Thou dost not know it! but to hear
One word of praise from thee,
There is no pain I would not bear--
No task too great for me.
My hands could tireless toil all day,
My feet could tireless run,
If at the close thy lips would say,
"Brave, noble heart, well done."
Thou dost not know it! but to win
Approval from thine eyes,
My soul has conquered many a sin,
And conquering, neared tee skies.
And though the reward may not be given,
In all my earthly days,
I feel that after death--in heaven,
Thy lips will give me praise.
Thou dost not know--may never know,
That all I strive to be,
All things praiseworthy that I do,
I strive, and do, for thee.
And though I seldom see thy face,
Or touch thy hand, my friend,
Those meetings are the means of grace,
That help me to the end.
Thou dost not know that thy grand life
Has been my beacon light.
I aim to conquer in the strife,
That I may reach thy height.
I strive to live, so that my feet
May walk the fields most fair,
For the afterlife, seems, oh! so sweet,
Because thou wilt be there.
Thou dost not know how brave and strong
A woman's heart can be.
But few could hide so well and long
What mine has hid from thee.
So well, that should this idyl chance
To meet thine eye, my friend,
Thou'd scan it with a careless glance.
Nor dream to whom 'twas penned.
1872
[A GOLDEN YEAR]
Linger, linger, oh royal year!
For I grieve to see you dying.
Rest on the hilltops--loiter near;
Wait, O Time, in your flying.
For never, in all the twice ten years,
You have brought to build my twenty.
Never was one so free from tears--
So overflowing with plenty.
Filled to the brim with the purest draughts,
That I sip in fearless pleasure;
While an unseen spirit watches and laughs,
And again refills the measure.
My brightest dreams, and my fondest hopes,
The year has gathered together,
And right bountifully they have come to me.
From the Spring to the Autumn weather.
The rarest of flowers, subtle and sweet,
That grew in the world Ideal,
Have dropped their seeds in the soil at my feet,
And blossomed among the Real.
And Love, like a rose, still blossoms and blows,
Passion-hearted, yet tender.
And my path is strewn with the glories of June,
And I'm hedged about with its splendor.