Though woman fast is winning her place in Council Halls,
By work where talent leads her, by work where mercy calls,
I feel no keen elation to know her triumph’s near,
A triumph most unselfish, a heavier weight to bear.
The calm that rests upon me, the calm that comes with years,
Suggests that man’s impatience is the cause of most he fears,
Suggests that war’s upheaval is but the anvil clink,
The welding by the Forger of yet another link
In that great chain of progress that binds successive time,
From chaos on to order, and then to heights sublime!
GOING WEST.
A pulsing silence shrouds me round
Like waves one feels, but hears no sound,
Then slowly, as from realms above,
There come soft whispered words of love.
And something presses on my heart,
Of my own self it seems a part,
So very close I feel—her head—
And now I know she is not dead!
I try to break the secret charm
That weighs upon my nerveless arm,
I want to hold my love so close
She will not wander whilst I doze.
I think I fell asleep,
The silence seemed more deep,
I could not catch the beat
The noiseless waves repeat.
Again there comes that soundless sound,
The heavy, ceaseless, rythmic pound.
Is it the throb of worlds alive?
Is it the hum of some near hive?
My own tired pulse may be the cause
Of what is more like faint applause,
Of what might be a funeral drum
So muffled to be almost dumb.