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SIGHS.

YIELD NOT, THOU SAD ONE, TO But the breeze, ere it ruffled the deep, Pervading the odorous bowers, Awaken'd the flowers from their sleep,

On! yield not, thou sad one, to sighs.

Nor murmur at Destiny's will. Behold, for each pleasure that flies, Another replacing it still. Time's wing, were it all of onefeather, Far slower would be in its flight: The storm gives a charm to fine weather,

And day would seem dark without night.

And wafted their sweets to be ours. Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs.

Oh,

blame not the change nor the flight

Of our joys as they're passing away, 'Tis the swiftness and change give delight[stay. They would pall if permitted to

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Then yield not, thou sad one, to More gaily they glitter in flying,

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He sings to the wide world, and she Who knows whither the clouds have

to her nest,

In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away

Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,

We are happy now because God wills it;

No matter how barren the past may have been,

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing ing; That skies are clear and grass is growThe breeze comes whispering in our

ear,

That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that

streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back,

For other couriers we should not lack; We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,

And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;

Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be

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fled ?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake;

And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache.

AFTER THE BURIAL.

YES, faith is a goodly anchor; When skies are sweet as a psalm, At the bows it lolls so stalwart, In bluff, broad-shouldered calm.

And when over breakers to leeward
The tattered surges are hurled.
It may keep our head to the tempest,
With its grip on the base of the
world.

But, after the shipwreck, tell me
What help in its iron thews,
Still true to the broken hawser,
Deep down among sea-weed and
ooze?

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow,
When the helpless feet stretch out
And find in the deeps of darkness
No footing so solid as doubt,

Then better one spar of memory,
One broken plank of the past,
That our human heart may cling to,
Though hopeless of shore at last!

To the spirit its splendid conjectures,
To the flesh its sweet despair,
Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket
With its anguish of deathless hair!

Immortal? I feel it and know it,
Who doubts it of such as she?
But that is the pang's very secret;
Immortal away from me!

There's a narrow ridge in the graveyard

Would scarce stay a child in his race,

But to me and my thought, it is wider Than the star-sown vague of space.

Your logic, my friend, is perfect,
Your morals most drearily true;
But, since the earth clashed on her
coffin,

I keep hearing that, and not you.

Console if you will, I can bear it;
'Tis a well-meant alms of breath;
But not all the preaching since Adam
Has made death other than death.

It is pagan; but wait till you feel it;
That jar of our earth, that dull shock
When the ploughshare of deeper pas-
sion

Tears down to our primitive rock.

Communion in spirit! Forgive me! But I, who am earthy and weak, Would give all my incomes from dreamland

For a touch of her hand on my cheek.

That little shoe in the corner,
So worn and wrinkled and brown,
With its emptiness confutes you,
And argues your wisdom down.

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Was as a rhymer ere the poet come: But now, O rapture! sunshine-winged and voiced,

Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of the West, Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud,

Gladness of woods, skies, waters all in one,

The bobolink has come, and, like the soul

Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what, Save June! Dear June! Now God be praised for June.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN.

THE little gate was reached at last,

Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast,

And said,-"Auf wiedersehen!"

With hand on latch, a vision white
Lingered reluctant, and again
Half doubting if she did aright,
Soft as the dews that fell that night,
She said, "Auf wiedersehen !"

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair;

I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare,

Thinks she,-"Auf wiedersehen!"

'Tis thirteen years; once more I

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