is well 
 
 In the place where ghosts yes, "up in the sky." 
 
 You wonder why ? 
 
 They love their clothes (and want to keep dressM:) 
 Whether new and prettily white and red, 
 
 Or gray and ragged, tis hard, at best, 
 
 To take them off though the prayers are said 
 And go to bed. 
 
 80 
 
A YEAR. MDCCCLX. 
 
 MY spirit saw a scene 
 Whose splendors were so terrible and bright 
 
 That the infinitude of mist between 
 The earth and sky scarce saved its eagle-sight 
 From being blasted. In the middle night 
 
 He stood, the Guardian Angel of the Years : 
 His wings that could extend their quenchless light 
 
 Across eternity, and rock the spheres 
 With their immortal strength were folded *now, 
 Like a still veil of glory, on his brow. 
 
 One fiery star and vast, 
 A gem to note the year, forever more 
 
 Burn d in his ancient crown ; and fierce and fast 
 Escaped the flame from out the one he wore, 
 Whose dimness vaguely settled on each shore 
 
 Along the seas of space ; and, pale and lone, 
 But kingly with the solemn pride of yore, 
 
 Clinching the grandeur of a shadowy throne, 
 As if to hold his royalty from Death, 
 One lean d beside him with an icy breath. 
 
 81 
 
A YEAR. 
 
 Nor earth, nor heaven will save 
 Us from the Doom which claim d that mighty thing ; 
 
 But, then, who fears or thinks upon the grave 
 That narrow dark through which the free may spring 
 To the wide light beyond ? Who seeks to cling 
 
 With coward grasp to fetters and to strife ? 
 Death is the only halcyon whose white wing 
 
 Can still the billows of a restless life. 
 Yet, were the present peace, the future woe, 
 New storms are better than a calm we know. 
 
 He said, " My sceptre cast 
 Its shadows far as God s dominions lie ; 
 
 Storms blew their thunder-trumpets as I pass d, 
 And lightnings follow d me about the sky. 
 I clasped th unwilling worlds and heard them sigh 
 
 Against my breast with all their winds and waves ; 
 Ay, as my victor chariot hurried by 
 
 Sun, star, and comet, like affrighted slaves, 
 Flung portions of their measured light below 
 Its silent wheels to make a triumph glow 
 
 " I passed yon radiant crowd 
 Of constellations, and there knelt beside 
 
 The Cross upon whose like a God has bow d ; 
 I met the mourning Pleiades, and cried 
 
 82 
 
A YEAR. 
 
 To their lost sister in th unanswering tide 
 Of night ; I struck weird music from the Lyre, 
 
 And humbled old Orion s sullen pride, 
 Who lean d against his cimeter of fire, 
 
 And, with submissive reverence and mute, 
 
 Acknowledged my imperious salute. 
 
 " Look, look for all his deeds 
 Must pass before the sight of him who dies ; 
 
 Mine crowd the infinite spaces but man needs 
 Not to be told of those whose scenery lies 
 Beyond the bounds he knows, for his dim eyes 
 
 See but the things I have around him wrought ; 
 He will not hear the dirge that soon must rise 
 
 For me in all the myriad realms his thought 
 May visit, only by the hazy route 
 That glimmers round the reeling sails of Doubt. 
 
 " The shadow of his world, 
 Like a dark canvas spread before me seems : 
 
 There hides the hermit West, with cataracts whirl 1 d 
 Among the rocks, watching their foamy beams ; 
 There are the groves of myrrh, and diamond gleams, 
 
 Where fair as if it erewhile floated to 
 Its own warm poets, in their lotus dreams, 
 
 As an ideal Aidenn, and there grew 
 
 83 
 
A YEAR. 
 
 Into reality the Orient lies 
 
 Close to the morn mid birds of Paradise. 
 
 " There ice-mail d warders keep 
 The gates of silence by the auroral rays 
 
 Which fall above the cold-press d North asleep, 
 Like a proud, pallid Queen, in the rich blaze 
 Of colored lamps, upon whose bosom weighs 
 
 A dreary vision ; and there, too, the sweet, 
 Sun-worshipp d South in languid beauty stays, 
 
 Like a sultana, caring but to meet 
 Her fiery lover mid her gorgeous bowers, 
 And, as his bride, be crown d with orange flowers. 
 
 " And, over all, there moves 
 The phantasm of my life. With joy and dread 
 
 I see it passing, and my memory proves 
 Its truth to nature. Roses white and red, 
 Whose leaves into the winds have long been shed, 
 
 And tremulous lily-bells, and jasmine blooms 
 Are there, as they had risen from the dead, 
 
 So like their early selves their lost perfumes 
 Seem blown about them, and I hear the breeze 
 That used to kiss them sing old melodies. 
 
