SONNETS.
TO MY WIFE.
Sweet Lady, queen-star of my life and thought,
Whose honour, heart and name are one with mine,
Who dost above life’s troubled currents shine
With such clear beam as oftentimes hath brought
The storm-tossed spirit into harbours wrought
By love and peace on life’s rough margin-line;
I wish no wish which is not wholly thine,
I hope no hope but what thyself hast sought.
Thou losest not, my Lady, in the wife,
The golden love-light of our earlier days;
Time dims it not, it mounteth like the sun,
Till earth and sky are radiant. Sweet, my life
Lies at thy feet, and all life’s gifts and praise,
Yet are they nought to what thy knight hath won.
A CYPRESS WREATH.
I.
Death met a little child beside the sea;
The child was ruddy and his face was fair,
His heart was gladdened with the keen, salt air,
Full of the young waves’ laughter and their glee.
Then Death stooped down and kissed him, saying:
“Thee,
My child, will I give summers rare and bright,
And flowers, and morns with never noon or night,
Or clouds to darken, if thou’lt come with me.”
Then the child gladly gave his little hand,
And walked with Death along the shining sand,
And prattled gaily, full of hope, and smiled
As a white mist curled round him on the shore
And hid the land and sea for evermore—
Death hath no terrors for a little child.