Out through the utmost gates of space, Past where the gray stars drift, To the widening Infinite, my soul Glides on, a vessel swift; Yet loses not her anchorage In yonder azure rift. Here sit I, as a little child: The threshold of God's door Is that clear band of chrysoprase; Now the vast temple floor, The blinding glory of the dome I bow my head before. The universe, O God, is home, In height or depth, to me; Yet here upon thy footstool green Content am I to be; Glad, when is opened to my need Some sea-like glimpse of thee. Only the anointed eye Sees in common things, Gleams dropped daily from the sky; Heavenly blossomings. To the hearts where light has birth Nothing can be drear; Washed from celestial basement walls Budding through the bloom of earth, Sapphire and amethyst, By suns unsetting kissed. Heaven is always near. GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. TO MY SON. Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, How in the soft June days forever done You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high; And when I lifted you, soft came your cry "Put me 'way up-'way up in the blue sky ?" I laughed and said I could not; set you down, Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by. Another Father now, more strong than I, Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky. NEW WORLDS. One ripple streaks the little lake, Sharp purple-blue; the birches, thin WITH my beloved I lingered late one And silvery, crowd the edge, yet night. Changed did I find her, truly, the next day: Ne'er could I see her as of old again, break To let a straying sunbeam in. How came we through the yielding wood, That day, to this sweet-rustling shore ? Oh, there together while we stood, In sleepy light; and even now His glimmering beauty doth return Upon me when the soft winds blow, And lilies toward the sunlight yearn. The yielding wood? And yet 'twas loth To yield unto our happy march; That strange mood seemed to draw a Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both cloud away, Could pass its green, elastic arch. We fly-still sways and swings around One scanty circle's starry bound. O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! Ah, many a month those stars have shone, And many a golden morn has flown, If but the wind holds, short the run: A FACE IN THE STREET. POOR, withered face, that yet was once so fair, Grown ashen-old in the wild fires of lust Thy star-like beauty, dimmed with earthly dust, Yet breathing of a purer native air; And, though so near we're drawing They who, whilom, cursed vultures, now, 'Tis farther off - I know not how 'Tis but a seeming; swiftly rush Patience, my mates! Though not this eve, We cast our anchor, yet believe, sought a share Pipe the glad birds that in the for- Life's grace and promise win the soul Hope floods the heart like sunshine after rain. The wood is past, and tranquil meadows wide, Bathed in bright vapor, stretch on every side. A MARCH VIOLET. BLACK boughs against a pale clear sky, [From Scenes in the Wood. Suggested by Slight mists of cloud-wreaths floating Robert Schumann.] NIGHT. WHITE stars begin to prick the wan blue sky, The trees arise, thick, black and Their slim, dark boles, gray, film- seen. The footpaths dumb with moss have lost their green. by: Soft sunlight, gray-blue smoky air, Quick seedlings stir, rich juices flow Mysterious shadows settle every-On where, A passionate murmur trembles in the With tints of purple and pale rose. Sweet scents wax richer, freshened To kiss the cool brow. Let us rest with cool dews, The whole vast forest seems to breathe, to sigh With rustle, hum and whisper that confuse The listening ear, blent with the fitful cry Of some belated bird. In the far sky, Throbbing with stars, there stirs a weird unrest, Strange joy, akin to pain, fulfils the breast A longing born of fears and promises, A wild desire, a hope that heeds no bound. A ray of moonlight struggling through the trees Startles us like a phantom; on the ground Fall curious shades; white glory spreads around; blest With broad noon sunshine over all, Though here June's leafiest shadows fall. Young grass sprouts here. Look up! Is veiled by woven greenery. Here, when November stripped the I came to wrestle with a grief: I wondered why the Preacher saith, |