 " Above, the changing sky 
 Shows wonder-pictures to my fading eyes : 
 
 84 
 
A YEAR. 
 
 Now, the black armies of the clouds march by, 
 Now rainbows bloom, now golden moons arise. 
 Below, how varied too : now glitter lies 
 
 On gorgeous jewels, bridal-flowers and mirth ; 
 Now mourners pass, and fill the air with sighs, 
 
 To hide their coffins in the yawning earth ; 
 Now, with a pallid face and frenzied mind, 
 Cold, starving wretches ask if God is blind ! 
 
 " Now reels a nightmare throne 
 From the crush d bosom of the Sicilies, 
 
 The South s brief dream of blood wakes in the sun ; 
 Glad winds sing on the blue Italian seas, 
 And glad men bless me by their olive-trees ; 
 
 Now, in the clouds above a younger land, 
 With awful eyes fix d on its destinies, 
 
 The frowning souls of its dead Glorious stand 
 And see a fiery madness, that would blast 
 God s miracle of freedom, kindling fast." 
 
 He fix d a dark, wild look 
 On his celestial watcher, as in hate ; 
 
 Then grasp d him, till his passionless grandeur 
 
 shook, 
 
 And mutter d: " Spirit, see the fate of fate 
 I ve left upon mortality s estate. 
 
 85 
 
A YE All. 
 
 Into reality the Orient lies 
 
 Close to the morn mid birds of Paradise. 
 
 " There ice-mail d warders keep 
 The gates of silence by the auroral rays 
 
 Which fall above the cold-press d North asleep, 
 Like a proud, pallid Queen, in the rich blaze 
 Of colored lamps, upon whose bosom weighs 
 
 A dreary vision ; and there, too, the sweet, 
 Sun-worshipp d South in languid beauty stays, 
 
 Like a sultana, caring but to meet 
 Her fiery lover mid her gorgeous bowers, 
 And, as his bride, be crown d with orange flowers. 
 
 " And, over all, there moves 
 The phantasm of my life. With joy and dread 
 
 I see it passing, and my memory proves 
 Its truth to nature. Roses white and red, 
 Whose leaves into the winds have long been shed, 
 
 And tremulous lily-bells, and jasmine blooms 
 Are there, as they had risen from the dead, 
 
 So like their early selves their lost perfumes 
 Seem blown about them, and I hear the breeze 
 That used to kiss them sing old melodies. 
 
 " Above, the changing sky 
 Shows wonder-pictures to my fading eyes : 
 
A YEAR. 
 
 Now, the black armies of the clouds march by, 
 Now rainbows bloom, now golden moons arise. 
 Below, how varied too : now glitter lies 
 
 On gorgeous jewels, bridal-flowers and mirth ; 
 Now mourners pass, and fill the air with sighs, 
 
 To hide their coffins in the yawning earth ; 
 Now, with a pallid face and frenzied mind, 
 Cold, starving wretches ask if God is blind ! 
 
 " Now reels a nightmare throne 
 From the crush d bosom of the Sicilies, 
 
 The South s brief dream of blood wakes in the sun ; 
 Glad winds sing on the blue Italian seas, 
 And glad men bless me by their olive-trees ; 
 
 Now, in the clouds above a younger land, 
 With awful eyes fix d on its destinies, 
 
 The frowning souls of its dead Glorious stand 
 And see a fiery madness, that would blast 
 God s miracle of freedom, kindling fast." 
 
 He fix d a dark, wild look 
 On his celestial watcher, as in hate ; 
 
 Then grasp d him, till his passionless grandeur 
 
 shook, 
 
 And mutter d: " Spirit, see the fate of fate 
 I ve left upon mortality s estate. 
 
 85 
 
A YEAR. 
 
 And thou didst suffer all this ruin, thou 
 Whose office was to warn me ; tis too late 
 
 For me to give thee these reproaches now, 
 For I am growing cold my deeds are done, 
 And thou shouldst blush for them, thou guilty one. 
 
 " I tell thee, thou shalt hear 
 For, Guardian Angel of the Years, I swear 
 
 Thou art a traitor to thy God ! And fear 
 A traitor s fate, if thou again shalt dare 
 Neglect thy task. Then aid him who shall bear 
 
 The sceptre I resign to quench all wrong, 
 And kindle right or, when I meet thee where 
 
 None may evade the truth, my oath, as strong 
 As aught except thy brother Lucifer s curse, 
 Shall drag thee down to share his doom or worse ! 
 
