Dear, you have come into my loving heart
In these last fateful days,
Nearer and dearer, and I have learned in part
Your tender, wistful ways.

Thy gentle, loving thoughts have come to me
As one, who waiting, stands
Expectant for some gift of poesy
With eager heart and hands.

And oh! my very dear one, I have given
To thee that inner stream
Of tender thoughts linked happily with heaven,
Love's vision and Love's dream.

Such peace, such joy a moment seems to stay

To W. A.

Was I a Samurai renowned,
Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow?
A histrion angular and profound?
A priest? a porter? — Child, although
I have forgotten clean, I know
That in the shade of Fujisan,
What time the cherry-orchards blow,
I loved you once in old Japan.

As here you loiter, flowing-gowned
And hugely sashed, with pins a-row
Your quaint head as with flamelets crowned,
Demure, inviting — even so,
When merry maids in Miyako
To feel the sweet o' the year began,

I dreamed my loue lay in her bedd:
itt was my Chance to take her:
her leggs & armes abroad were spredd;
shee slept; I durst not awake her.
O pitty itt were, tha t one soe faire
shold Crowne her loue w i th willowe;
the tresses of her golden haire
did kisse he[r] louely pillowe

Methought her belly was a hill
much like a mount of pleasure,
vnder whose height there growes a well;

Oh, take me into the still places of your heart,
And hide me under the night of your deep hair;
For the fear of love is upon me;
I am afraid lest God should discover the wonderfulness of our love.

Shall I find life but to lose it?
Shall I stretch out my hands at last to joy
And take but the irremediable anguish?
For the cost of heaven is the fear of hell;
The terrible cost of love
Is the fear to be cast out therefrom.

Oh, touch me! Oh, look upon me!
Look upon my spirit with your eyes
And touch me with the benediction of your hands!

When my hair is thin and gray,
When there's wrinkles on my brow;
When my eyes are dim, and when
Feeble is my step and slow,
This one question I would ask,
This one question, sweetheart, dear,
Will you love me then as now,
Love me truly and sincere.

I.

B Y the rush of the Rhine's broad stream,
Down whose rapid tide
We sailed as in some sweet dream
Sitting side by side;
By the depth of its clear blue wave
And the vine-clad hills,
Which gazed on its heart and gave
Their tribute rills;

By the mountains, in purple shade,
And those valleys green
Where our bower of rest was made,
By the world unseen;
By the notes of the wild free bird,
Singing over-head,
When nought else in the sunshine stirr'd
Round our flowery bed;

I love my native mountains,
The dear old Cumberland,
Rockribbed and everlasting,
How great they are, and grand!

I love each skyward reaching peak,
Each glassy glade and dale,
Each moss-and-fern-clad precipice
Each lovely flower decked vale.

I love each vine-hung rocky glen
I love each dark ravine
Though there may hide the catamount
And wild dog sly and mean.

I love my mountains' forests
Varied and beautiful
I love her springs and waterfalls,
So pure and wonderful.

I love her richly plumaged birds

I CANNOT love thee, tho' thy soul
Be one which all good thoughts control;
Altho' thy eyes be starry bright,
And the gleams of golden light
Fall upon thy silken hair,
And thy forehead, broad and fair;
Something of a cold disgust,
(Wonderful, and most unjust,)
Something of a sullen fear
Weighs my heart when thou art near;
And my soul, which cannot twine
Thought or sympathy with thine,
With a coward instinct tries
To hide from thy enamour'd eyes,
Wishing for a sudden blindness

There is no earthly friend nor kin,
No, there is no other
Whom we can confidence put in,
Like mother.
Others may love you for a day,
Soon their love will fade away;
But a mother's love will last for aye.

Others, too, may faithless prove,
Even your father and brother;
But she, yes, she will always love, —
Your mother.
Aye! her heart is all aflame
With holy love each day the same,
And pure as crystal drops of rain.

No, there is no earthly friend,
No, no, not another!
Who will love you to the end,

(to Helen)

Twenty years ago to-day,
In the fragrant month of roses,
A little baby girl came our way,
To prove the love that God discloses;
Precious gift! from head to feet,
And we called her " Honey-sweet. "

Now on this, her natal day,
In the lovely month of June,
With enduring love we say —
" That we find our hearts in tune
To the song of joy, replete