The Lord shall slay or the Lord shall save!
He is righteous whether He save or slay—
Brother, give thanks for the gifts He gave,
Though the gifts He gave He hath taken away.
Shall we strive for that which is nothing? Nay.
Shall we hate each other for that which fled?
She is but a marvel of modelled clay,
And the smooth, clear white, and the soft, pure red,
That we coveted, shall endure no day.
Was it wise or well that I hated you
For the fruit that hung too high on the tree?
For the blossom out of our reach that grew,
Was it well or wise that you hated me?—
My hate has flown, and your hate shall flee.
Let us veil our faces like children chid—
Can that violet orb we swore by see
Through that violet-vein'd, transparent lid?—
Now the Lord forbid that this strife should be.
Would you knit the forehead or clench the fist,
For the curls that never were well caress'd—
For the red that never was fairly kiss'd—
For the white that never was fondly press'd?
Shall we nourish wrath while she lies at rest
Between us? Surely our wrath shall cease.
We would fain know better—the Lord knows best—
Is there peace between us? Yea, there is peace,
In the soul's release she at least is blest.
Let us thank the Lord for His bounties all,
For the brave old days of pleasure and pain,
When the world for both of us seem'd too small—
Though the love was void and the hate was vain—
Though the word was bitter between us twain,
And the bitter word was kin to the blow,
For her gloss and ripple of rich gold rain,
For her velvet crimson and satin snow—
Though we never shall know the old days again.
The Lord!—His mercy is great, men say;
His wrath, men say, is a burning brand—
Let us praise Him whether He save or slay,
And above her body let hand join hand.
We shall meet, my friend, in the spirit land—
Will our strife renew? Nay, I dare not trust,
For the grim, great gulf that cannot be spann'd
Will divide us from her. The Lord is just,
She shall not be thrust where our spirits stand.
A Basket of Flowers
from Dawn to Dusk
Dawn
On skies still and starlit
White lustres take hold,
And grey flushes scarlet,
And red flashes gold.
And sun-glories cover
The rose shed above her,
Like lover and lover
They flame and unfold.
Still bloom in the garden
Green grass-plot, fresh lawn,
Though pasture lands harden
And drought fissures yawn.
While leaves not a few fall,
Let rose leaves for you fall,
Leaves pearl-strung with dew-fall,
And gold shot with dawn.
Does the grass-plot remember
The fall of your feet
In autumn's red ember,
When drought leagues with heat,
When the last of the roses
Despairingly closes
In the lull that reposes
Ere storm winds wax fleet?
Love's melodies languish
In "Chastelard's" strain,
And "Abelard's" anguish
Is love's pleasant pain!
And "Sappho" rehearses
Love's blessings and curses
In passionate verses
Again and again.
And I!—I have heard of
All these long ago,
Yet never one word of
Their song-lore I know;
Not under my finger
In songs of the singer
Love's litanies linger,
Love's rhapsodies flow.
Fresh flowers in a basket—
An offering to you—
Though you did not ask it,
Unbidden I strew;
With heat and drought striving,
Some blossoms still living
May render thanksgiving
For dawn and for dew.
The garlands I gather,
The rhymes I string fast,
Are hurriedly rather
Than heedlessly cast.
Yon tree's shady awning
Is short'ning, and warning
Far spent is the morning,
And I must ride fast.
Songs empty, yet airy,
I've striven to write,
For failure, dear Mary!
Forgive me—Good-night!
Songs and flowers may beset you,
I can only regret you,
While the soil where I met you
Recedes from my sight.
For the sake of past hours,
For the love of old times,
Take "A Basket of Flowers",
And a bundle of rhymes;
Though all the bloom perish
E'en YOUR hand can cherish,
While churlish and bearish
The verse-jingle chimes.
And Eastward by Nor'ward
Looms sadly MY track,
And I must ride forward,
And still I look back,—
Look back—ah, how vainly!
For while I see plainly,
My hands on the reins lie
Uncertain and slack.
The warm wind breathes strong breath,
The dust dims mine eye,
And I draw one long breath,
And stifle one sigh.
Green slopes, softly shaded,
Have flitted and faded—
My dreams flit as they did—
Good-night!—and—Good-bye!
Dusk