 " Mortals, I go, I go. 
 Yet, though we part, it is to meet again ; 
 
 My ghost will come with noiseless step and slow 
 Along the twilights, whispering of my reign ; 
 And, in the night-times, oft a mystic strain 
 
 Shall strike your sleep, and ye shall know my tone, 
 Singing remembered airs, not all in vain, 
 
 And chorus them with an unconscious moan ; 
 
 86 
 
A YEAH. 
 
 And I must witness of you in the day 
 
 When earth and heaven shall melt in fire away/ 
 
 He drew the dark around 
 His ghastly face the nations sigh d farewell ; 
 
 He stagger 1 d from his throne an awful sound 
 Rolled down from every system s every bell, 
 That toll d together once to make his knell, 
 
 And the resplendent crown-star, that had flash d 
 On the lone Angel s brow, grew black and fell 
 
 Shattering among six thousand more it crash d. 
 I ask d : " How many stay for him to wear ?" 
 I woke : and Midnight s silence fill d the air. 
 
ON A WEDDING DAY. 
 
 I LOOK far-off across the blue, 
 
 Still distance vague with woods and Spring 
 The Earth is sweet with buds and dew ; 
 
 The birds their early carols sing. 
 
 I look, and somehow wish the hours 
 Held calm and sun and bloom alone : 
 
 No fallen leaves, no wither d flowers, 
 No storm, no wreck, no mist, no moan ; 
 
 No painted palms of air on sand, 
 
 No poisons where the spice-winds blow, 
 
 No dark shapes haunting sea and land 
 But wherefore am I dreaming so ? 
 
 It is because this music swells 
 
 Across the lighted April day 
 Because I hear your bridal bells, 
 
 Fail- girl, a thousand miles away. 
 
ON A WEDDING DAY. 
 
 Yes, lovely in a holy place, 
 
 Enchanted by my dream you rise : 
 The young blush-roses on your face, 
 
 The timid darkness in your eyes. 
 
 And, golden on your hand, I see 
 The glitter of a sacred thing : 
 
 I wish some Fairy, friend, may be 
 
 Slave of the ring your wedding ring ! 
 
 89 
 
THE DOVE AND THE ANGEL. 
 
 THE roses and stars vere in blossom : 
 
 She leant by the lattice alone, 
 And a pet dove, white as a lily, 
 
 Flew out of the night with a moan, 
 And nestled down close in her bosom, 
 
 To hide from the wound in its own. 
 
 Tears rain d on the snow of its plumage, 
 Tears rain d on the golden moonshine ; 
 
 "Ah, beautiful, tremulous darling," 
 
 She murmured, " my life is like thine 
 
 Only I have no bosom to fly to, 
 My bird, as you fly into mine." 
 
 The south-moon dropp d under the shadow, 
 Yet she stay d to remember and weep, 
 
 Till what was the wonderful Presence, 
 So quiet and holy and deep, 
 
 That stole thro the dreams of the roses, 
 Till they shook out their sweetness in sleep ? 
 oo 
 
THE DOVE AND THE ANGEL. 
 
 Ah, an Angel that once was a mortal 
 Flew out of the glories unknown, 
 
 And, like the white dove from the darkness 
 That came to her love with its moan, 
 
 She nestled down close in his bosom, 
 And hid from the wound in her own. 
 
 91 
 
HER TALK WITH A REDBIRD. 
 
 [AT MORNING BEFORE SUNRISE.] 
 
 " THE only things in the world awake, 
 
 And I for grief as for gladness you, 
 Let us be quiet. We should not shake 
 
 The beautiful dimness from the dew. 
 
 "It is early to you, to me it is late. 
 
 You rise in bloom toward the morning light; 
 I stand in the thorn s sharp shadow and wait 
 
 For strength to crawl away from the night. 
 
 " Oh, Bird, flush d Bird, you can sing and fly. 
 
 For the song I hear and the wings I see, 
 I would give you my soul and its share in the sky; 
 
 And I would be you and you should be me. 
 
 "They would tell my children their mother was dead. 
 
 Never mind, she was tired and pale, they would say, 
 But here is a Bird, so pretty and red, 
 
 In your trees to cry might scare it away ! ! 
 
 92 
 
MY WEDDING RING. 
 
 MY heart stirr d with its golden thrill 
 And flutter d closer up to thine, 
 
 In that blue morning of the June 
 
 When first it clasp d thy love and mine. 
 
 In it I see the little room, 
 
 Rose-dim and hush d with lilies still, 
 Where the old silence of my life 
 
 Turn d into music with " I will." 
 
 Oh, I would have my folded hands 
 Take it into the dust with me : 
 
 All other little things of mine 
 
 I d leave in the bright world with thee. 
 
A FALLING STAR. 
 
 JUST then, upon its wings of fire, 
 
 A star went flying by, 
 And vanished o er the waves of cloud, 
 
 A sea-bird of the sky ! 
 
