Short Poems

Wind-wafted from the sunset, o'er the swell
Of Summer's slumbrous sea, herself asleep,
Came shoreward, in her iridescent shell
Cradled, the isle's enchantress. You who keep
A drowsy watch beside her — watch her well!

Then, what do you say to the poem of Mizpah?
An out-and-out masterpiece — that's what it is, Pa!

Yellow and pale as ripened corn
Which Autumn's kiss frees, — grain from sheath, —
Such was her hair, while her eyes beneath
Showed Spring's faint violets freshly born.

I dined at Natorp's yester-eve:
And was it not a stab,
When he said " She can't come. Don't grieve!
She dines with Mrs Gab."

Her advent was not hailed with shouts,
Nor banners, garlands, cymbals, drums;
The trees breathed gently sighs of love,
And whispered softly, " Hush! she comes."

All we can dream of loveliness within,
All ever hoped for by a will intense, —
This shall one day be palpable to sense
And earth become to heaven akin.

An Angel from his Paradise drove Adam
From mine, a Devil drives me: thank you, Madam!

. . . A Heavy Sermon! — Sure the error's great —
For not a word Tom uttered had its weight .

Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes,
And sweet is the voice in its greeting,
When adieus have grown old and goodbyes
Fade away where old Time is retreating.
Warm the nerve of a welcoming hand,
And earnest a kiss on the brow,
When we meet over sea and o'er land
Where furrows are new to the plough.

Now to her lap the incestuous earth
The son she bore has ta'en.
And other sons she brings to birth
But not my friend again.