Happy is he who sees thee smile,
Still happier he who hears thee speak,
He half a God who dares awhile
Breathing fond vows to flush thy cheek.

Thy hand to press—thy lip to touch—
O thou hast n'er such fovors given—
'Twere bliss too much for man too much
For all except a saint of Heaven!

To clasp thy form and hear thee sigh—
To feel and call thee all his own
Ah! that were happiness too high
For any but a God alone!

Without I hear the beating of the rain,
The howling winds that tell the storm's increase;
O covert sure that he who seeks may gain!—
Within abideth peace!

Without I hear the sound of feet that halt,
And grope and stumble in the blinding light;
O blessed faith that serveth in default
Of what men call the light!

O rest, O wayside inn, where home is not
For the poor pilgrim to that city fair
Where strife shall cease and doubtings be forgot!
The Lamb, the Light is there!

Preserve that old kettle, so blackened and worn;
It belonged to my father before I was born;
It hung in a corner beyant on a nail—
'Twas the emblem of labor, my dad's dinner pail.

Chorus:

It glistened like silver, so sparkling and bright;
I am fond of the trifle that held his wee bite;
In summer or winter, in snow, rain or hail,
I've carried that kettle, my dad's dinner pail.
When the bell rang for mealtime my father'd come down—
He'd eat with the workmen about on the ground;
He'd share with the laborer and he'd go bail,

GOOD-MORNING to you, then.’
(O stricken heart of her!
Silence, silence, breathe for me
A little breath of myrrh.)

‘And so good-by again;
Good-by, if you must go.’
(Go after, little shade of me,
And tell her that I know.)

You called your mystic draught Canary sack—
I drank, and dreamed of far-off Southern Seas,
And heard the wraiths of vagrant melodies;
And Joys and Hopes from some dim shade came back.

What blithe feet walked upon a grass-grown track!
What glad winds gossiped under summer trees!
You called your mystic draught Canary sack—
I drank, and dreamed of far-off Southern Seas.

This wine, from strange grapes pressed, upon my track
Lets loose the band of Ancient Memories:
Now this sole cup my waywardness can please;
All other brews some fine distinction lack—

Long , long he stood and watched alone
Her lighted window-pane,
As though it were Love's face that shone
Upon his grief again.

A vagrant in the village street,
One with the rain and night,
Bird-like he felt his wild heart beat
And burn against the light.

Brightness of earth for the hollow of your throat
They brought to you,
And blossoms of death for you to throw away
And many things like links of chains,
To you whose wings are nakedness.

But I have given your nakedness the gift of mine,
And whosoever brings, from this day forth,
Obeisances
To the hollow of your bosom,
Shall find between those hills of sun,
Beloved,
My shadow. . . .

O tell me, friends, while yet we part
And heart can yet be heard of heart,
O tell me, friends, for what is it
Our early hopes so soon we quit,
So easily so far have ranged,
And why is it that all has changed?
O tell me, friends, while yet we part.

O tell me, friends, while yet ye hear,
May it not be some coming year,
These ancient paths that here divide
Shall yet again run side by side,
And you from there and I from here
All on a sudden reappear?
O tell me, friends, while yet ye hear.

O tell me, friends, ere words are o'er,

Ye say they all have passed away,
That noble race and brave;
That their light canoes have vanished
From off the crested wave;
That, mid the forests where they roamed,
There rings no hunters' shout;
But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.

'Tis where Ontario's billow
Like ocean's surge is curled,
Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,
Where red Missouri bringeth
Rich tribute from the west,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their conelike cabins,

I stay;
But it isn't as if
There wasn't always Hudson's Bay
And the fur trade,
A small skiff
And a paddle blade.

I can just see my tent pegged,
And me on the floor,
Cross-legged,
And a trapper looking in at the door
With furs to sell.

His name's Joe,
Alias John,
And between what he doesn't know
And won't tell
About where Henry Hudson's gone,
I can't say he's much help;
But we get on.

The seal yelp
On an ice cake.
It's not men by some mistake?

No,
There's not a soul
For a windbreak