 To-night there ring within my heart 
 
 Old half-forgotten chimes, 
 Whose mournful music memory caught 
 
 Among its nursery-rhymes. 
 
 In those sweet years I ve heard them say 
 
 No wish could be in vain, 
 If it were form d while flash d thro Heaven 
 
 A meteor s sudden train. 
 
 Ah, then I only wish d to catch 
 
 The blue-birds on the hill, 
 Or, with bare feet to wander down 
 
 Some shady woodland rill. 
 
A FALLING STAR. 
 
 For (oh, how long ago it seems !) 
 
 I then was but a child, 
 Whose cheek was bright, whose golden hair 
 
 Upon the winds flew wild ; 
 
 Whose tiny hand drove humming-birds 
 
 From many a rose s breast, 
 Whose sunny brow and lisping lip 
 
 A mother s kisses press d. 
 
 But since the years have pass d and left 
 
 Their paleness on my brow, 
 Their twilight shadows in my heart 
 
 What are my wishes now ? 
 
 When next a fire shall flash along 
 
 The night s eternal blue, 
 What can I ask ere it shall fade 
 
 Forever from my view ? 
 
PLAYING BEGGARS. 
 
 " LET us pretend we are two beggars." " No, 
 
 For beggars are im something, something ba 1 ; 
 
 You know they are, because Papa says so, 
 
 And Papa when he calls them that looks mad ; 
 
 You should have seen him, how he frown d one day, 
 
 When Mamma gave his wedding-coat away." 
 
 " Well, now he can t get married any more, 
 Because he has no wedding-coat to wear. 
 
 But that poor ragged soldier at the door 
 
 Was starved to death in prison once somewhere, 
 
 And shot dead somewhere else, and it was right 
 
 To give him coats because he had to fight. 
 
 " Now let s be beggars." " They re im posters. Yes, 
 That s what they are, im postors ; and that means 
 
 Rich people, for they all are rich, I guess 
 Richer than we are, rich as Jews or queens, 
 
 And they re just playing beggars when they cry " 
 
 " Then let us play like they do, you and I." 
 
PLAYING BEGGARS. 
 
 "Well, we ll be rich and wear old naughty clothes." 
 "But they re not rich. If they were rich they d buy 
 
 All the fine horses at the fairs and shows 
 
 To give to General Grant. I 11 tell you why : 
 
 Once when the rebels wanted to kill all 
 
 The men in this world he let Richmond fall ! 
 
 " TJiat broke them up ! I like the rebels, though, 
 Because they have the curliest kind of hair. 
 
 One time, so many years and years ago, 
 I saw one over in Kentucky there. 
 
 It show d me such a shabby sword and said 
 
 It wanted to cut off Somebody s head ! 
 
 " But do play beggar. You be one ; and, mind, 
 Shut up one eye, and get all over dust, 
 
 And say this : 
 
 Lady, be so very kind 
 As to give me some water. Well, I must 
 
 Rest on your step, I think, ma am, for a while 
 
 I ve walk d full twenty if I ve walk d one mile. 
 
 " * Lady, this is your little girl, I know : 
 She is a beautiful child and just like you ; 
 
 07 
 
PLAYING BEGGARS. 
 
 You look too young to be her mother, though. 
 
 This handsome boy is like his father, too: 
 The gentleman was he who pass d this way 
 And look d so cross ? so pleasant I should say. 
 
 " But trouble, Lady, trouble puts me wrong. 
 
 Lady, I m sure you ll spare a dress or two 
 You look so stylish. (Oh, if I was strong !) 
 
 And shoes ? Yours are too small. I need them new. 
 
 The money thank you ! Now you have some tea, 
 
 And flour, and sugar, you 11 not miss, for me ? 
 
 " Ah, I forgot to tell you that my house 
 
 Was burn d last night. My baby has no bread, 
 
 And I m as poor, ma am, as a cellar-mouse. 
 
 My husband died once ; my grandmother s dead 
 
 She was a good soul (but she s gone, that s true 
 
 You have some coffee, madam?) so are you. " 
 
 "Oh, it s too long. I can t say half of that! 
 
 I 11 not be an im postor, any how. 
 (But I should like to give one my torn hat, 
 
 So I could get a prettier one, just now.) 
 They re worse than Christians, ghosts, or any thing ! 
 
 I 11 play that I m a great man or a king." 
 
STONE FOR A STATUE. 
 
 LEAVE what is white for whiter use. 
 
 For such a purpose as your own 
 Would be a dreary jest, a harsh abuse, 
 
 A bitter wrong to snowy stone. 
 
 Let the pure marble s silence hold 
 Its unshaped gods, and do not break 
 
 Those hidden images divine and old, 
 
 To-day, for one mean man s small sake ! 
 
