THISTLE-DOWN is a woman's love,—
Thistle-down with the wind at play.
Let him who wills this truth to prove,
“Thistle-down is a woman's love,”
Seek her innermost heart to move
Though the wind should blow her vows his way,
Thistle-down is a woman's love,—
Thistle-down with the wind at play.

They say Despair has power to kill
With her bleak frown; but I say No:
If life did hang upon her will,
Then Hope had perish'd long ago:
Yet still the twain keep up their “barful strife,”
For Hope Love's leman is, Despair his wife.

As whispers for a moment rest
Upon the brink of sound,
Here fragrant breezes blossom-drest,
Half-visible are found.

Sterile sister though I be,
Twinborn to the barren Sea,
Yet of all things fruitful we
Wait the end; and presently,
Lo, they are not! then to me
(Children to the nurse's knee)
Come the billows fresh and free,
Breathing Immortality.

Still surmounting as I came
Wind and water, frost and flame,
Night and day, the livelong year,
From the burial-place of seed,
From the earth's maternal bosom,
Through the root, and stem, and blossom,
To supply thy present need,
Have I journeyed here.

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.

“And he arose and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, ‘Peace, be still!’”

Be still, ye waves, for Christ doth deign to tread
On the rough bosom of your watery bed!
Be not too harsh your gracious Lord to greet,
But, in soft murmurs, kiss his holy feet;
'T is He alone can calm your rage at will,
This is His sacred mandate, “Peace, be still!”

I find thee such: so kind, so true to mee,
That I must owe both love, and life to thee
Nor was't thy love alone, but thy desert,
That made me in this place thy name insert,
For this I say; and speake but what I know;
Thy mind and body doe such rare gifts show,
As scarce are found else-where (which used well)
The times will hardly yeeld thy paralell.

If I were wishing you, dear friend,
The crown of all my golden wishes,
It should not be that Heaven would send
Expensive raiment, dainty dishes;
Nor would I wish you towers in Spain,
Nor pearls from Ceylon or from Siam,
But every year a jolly train
Of just such friends as I am.

Harper divine! with Love's elusive fingers
Touch the strings of this soft-breathing lyre
Till, vocal as the forest, choral as the sea,
They voice the everlasting song,
Fill all the air with ecstasy of wings,
And turn the harp to music.