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EASTER LILIES

 
  Darlings of June and brides of summer sun,
    Chill pipes the stormy wind, the skies are drear;
  Dull and despoiled the gardens every one:
      What do you here?
 
 
  We looked to see your gracious blooms arise
    Mid soft and wooing airs in gardens green,
  Where venturesome brown bees and butterflies
      Should hail you queen.
 
 
  Here is no bee nor glancing butterfly;
    They fled on rapid wings before the snow:
  Your sister lilies laid them down to die,
      Long, long ago.
 
 
  And here, amid the slowly dropping rain,
    We keep our Easter feast, with hearts whose care
  Mars the high cadence of each lofty strain,
      Each thankful prayer.
 
 
  But not a shadow dims your joyance sweet,
    No baffled hope or memory darkly clad;
  You lay your whiteness at the Lord's dear feet,
      And are all glad.
 
 
  O coward soul! arouse thee and draw near,
    Led by these fragrant acolytes to-day!
  Let their sweet confidence rebuke thy fear,
      Thy cold delay.
 
 
  Come with thy darkness to the healing light,
    Come with thy bitter, which shall be made sweet,
  And lay thy soil beside the lilies white,
      At His dear feet!
 

EBB-TIDE

 
  Long reaches of wet grasses sway
  Where ran the sea but yesterday,
  And white-winged boats at sunset drew
  To anchor in the crimsoning blue.
  The boats lie on the grassy plain,
  Nor tug nor fret at anchor chain;
  Their errand done, their impulse spent,
  Chained by an alien element,
  With sails unset they idly lie,
  Though morning beckons brave and nigh;
  Like wounded birds, their flight denied,
  They lie, and long and wait the tide.
 
 
  About their keels, within the net
  Of tough grass fibres green and wet,
  A myriad thirsty creatures, pent
  In sorrowful imprisonment,
  Await the beat, distinct and sweet,
  Of the white waves' returning feet.
  My soul their vigil joins, and shares
  A nobler discontent than theirs;
  Athirst like them, I patiently
  Sit listening beside the sea,
  And still the waters outward glide:
  When is the turning of the tide?
 
 
  Come, pulse of God; come, heavenly thrill!
  We wait thy coming,—and we will.
  The world is vast, and very far
  Its utmost verge and boundaries are;
  But thou hast kept thy word to-day
  In India and in dim Cathay,
  And the same mighty care shall reach
  Each humblest rock-pool of this beach.
  The gasping fish, the stranded keel,
  This dull dry soul of mine, shall feel
  Thy freshening touch, and, satisfied,
  Shall drink the fulness of the tide.
 

FLOOD-TIDE

 
  All night the thirsty beach has listening lain,
     With patience dumb,
  Counting the slow, sad moments of her pain;
     Now morn has come,
  And with the morn the punctual tide again.
 
 
  I hear the white battalions down the bay
     Charge with a cheer;
  The sun's gold lances prick them on their way,—
     They plunge, they rear,—
  Foam-plumed and snowy-pennoned, they are here!
 
 
  The roused shore, her bright hair backward blown,
     Stands on the verge
  And waves a smiling welcome, beckoning on
     The flying surge,
  While round her feet, like doves, the billows crowd and urge.
 
 
  Her glad lips quaff the salt, familiar wine;
     Her spent urns fill;
  All hungering creatures know the sound, the sign,—
     Quiver and thrill,
  With glad expectance crowd and banquet at their will.
 
 
  I, too, the rapt contentment join and share;
     My tide is full;
  There is new happiness in earth, in air:
     All beautiful
  And fresh the world but now so bare and dull.
 
 
  But while we raise the cup of bliss so high,
     Thus satisfied,
  Another shore beneath a sad, far sky
     Waiteth her tide,
  And thirsts with sad complainings still denied.
 
 
  On earth's remotest bound she sits and waits
     In doubt and pain;
  Our joy is signal for her sad estates;
     Like dull refrain
  Marring our song, her sighings rise in vain.
 
 
  To each his turn—the ebb-tide and the flood,
     The less, the more—
  God metes his portions justly out, I know;
     But still before
  My mind forever floats that pale and grieving shore.
 

A YEAR

 
  She has been just a year in Heaven.
  Unmarked by white moon or gold sun,
  By stroke of clock or clang of bell,
  Or shadow lengthening on the way,
  In the full noon and perfect day,
  In Safety's very citadel,
  The happy hours have sped, have run;
  And, rapt in peace, all pain forgot,
  She whom we love, her white soul shriven,
  Smiles at the thought and wonders not.
 
 
  We have been just a year alone,—
  A year whose calendar is sighs,
  And dull, perpetual wishfulness,
  And smiles, each covert for a tear,
  And wandering thoughts, half there, half here,
  And weariful attempts to guess
  The secret of the hiding skies,
  The soft, inexorable blue,
  With gleaming hints of glory sown,
  And Heaven behind, just shining through.
 