 99 
 
A BIRD S WING AND A SOUL S. 
 
 FOB MY SISTER AXD BKOTHEE. 
 
 THIS small bright wing, that used to fly 
 In far Kentucky s summer light 
 
 And lift clear music toward the sky, 
 Lies full of tears to-night. 
 
 Wild little memory of the woods 
 In whose dark paths we loved to go, 
 
 When the old hills were flush d with buds 
 Or pallid with the snow : 
 
 I kiss you, tenderly and fast 
 For her, the beautiful and dear, 
 
 Between whose lips and mine have pass d 
 The dim waves of a year ; 
 
 For him through whose dark, careless hair 
 The shadows of the palm-trees play 
 
 Perchance in warm Pacific air 
 He thinks of us to-day. 
 
 10J 
 
A BIKD S WING AND A s6uL s. 
 
 Ah, were I but the light, free bird 
 
 That wore you through old woodland glooms, 
 Familiar leaves should soon be stirr d 
 
 With my returning plumes. 
 
 But that wild, winged thing is dust 
 
 Where wither d falls have dropp d and blown, 
 And my wild, winged thoughts, I trust, 
 
 Can fly on love alone. 
 
 101 
 
FALLEN ANGELS. 
 
 THEY were to be the fairest ever known 
 
 In the sphere of unstain d Art, and to hold the high, 
 
 far places 
 Among the shapes of Beauty born of stone, 
 
 With divinest lift of wings and divinest calm of 
 faces. 
 
 The sculptor started backward with a cry, 
 
 And he pass d across his eyes his piteous, worn hands 
 
 slowly : 
 Was this his great white vision from the sky, 
 
 Standing palpable in marble, yet all radiant and 
 holy? 
 
 He saw his days, his nights, his passions there, 
 
 And his strength a giant image that seem d wrest 
 ling with its stillness 
 Imprison d in one wide hush of despair, 
 
 At the feet of Fallen Angels, staring back with 
 empty chillness ! 
 
 102 
 
TO MARIAN ASLEEP. 
 
 THE full moon glimmers still and white, 
 Where yonder shadowy clouds unfold ; 
 
 The stars, like children of the Night, 
 Lie with their little heads of gold 
 
 On her dark lap : nor less divine, 
 
 And brighter, seems your own on mine. 
 
 My darling, with your snowy sleep 
 Folded around your dimpled form, 
 
 Your little breathings calm and deep, 
 Your mother s arms and heart are warm ; 
 
 You wear as lilies in your breast 
 
 The dreams that blossom from your rest. 
 
 Ah, must your clear eyes see ere long 
 The mist and wreck on sea and land, 
 
 And that old haunter of all song, 
 The mirage hiding in the sand ? 
 
 And will the dead leaves in the frost 
 
 Tell you of song and summer lost ? 
 
TO MAKIAN ASLEEP. 
 
 And shall you hear the ghastly tales 
 From the slow, solemn lips of Time 
 
 Of Wrong that wins, of Right that fails, 
 Of trampled Want and gorgeous Crime, 
 
 Of Splendor s glare in lighted rooms 
 
 And Famine s moan in outer glooms ? 
 
 Of armies in their red eclipse 
 
 That mingle on the smoking plain ; 
 
 Of storms that dash our mighty ships 
 With silks and spices through the main ; 
 
 Of what it costs to climb or fall 
 
 Of Death s great Shadow ending all ? 
 
 But, baby Marian, do I string 
 
 The dark with darker rhymes for you, 
 Forgetting that you came in Spring, 
 
 The child of sun and bloom and dew, 
 And that I kiss d, still fresh to-day, 
 The rosiest bud of last year s May ? 
 
 Forgive me, pretty one : I know, 
 Whatever sufferings onward lie, 
 
 Christ wore his crown of thorns below 
 To gain his crown of light on high ; 
 
 And when the lamp s frail flame is gone, 
 
 Look up : the stars will still shine on. 
 
 104 
 
A PRESIDENT AT HOME.* 
 
 I PASS D a President s House to-day 
 
 " A President, mamma, and what is that ? " 
 
 Oh, it is a man who has to stay 
 
 Where bowing beggars hold out the hat 
 
 For something a man who has to be 
 
 The Captain of every ship that we 
 
 Send with our darling flag to the sea 
 
 The Colonel at home who has to command 
 
 Each marching regiment in the land. 
 
 This President now has a single room, 
 
 That is low and not much lighted, I fear ; 
 
 Yet the butterflies play in the sun and gloom 
 Of his evergreen avenue, year by year ; 
 
 And the child-like violets up the hill 
 
 Climb, faintly wayward, about him still ; 
 
 And the bees blow by at the wind s wide will ; 
 
 * At North Bend, Ohio River the tomb of General Harrison. 
 105 
 
A PRESIDENT AT HOME. 
 
