How many Words wrong are unthinkingly spoke?
Sometimes in Anger, and sometimes in Joke.
For e'ery Word idle on Earth we do say,
Account must be giv'n in the Judgment Day.

So many unthinking take God's Name in vain;
He'll not hold him Guiltless,—that Scripture is plain:
At Broomfield I dwelt, rode to Chelmsford one Day:
Put my Horse in an Inn, then walk'd a short way.

Returning, the Ostler in Stable did Swear;
I ask'd if my Horse had offended him there:
Or if he thought Horses could ever damn'd be?
He answer'd, No, swearing's a custom to me.

Christ to the young man said “Yet one thing more
If thou woudst perfect be”
Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor
And come and follow me

Within this temple Christ again unseen
These sacred words hath said
And his invisible hands again have been
Laid on a young man's head

And ever more beside him on his way
The unseen Christ shall move
That he may lean upon his breast and say
Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be
To make the scene more fair
Beside him in the dark Gethsemane

Joined each to each for better or for worse,
How have their fifty years of wedlock fled;
Time's shadows turned to silver on each head
That now we crown with laurel-wreath of verse!
Not for good deeds that loud tongues might rehearse
And trumpet east and west for men's acclaim—
Those deeds of love too numberless to name
That all these years in silentness immerse;
Nay, not for anything possessed or done
We crown them with the honor doubly due,
But in our grateful joy, because the Hand.
Which wrought the mystery of twain made one,

I hear a thousand thousand tremors
Of clear water
Falling lacily in the sun.
I hear one, two—seven shivers
Of deep bells
Ringing under the sea.
I hear a chiming of soldiers in bright armor
Riding up a hill—
Oh, far away, far away!
I hear sweet words, silver words,
Musically clashing down
From the tune-locked lips of lovers
Up in Heaven.
I hear . . . . .
Is it you, brown bird?

I KNEEL not now to pray that thou
—Make white one single sin,—
I only kneel to thank thee, Lord,
—For what I have not been;

For deeds which sprouted in my heart
—But ne'er to bloom were brought,
For monstrous vices which I slew
—In the shambles of my thought—

Dark seeds the world has never guessed
—By hell and passion bred,
Which never grew beyond the bud
—That cankered in my head.

Some said I was a righteous man—
—Poor fools! The gallow's tree
(If thou hadst let one foot to slip)
—Had grown a limb for me.

The setting sun upon the oak tree tops doth lean,
Come let us all go forth to meet the Sabbath queen,
For, lo, she cometh down in holiness and blest,
And with her are angels—
A host of peace and rest.
Welcome, O queen
Welcome, O queen
Peace be upn you, O angels of peace.


We have welcomed Sabbath with joyous song and prayer,
Now let us homeward turn, our hearts no gladness spare,
For there is laid the table, the candles are alight,
The house is shining—
And every corner bright.
Blest Sabbath of peace
Blest Sabbath of peace

Why should we reck of hours that rend
While we two ride together?
The heavens rent from end to end
Would be but windy weather,
The strong stars shaken down in spate
Would be a shower of spring,
And we should list the trump of fate
And hear a linnet sing.

We break the line with stroke and luck,
The arrows run like rain,
If you be struck, or I be struck,
There's one to strike again.
If you befriend, or I befriend,
The strength is in us twain,
And good things end and bad things end,
And you and I remain.

A star forlorn has risen from thick darkness—
Illumine, star of mine, my mourning road!

'Tis not the straits of Sheol that torment me,
But life that wearies me—my days a load.

Loyal to the poor-house, at tramping an old hand,
Schooled to the yoke, to walk in need of bread;

My father—bitter exile, my mother—want,
'Tis not my staff or the shameful scrip I dread!

More cruel than these, more bitter sevenfold
Is life without hope or brightness for the eyes;

To sink as lead, drop deep within dark places,

I am arraigned in listening to feet:

You who have listened long have heard us not,
Calling us fugitive names like rain, like sleet,
Saying that we are leaves the wind forgot.

Do you not remember?
Give us our due.
But for the thunder breaking from our tread
The silence would be softly deafening you,
And you be threading a needle with a thread.

Do you not remember?
Admit that we
Have quieted your fingers, flung a light
Across your mind by day and soothingly
Have wandered through your heart when there was night.

My song that was a sword is still.
Like a scabbard I have made
A covering with my will
To sheathe its blade.

It had a flashing tongue of steel
That made old shadows start;
It would not let the darkness heal
About my heart.