 
  So sweet, so sad, so swift, so slow,
  So full of eager growth and light,
  So full of pain which blindly grows,
  So full of thoughts which either way
  Have passed and crossed and touched each day,
  To us a thorn, to her a rose;
  The year so black, the year so white,
  Like rivers twain their course have run;
  The earthly stream we trace and know,
  But who shall paint the heavenly one?
 
 
  A year! We gather up our powers,
  Our lamps we consecrate and trim;
  Open all windows to the day,
  And welcome every heavenly air.
  We will press forward and will bear,
  Having this word to cheer the way:
  She, storm-tossed once, is safe with Him,
  Healed, comforted, content, forgiven;
  And while we count these heavy hours
  Has been a year,—a year in Heaven.
 

TOKENS

 
  Each day upon the yellow Nile, 'tis said.
  Joseph, the youthful ruler, cast forth wheat,
  That haply, floating to his father's feet,—
  The sad old father, who believed him dead,—
  It might be sign in Egypt there was bread;
  And thus the patriarch, past the desert sands
  And scant oasis fringed with thirsty green,
  Be lured toward the love that yearned unseen.
  So, flung and scattered—ah! by what dear hands?—
  On the swift-rushing and invisible tide,
  Small tokens drift adown from far, fair lands,
  And say to us, who in the desert bide,
  "Are you athirst? Are there no sheaves to bind?
  Beloved, here is fulness; follow on and find."
 

HER GOING

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE

 
  She stood in the open door,
    She blessed them faint and low:
    "I must go," she said, "must go
      Away from the light of the sun,
      Away from you, every one;
  Must see your eyes no more,—
    Your eyes, that love me so.
 
 
  "I should not shudder thus,
    Nor weep, nor be afraid.
    Nor cling to you so dismayed,
      Could I only pierce with ray eyes
      Where the dark, dark shadow lies;
  Where something hideous
    Is hiding, perhaps," she said.
 
 
  Then slowly she went from them,
    Went down the staircase grim,
    With trembling heart and limb;
      Her footfalls echoed
      In the silence vast and dead,
  Like the notes of a requiem,
    Not sung, but uttered.
 
 
  For a little way and a black
    She groped as grope the blind,
    Then a sudden radiance shined,
      And a vision her eyelids burned;
      All joyfully she turned,
  For a moment turned she back,
    And smiled at those behind.
 
 
  There in the shadows drear
    An angel sat serene,
    Of grave and tender mien,
      With whitest roses crowned;
      A scythe lay on the ground,
  As reaping-time were near,—
    A burnished scythe and a keen.
 
 
  She did not start or pale
    As the angel rose and laid
    His hand on hers, nor said
      A word, hut beckoned on;
      For a glorious meaning shone
  On the lips that told no tale,
    And she followed him, unafraid.
 
 
  Her friends wept for a space;
    Then one said: "Be content;
    Surely some good is meant
      For her, our Beautiful,—
      Some glorious good and full.
  Did you not see her face,
    Her dear smile, as she went?"
 

A LONELY MOMENT

 
       I sit alone in the gray,
         The snow falls thick and fast,
       And never a sound have I heard all day
         But the wailing of the blast,
  And the hiss and click of the snow, whirling to and fro.
 
 
       There seems no living thing
         Left in the world but I;
       My thoughts fly forth on restless wing,
         And drift back wearily,
  Storm-beaten, buffeted, hopeless, and almost dead.
 
 
       No one there is to care;
         Not one to even know
       Of the lonely day and the dull despair
         As the hours ebb and flow,
  Slow lingering, as fain to lengthen out my pain.
 
 
       And I think of the monks of old,
         Each in his separate cell,
       Hearing no sound, except when tolled
         The stated convent bell.
  How could they live and bear that silence everywhere?
 
 
       And I think of tumbling seas,
         'Neath cruel, lonely skies;
       And shipwrecked sailors over these
         Stretching their hungry eyes,—
  Eyes dimmed with wasting tears for weary years on years,—
 
 
       Pacing the hopeless sand,
         Wistful and wan and pale,
       Each foam-flash like a beckoning hand,
         Each wave a glancing sail,
  And so for days and days, and still the sail delays.
 
 
       I hide my eyes in vain,
         In vain I try to smile;
       That urging vision comes again,
         The sailor on his isle,
  With none to hear his cry, to help him live—or die!
 
 
       And with the pang a thought
         Breaks o'er me like the sun,
       Of the great listening Love which caught
         Those accents every one,
  Nor lost one faintest word, but always, always heard.
 
 
       The monk his vigil pale
         Could lighten with a smile,
       The sailor's courage need not fail
         Upon his lonely isle;
  For there, as here, by sea or land, the pitying Lord stood
            close at hand.
 
 
       O coward heart of mine!
         When storms shall beat again,
       Hold firmly to this thought divine,
         As anchorage in pain:
  That, lonely though thou seemest to be, the Lord is near,
            remembering thee.
 

COMMUNION

 
        What is it to commune?
  It is when soul meets soul, and they embrace
  As souls may, stooping from each separate sphere
        For a brief moment's space.
 
