A Woman's Love Letters

Copyright, 1895 BY J. SELWIN TAIT & SONS New York

I stood far off above the haunts of men Somewhere, I know not, when the sky was dim From some worn glory, and the morning hymn Of the gay oriole echoed from the glen. Wandering, I felt earth's peace, nor knew I sought A visioned face, a voice the wind had caught.
I passed the waking things that stirred and gazed, Thought-bound, and heeded not; the waking flowers Drank in the morning mist, dawn's tender showers, And looked forth for the Day-god who had blazed His heart away and died at sundown. Far In the gray west faded a loitering star.
It seemed that I had wandered through long years, A life of years, still seeking gropingly A thing I dared not name; now I could see In the still dawn a hope, in the soft tears Of the deep-hearted violets a breath Of kinship, like the herald voice of Death.
Slow moved the morning; where the hill was bare Woke a reluctant breeze. Dimly I knew My Day was come. The wind-blown blossoms threw Their breath about me, and the pine-swept air Grew to a shape, a mighty, formless thing, A phantom of the wood's imagining.
And as I gazed, spell-bound, it seemed to move Its tendril limbs, still swaying tremulously As if in spirit-doubt; then glad and free Crystalled the being won from waiting grove Into a human likeness. There he stood, The vine-browed shape of Nature's mortal mood.
Now have I found thee, Vision I have sought These years, unknowing; surely thou art fair And inly wise, and on thy tasselled hair Glows Heaven's own light. Passion and fame are naught To thy clear eyes, O Prince of many lands,— Grant me thy joy, I cried, and stretched my hands.
No answer but the flourish of the breeze Through the black pines. Then, slowly, as the wind Parts the dense cloud-forms, leaving naught behind But shapeless vapor, through the budding trees Drifted some force unseen, and from my sight Faded my god into the morning light.
Again alone. With wistful, straining eyes I waited, and the sunshine flecked the bank Happy with arbutus and violets where I sank Hearing, near by, a host of melodies, The rapture of the woodthrush; soft her mood The love-mate, with such golden numbers woo'd.