 And the cruel river, that drowns men so, 
 Looks pretty enough in the shadows below. 
 
 Just one little fellow (named Robin) was there, 
 
 In a red Spring vest, and he let me pass 
 With that charming-careless, high-bred air 
 
 Which comes of serving the great. In the grass 
 
 He sat, half-singing, with nothing to do 
 
 No, I did not see the President too : 
 His door was lock d (what I say is true), 
 And he was asleep, and has been, it appears, 
 Like Rip Van Winkle, asleep for years ! 
 
 10G 
 
AN EAGLE S PLUME FROM PALESTINE. 
 
 LEAVING the summer in the palms asleep 
 
 For lonely circles in the upper deep 
 Leaving the wild crusader s risen blood, 
 That stands in many a crimson-stained bud, 
 
 As if to make a gentle guard of flowers, 
 To keep the memory of the Holy Cross 
 
 Safe from the dark hands of unholy powers 
 Leaving the valley lilies and the moss : 
 
 Far up the silence of that Eastern sky, 
 
 Whose suns and stars are haunted by the shine 
 Left by the death-smile of a God, twas thine 
 
 To feel the vastness of infinity ! 
 
 Phantoms of olive-trees, old cedar glooms, 
 
 A sacred stream with tremulous, snowy plumes 
 
 Bearing the Father s blessing from above, 
 
 Shaped in the timid likeness of a dove 
 And many solemn things, before me sweep, 
 
 Call d up by thee, thou that hast sailed far noons, 
 And lain against a lonesome mountain sleep 
 
 Close to the golden-lighted Asian moons ; 
 
 107 
 
AX EAGLE S PLUME FROM PALESTINE. 
 
 Yet, dusk enchanter, saddest of the sights, 
 Which thy still wizardry has come to bring, 
 Seems the dread picture of a falling wing 
 
 A flying farewell to the sunward heights ! 
 
 A falling wing ah, even when it glows 
 With little fires and burns down from a rose, 
 
 It must resist its sinking, with a pain 
 
 That is sublime a wish to rise again : 
 But when its place has been above the cloud, 
 
 Where its high strength has dared the storm afar, 
 Then feels a downward weakness, slow and proud 
 
 It drops as grandly as an unsphered star, 
 Whose arms of light strive with their utmost powers 
 
 To hold a place in heaven ; and thus dropp d thine, 
 
 Dead eagle of the skies of Palestine, 
 And thus drop many in this world of ours ! 
 
 108 
 
A CHAIN FROM VENICE. 
 
 SHE stretches dimpled arms of snow ; 
 
 A glad smile lights her baby eyes : 
 My little beauty, would you know 
 
 The story of your shining prize ? 
 
 It is a poet s golden thought 
 
 Of you, that glitters like your hair, 
 
 Of rich Venetian sunlight wrought 
 Far in the South s enchanted air. 
 
 Ah, if you stay from Heaven to learn 
 The years before you lying dim, 
 
 You ll think, my darling, in return, 
 A thought as beautiful of him. 
 
 109 
 
A WALK TO MY OWN GRAVE. 
 
 [WITH THREE CHILDREN.] 
 
 THERE ! do not stop to cry. 
 
 " The path is long ? we walk so slow? " 
 But we shall get there by and by. 
 
 Every step that we go 
 
 Is one step nearer, you know : 
 And your mother s grave will be 
 Such a pretty place to see. 
 
 " Will there be m arble there, 
 
 With doves, or lambs, or lilies ? " No. 
 Keep white yourselves. Why should you care 
 
 If they are as white as snow, 
 
 When the lilies can not blow, 
 And the doves can never moan, 
 Nor the lambs bleat in the stone ? 
 
 You want some flowers ? Oh ! 
 
 We shall not find them on the way. 
 no 
 
A WALK TO MY OWN GRATE. 
 
 Only a few brier-roses grow, 
 
 Here and there, in the sun, I say. 
 It is dusty and dry all day, 
 But at evening there is shade, 
 And you will not be afraid ? 
 
 Ah, the flowers f Surely, yes. 
 
 At the end there will be a few. 
 " Violets ? Violets ? " So I guess, 
 
 And a little grass and dew ; 
 
 And some birds you want them blue? 
 And a spring, too, as I think, 
 Where we will rest and drink. 
 
 Now kiss me and be good, 
 
 For you can go back home and play. 
 This is my grave here in the wood, 
 
 AVhere I, for a while, must stay. 
 
 Wait will you always pray, 
 Though you are sleepy, at night ? 
 There ! do not forget me quite. 
 