 
        What is it to commune?
  It is to lay the veil of custom by,
  To be all unafraid of truth to talk,
        Face to face, eye to eye.
 
 
        Not face to face, dear Lord;
  That is the joy of brighter worlds to be;
  And yet, Thy bidden guests about Thy board,
        We do commune with Thee.
 
 
        Behind the white-robed priest
  Our eyes, anointed with a sudden grace,
  Dare to conjecture of a mighty guest,
        A dim beloved Face.
 
 
        And is it Thou, indeed?
  And dost Thou lay Thy glory all away
  To visit us, and with Thy grace to feed
        Our hungering hearts to-day?
 
 
        And can a thing so sweet,
  And can such heavenly condescension be?
  Ah! wherefore tarry thus our lingering feet?
        It can be none but Thee.
 
 
        There is the gracious ear
  That never yet was deaf to sinner's call;
  We will not linger, and we dare not fear,
        But kneel,—and tell Thee all.
 
 
        We tell Thee of our sin
  Only half loathed, only half wished away,
  And those clear eyes of Love that look within
        Rebuke us, seem to say,—
 
 
        "O, bought with my own blood,
  Mine own, for whom my precious life I gave,
  Am I so little prized, remembered, loved,
        By those I died to save?"
 
 
        And under that deep gaze
  Sorrow awakes; we kneel with eyelids wet,
  And marvel, as with Peter at the gate,
        That we could so forget,
 
 
        We tell Thee of our care,
  Of the sore burden, pressing day by day,
  And in the light and pity of Thy face
        The burden melts away.
 
 
        We breathe our secret wish,
  The importunate longing which no man may see;
  We ask it humbly, or, more restful still,
        We leave it all to Thee.
 
 
        And last our amulet
  Of precious names we thread, and soft and low
  We crave for each beloved, or near or far,
        A blessing ere we go.
 
 
        The thorns are turned to flowers,
  All dark perplexities seem light and fair,
  A mist is lifted from the heavy hours,
        And Thou art everywhere.
 

A FAREWELL

 
        Go, sun, since go you must,
  The dusky evening lowers above our sky,
    Our sky which was so blue and sweetly fair;
  Night is not terrible that we should sigh.
    A little darkness we can surely bear;
  Will there not be more sunshine—by and by?
 
 
        Go, rose, since go you must,
  Flowerless and chill the winter draweth nigh;
    Closed are the blithe and fragrant lips which made
  All summer long perpetual melody.
    Cheerless we take our way, but not afraid:
  Will there not be more roses—by and by?
 
 
        Go, love, since go you must,
  Out of our pain we bless you as you fly;
    The momentary heaven the rainbow lit
  Was worth whole days of black and stormy sky;
    Shall we not see, as by the waves we sit,
  Your bright sail winging shoreward—by and by?
 
 
        Go, life, since go you must,
  Uncertain guest and whimsical ally!
    All questionless you came, unquestioned go;
  What does it mean to live, or what to die?
    Smiling we watch you vanish, for we know
  Somewhere is nobler living—by and by.
 

EBB AND FLOW

 
  How easily He turns the tides!
    Just now the yellow beach was dry,
  Just now the gaunt rocks all were bare,
    The sun beat hot, and thirstily
  Each sea-weed waved its long brown hair,
    And bent and languished as in pain;
  Then, in a flashing moment's space,
    The white foam-feet which spurned the sand
  Paused in their joyous outward race,
    Wheeled, wavered, turned them to the land,
  And, a swift legionary band,
    Poured oil the waiting shores again.
 
 
  How easily He turns the tides!
    The fulness of my yesterday
  Has vanished like a rapid dream,
    And pitiless and far away
  The cool, refreshing waters gleam:
    Grim rocks of dread and doubt and pain
 
 
  Rear their dark fronts where once was sea;
    But I can smile and wait for Him
  Who turns the tides so easily,
    Fills the spent rock-pool to its brim,
  And up from the horizon dim
    Leads His bright morning waves again.
 

ANGELUS

 
  Softly drops the crimson sun:
    Softly down from overhead,
  Drop the bell-notes, one by one,
    Melting in the melting red;
  Sign to angel bands unsleeping,—
    "Day is done, the dark is dread,
  Take the world in care and keeping.
 
 
  "Set the white-robed sentries close,
    Wrap our want and weariness
  In the surety of repose;
    Let the shining presences,
  Bearing fragrance on their wings,
    Stand about our beds to bless,
  Fright away all evil things.
 
 
  "Rays of Him whose shadow pours
    Through all lives a brimming glory,
  Float o'er darksome woods and moors,
    Float above the billows hoary;
  Shine, through night and storm and sin,
    Tangled fate and bitter story,
  Guide the lost and wandering in!"
 
 
  Now the last red ray is gone;
    Now the twilight shadows hie;
  Still the bell-notes, one by one,
    Send their soft voice to the sky,
  Praying, as with human lip,—
    "Angels, hasten, night is nigh,
  Take us to thy guardianship."