Short Poems

Behold, from winter's sleeping side,
The sacramental power
Of Nature fashioneth a bride
As fair as Eden's flower.

I SAT with chill December
Beside the evening fire.
" And what do you remember, "
I ventured to inquire,
" Of seasons long forsaken? "
He answered in amaze,
" My age you have mistaken:
I've lived but thirty days . "

Thy love inspires the Story Teller's tongue.
To tales of hearts with disappointment wrung,
Thy love inspires; — fresh flows the copious stream,
And what's not true, let fruitful fancy dream.

How full of phantoms are the days
That shorten as they go!
Along the once frequented ways,
Alas, are none I know!
Lone relic of reality,
I too a phantom fain would be.

The cloud unto its parent stream
That rushes to the sea
Reveals a far-reflected dream
Of heaven's tranquillity;
And unto faith's adoring sight
A mystery appears, —
A cloud transfigured of the light
In every tide of tears.

Ye heavens so cold and clear
Above me weeping here,
Where every blossom sheds a tear
My grief to see;
No wonder, free from stain,
Untroubled ye remain;
The vapors gendering the rain
Are all with me!

With faith unshadowed by the night,
Undazzled by the day,
With hope that plumed thee for the flight,
And courage to assay,
God sent thee from the crowded ark,
Christ-bearer, like the dove,
To find, o'er sundering waters dark,
New lands for conquering Love.

Lo, where he sinks from sight,
The day forgets her light;
Nor breathes a wave
To break the silence sweet,
Where sky and ocean meet
Above his grave.

As yonder circling heavens define
The limits of the sea,
And Death on Time's horizon-line
Shuts out Eternity;
So, while in banishment apart
Our widowed lives appear,
Still holds each love-encompassed heart
The centre of the sphere.

Not his alone the gift divine
Who understands how, line by line,
To re-create the dream with all
Its wonder-world ethereal:
Something of that same gift has he
Who, reading, through the lines can see
The dream itself, — the secret thing
That stirred the poet's heart to sing.