 Keep the baby sweetly drest, 
 
 And give him milk and give him toys ; 
 
A WALK TO MY OWN GRAVE. 
 
 Rock him, as I did, to his rest, 
 And never make any noise, 
 Brown-eyed girl and blue-eyed boys, 
 
 Until he wakes. Good-by, 
 
 And do not stop to cry ! 
 
PARIS. 
 
 [JANUARY, 1871.] 
 
 SPEAK ! Dying, that never can be dead ! 
 
 Speak! O wounded, and wan, and wasted! 
 "Blood is better than wine," she said 
 
 "Famine the sweetest food I have tasted. 
 
 "Pallor is brighter than bloom, and scars 
 Than my old jewels have made me fairer. 
 
 When the Vapor put out my lamps, the stars 
 Gave me a surer light and a rarer. 
 
 My flowers were false, my glory was shame, 
 
 My Life was Death, in my years of pleasure. 
 Divine from my sorrow my Beauty came 
 
 Safe in my ashes shall shine my treasure." 
 113 
 
AN AFTER-POEM. 
 
 You will read, or you. will not read, 
 
 That the lilies are whitest after they wither ; 
 
 That the fairest buds stay shut in the seed, 
 
 Though the bee in the dew say "Come you up 
 hither." 
 
 You have seen, if you were not blind, 
 
 That the moon can be crowded into a crescent, 
 
 And promise us light that we never can find 
 
 When the midnights are wide and yellow and 
 pleasant. 
 
 You will know, or you will not know, 
 
 That the seas to the sun can fling their foam only, 
 And keep all their terrible waters below 
 
 With the jewels and dead men quiet and lonely. 
 
 114 
 
WITH DISTANT ECHOES. 
 
 Of far-off, old, unhappy 
 
 laities long ago." 
 
 WORDS WOR TH. 
 
HEARING THE BATTLE. JULY 21, 1861, 
 
 ONE day in the dreamy summer, 
 
 On the Sabbath hills, from afar 
 We heard the solemn echoes 
 
 Of the first fierce words of war. 
 
 Ah, tell me, thou veiled Watcher 
 Of the storm and the calm to come, 
 
 How long by the sun or shadow 
 Till these noises again are dumb. 
 
 And soon in a hush and glimmer 
 
 We thought of the dark, strange fight, 
 
 Whose close in a ghastly quiet 
 Lay dim in the beautiful night. 
 
 Then we talk d of coldness and pallor, 
 And of things with blinded eyes 
 
 That stared at the golden stillness 
 Of the moon in those lighted skies ; 
 
 117 
 
HEARING THE BATTLE. 
 
 And of souls, at morning wrestling 
 In the dust with passion and moan, 
 
 So far away at evening 
 
 In the silence of worlds unknown. 
 
 But a delicate wind beside us 
 Was rustling the dusky hours, 
 
 As it gather d the dewy odors 
 Of the snowy jessamine-flowers. 
 
 And I gave you a spray of the blossoms, 
 And said : "I shall never know 
 
 How the hearts in the land are breaking, 
 My dearest, unless you go." 
 
 118 
 
THE CHRISTMAS TREE OUT-OF-DOORS. 
 
 " THE Saint of Christmas leaves his charmed treasures 
 Only in homes where there is gold to buy. 
 
 What though small voices ask for childish pleasures, 
 Among the poor he makes them no reply. 
 
 "Ah well, his great close furs shut out their crying; 
 
 He can not drive in narrow streets, we know, 
 Or find his way to hearths in darkness lying "- 
 
 A woman thought, and look d into the snow. 
 
 When, greener than all Springs can make their greenness, 
 
 A giant Tree grew in the freezing air, 
 And from the far sky s beautiful sereneness 
 
 Strange shapes of wondrous calmness gather d there. 
 
 Some, through their Peace, show d dimly the scarr d 
 faces 
 
 That fell, in moldering battle-pits, away: 
 These brought fair fruits from ever-shining places, 
 
 That children of dead soldiers might be gay. 
 
 119 
 
THE CHRISTMAS TREE OUT-OF-DOORS. 
 
 Next, shadows of worn living mothers slowly 
 From the thick night below came, sad to see, 
 
 And, with a tenderness most sweet and holy, 
 Hung pretty toys on the enchanted Tree. 
 
 Then, as a dove, a radiance descended, 
 
 And show d these children of the poor, the dead, 
 
 Kneeling beneath two bleeding hands extended 
 With Christ s dear blessing for each little head. 
 
 120 
 
A NIGHT AND MORNING 1862-3. 
 
 O MEMORY, the fountains of thy Deep 
 Are broken up, and all its fairy shells 
 
 Lie glimmering after each dim billow s sweep : 
 Once we but saw the rose-bloom in their cells, 
 
 And melody was in the sounds alone ; 
 
 We see the pallor now, and hear the moan. 
 
