'Twas too late! — a song never returns
That passes our pathway unheard;
As dust lying dreaming in urns
Is the song lying dead in a word.
For the birds of the skies have a nest,
And the winds have a home where they sleep,
And songs, like our souls, need a rest,
Where they murmur the while we may weep.
* * * * *
But songs — like the birds o'er the foam,
Where the storm wind is beating their breast,
Fly shoreward — and oft find a home
In the shelter of words where they rest.
A Thought
Hearts that are great beat never loud,
They muffle their music when they come;
They hurry away from the thronging crowd
With bended brows and lips half dumb,
And the world looks on and mutters — "Proud."
But when great hearts have passed away
Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud,
And in love they kneel around their clay.
Hearts that are great are always lone,
They never will manifest their best;
Their greatest greatness is unknown —
Earth knows a little — God, the rest.
"Yesterdays"
Gone! and they return no more,
But they leave a light in the heart;
The murmur of waves that kiss a shore
Will never, I know, depart.