WESTWARD.
My thoughts like waves creep up, creep on,
How patient is the sea!
How shall we climb—the tide and I—
Up to the hills and thee?
Were waters free as winds, to go
Where mood or need might be,
They could but find the sky, above
The cañon as the sea.
THREE FRIENDS.
Oh, not to you, my mentor sweet,
And stern as only sweetness can,
Whose grave eyes look out steadfastly
Across my nature's plan,
And take unerring measure down
Where'er that plan is failed or foiled,
Thinking far less of purpose kept
Than of a vision spoiled.
And tender less to what I am,
Than sad for what I might have been;
And walking softly before God
For my soul's sake, I ween.
'T is not to you, my spirit leans,
O grave, true judge! When spent with strife,
And groping out of gloom for light,
And out of death for life.
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