 Our images lie broken in the sand, 
 
 Our blossoms wither d in the mist, we say ; 
 
 Our summer birds have left the snowy land, 
 Phantoms of tropic songs, and flown away ; 
 
 Our gorgeous buds have borne no golden fruit ; 
 
 Our desert s singing springs are dry and mute. 
 
 Sweet souls have gone above the awful stars, 
 Tired hearts are heavy in the dark below ; 
 
 The world is blasted with the breath of wars, 
 
 And Heaven folds close the Secret we would know ; 
 
 Blind shapes of storm move in the gloom, and where 
 
 Is the white wing of Calm to light the air ? 
 
 121 
 
A NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Weird Something, crown d with bloody asphodels, 
 In whose dark watch twelve moons dropp d faded 
 light, 
 
 We see thy red path mark d with bursted shells, 
 And ghosts of cannon-thunder haunt the night ; 
 
 Thy sword has done its work, but work remains : 
 
 The victory waits for other ghastly plains. 
 
 Like Memnon, singing in old legend, we 
 Have given to the setting light our sighs : 
 
 Great Angel of the Mystery to be ! 
 Help us to hail its unveil d glory rise, 
 
 And lay the beauty of a faith divine, 
 
 The soul s myrrh-offering, on its morning shrine. 
 
 And if when its last sun is gone we moan 
 Slow, tremulous dirges full of broken sound ; 
 
 If whiter images are overthrown ; 
 
 If Time s most kingly hopes are yet uncrown d ; 
 
 If fiercer signs glare on the walls of Fate 
 
 We know that God is God, and Man can wait. 
 
 122 
 
ARMY OF OCCUPATION. 
 
 [AT ARLINGTON, VA., 1866.] 
 
 THE summer blew its little drifts of sound 
 
 Tangled with wet leaf-shadows and the light 
 Small breath of scatter d morning buds around 
 The yellow path through which our footsteps wound. 
 Below, the Capitol rose, glittering, white, 
 
 There stretch d a sleeping army. One by one, 
 They took their places until thousands met ; 
 No leader s stars flash d on before, and none 
 Lean d on his sword or stagger d with his gun 
 I wonder if their feet have rested yet ! 
 
 They saw the dust, they join d the moving mass, 
 They answer d the fierce music s cry for blood, 
 Then straggled here and lay down in the grass: 
 Wear flowers for such, shores whence their feet did pass ; 
 Sing tenderly, O river s haunted flood ! 
 
 123 
 
ARMY OF OCCUPATION. 
 
 They had been sick, arid worn, and weary, when 
 
 They stopp d on this calm hill beneath the trees : 
 Yet if, in some red-clouded dawn, again 
 The country should be calling to her men, 
 Shall the reveille not remember these ? 
 
 Around them underneath the mid-day skies 
 
 The dreadful phantoms of the living walk, 
 And by low moons and darkness, with their cries 
 The mothers, sisters, wives with faded eyes, 
 Who call still names amid their broken talk. 
 
 And there is one who comes alone and stands 
 
 At his dim fireless hearth chill d and oppress d 
 By Something he has summon d to his lands, 
 While the weird pallor of its many hands 
 Points to his rusted sword in his own breast ! 
 
 124 
 
APEIL AT WASHINGTON. 
 
 WHISPERING Phantom and fair 
 Of the April of two years ago ! 
 
 Rising here in the delicate air, 
 
 How strange are the pictures you show ! 
 
 1 see you, with Triumph that sounds 
 In the cannon and flashes in light, 
 
 Glide over these blossoming grounds 
 Through the crowded rejoicing at night. 
 
 And I see you where steel is reversed 
 To the funeral drum s stifled beats, 
 
 To the thought of a murder accursed, 
 
 To the bugle s long wail down the streets ; 
 
 To the dust, under bells moving slow 
 With the weight of a people s great grief, 
 
 Among flags falling dark-draped and low, 
 To the dead-march behind the lost chief: 
 
 125 
 
APKIL AT WASHINGTON. 
 
 Who was wrapp d in your beautiful hours 
 As he pass d to his glory and rest, 
 
 His coffin-lid sweet with your flowers 
 
 And his last human look in your breast 1 
 
 1867. 
 
 126 
 
TO 
 
 SWEET World, if you will hear me now: 
 I may not own a sounding Lyre 
 
 And wear my name upon my brow 
 Like some great jewel full of fire. 
 
 But let me, singing, sit apart, 
 
 In tender quiet with a few, 
 And keep my fame upon my heart, 
 
 A little blush-rose wet with dew. 
 127 
 
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