And she sits and gazes at me Uttered not, yet comprehended, O, though oft depress'd and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, "Shall I have nought that is fair," saith he ; "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet tome, I will give them all back again. He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where He was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear. And the mother gave, in tears and pain, Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, 'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away. THE LIGHT OF STARS THE night is come, but not too soon; All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? And earnest thoughts within me rise, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand, Within my breast there is no light, The star of the unconquered will, And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, Oh, fear not in a world like this, FLOWERS SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Bright and glorious is that revelation, In these stars of earth,-those golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, Not alone in meadows and green alleys, Not alone in her vast dome of glory, In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with childlike, credulous affection We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land. THE BELEAGUERED CITY I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, |