There 's seven seas that 's charted, but there 's one that will not be,
(O, what 's the use of knowin' things, unless you know 'em all?)
There 's eighty billion stars, accordin' to As-tron-o-mee —
But what 's the use of namin' 'em — if there is more to fall?
With my hand upon the lever,
And my eyes upon the gauge,
I gotter drive this 'plane all night
To reach the landin' stage.

The air is boilin' ugly, though th' engine 's running strong;
But the boss won't know what 's happened, if anything goes wrong!

Our separate winding ways we trod,
Along the highways, unto God,
Unbonded by the clasp of hand,
Without a vow — we understand,
Estranged for aye, the fusing kiss,
Omnipotent, we bide in this —
They need no trammeling of bars
Whose souls were welded with the stars.

Can I be calm, beholding everywhere
 Disease and Anguish busy, early and late?
 Can I be silent, nor compassionate
The evils that both Soul and Body bear?
Oh, what have sickly Children done, to share
 Thy cup of sorrows? yet their dull, sad pain
Makes the earth awful;—on the tomb's dark stair
 Moan Idiots, with no glimmer in the brain.
No shrill Priest with his hangman's cord can beat
 Thy mercy into these—ah nay, ah nay!
The Angels Thou hast sent to haunt the street
 Are Hunger and Distortion and Decay.

The phantom happiness I sought
O'er every crag and moor;
I paused at every postern gate,
And knocked at every door;

In vain I searched the land and sea,
E'en to the inmost core,
The curtains of eternal night
Descend—my search is o'er.

They drank the bitter, salt wine of the sea,
They breathed up drowning bubbles from below
While we sat in the storm's red after-glow
Discussing Art and Love — and sipping tea.
I was a poet, he, an artist; she,
A famous actress ... lightly to and fro
We shuttled epigrams as salesmen show
Rich silks that change in colors momently.

And while the fishers clung to planks and spars
And rode the huge backs of the waves, we sat
Beneath a young night full of summer stars:
And we discussed of life this way and that

The Christ Day dawns — that clear, white day of days
When Love unfolds within the soul those flowers
That set the heart to singing songs of praise
For happy moments and for useful hours —
This is the day we cross the threshold where
Love, and the joy of childhood fill the air!

If I have wrung with pain no woman's heart;
Have caused no little one to shrink. If men
Doubt not my earnest will to do my part
And bear my burdens with some courage — then
Let me draw near! ...
I 've won my right to share the Christmas cheer!

Drifting, drifting here with the tide
While the seams that the sea-weeds caulk gape wide
Like a star with eternity for its bride
I accept the measureless sea —
While trampling oceans break in foam
Comb over phosphorescent comb
Over and over me.

Driven, driven at the wind's will
Through dawns and midnights far and still
While the sun, as huge as the top of a hill,
Heaves from, sinks in, the Main, —
To the north, to the south, to the east, to the west
I plunge and plunge my blackened breast
And turn and turn again.

And whither, O ye Vapours! do ye wend?
Stirred by that weary breathing, whither away?
And whiter, O ye Dreams! that night and day
Drift o'er the troublous life, tremble, and blend
To broken lineaments of that far Friend,
Whose strange breath's come and go ye must obey?
O sleepless Soul! in the world's waste astray,
Whither? and will thy wanderings ever end?
All things that be are full of a quick pain;
Onward we fleet, swift as the running rill, —
The vapours drift, the mists within the brain
Float on obscuringly and have no will.

I think this is the very stillest place
On all God's earth, and yet no rest is here.
The Vapours mirror'd in the black loch's face
Drift on like frantic shapes and disappear;
A never-ceasing murmur in mine ear
Tells me of Waters wild that flow and flow.
There is no rest at all afar or near,
Only a sense of things that moan and go.
And lo! the still small life these limbs contain
I feel flows on like those, restless and proud;
Before that breathing nought within my brain
Pauses, but all drifts on like mist and cloud;

It is n't the robins' coming
That makes the spring seem near,
It is n't the brown bees' humming
The soft air, sweet and clear,
It is n't the violets' blooming,
The buds on the dogwood tree,
It 's just my love in the garden
Singing a song for me!

It is n't the roar and rattle
Of strife that does not cease;
It is n't the daily battle
That will not give me peace.
It is n't the fame or fortune
That urges me endlessly,
It 's just my love in the garden
Singing a song for me!

When I have finished the task, dear,