Sapphire and amethyst, 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. [From Hints.] HEAVEN NEAR THE VIRTUOUS. THEY Whose hearts are whole and strong, Loving holiness, Living clean from soil of wrong, Heaven to them is close in sight 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, By suns unsetting kissed. Heaven is always near. '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 And let her beauty pour through every vein Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus With each new morn a new world THE LILY-POND. SOME fairy spirit with his wand, Of bright hair gladdening me as you For here the musing soul is merged raced by. Another Father now, more strong than I, Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky. Each should appear to each in morning light? Changed did I find her, truly, the next day: Ne'er could I see her as of old again, In moods no other scene can bring, And sweeter seems the air when scourged With wandering wild-bees' murmuring. 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. Ah, many a month those stars have shone, If but the wind holds, short the run: A FACE IN THE STREET. And many a golden morn has flown,POOR, withered face, that yet was Since that so solemn happy morn, O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! once so fair, Grown ashen-old in the wild fires 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, "T is 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 Of thy dead womanhood, their Pipe the glad birds that in the forest dwell; Where hearths are set curled wreaths of vapor tell; Life's grace and promise win the soul again; Hope floods the heart like sunshine after rain. [From Scenes in the Wood. Robert Schumann.] NIGHT. 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, Suggested by Slight mists of cloud-wreaths floating by: Soft sunlight, gray-blue smoky air, Quick seedlings stir, rich juices flow With tints of purple and pale rose. Breathing of spring, the delicate air Lifts playfully the loosend hair Sweet scents wax richer, freshened To kiss the cool brow. Let us rest In this bright, sheltered nook, now blest With broad noon sunshine over all, Is veiled by woven greenery. Here, when November stripped the trees. I came to wrestle with a grief: I wondered why the Preacher saith, "Like as the grass that withereth." |