Poor though I am in my own sight, I know
That thou hast winnowed, sweet, what best I am;
Upon my restlessness thy ample calm
Hath fallen as on frost-bound earth the snow.
It hideth the harsh furrows that the wheels
Of heavy trials made in Life's champaign;
Upon its pure unfolding sunshine steals,
And there is promise of the spring again.
Here make I proclamation of my faith,
And poise my fealty o'er the head of Death."
THE CHOICE
If Death should come to me to-night, and say:
"I weigh thy destiny; behold, I give
One little day with this thy love to live,
Then, my embrace; or, leave her for alway,
And thou shalt walk a full array of years;
Upon thee shall the world's large honours fall,
And praises clamorous shall make for all
Thy strivings rich amends." If in my ears
Thou saidst, "I love thee!" I would straightway cry,
"A thousand years upon this barren earth
Is death without her: for that day I die,
And count my life for it of poorest worth."
Love's reckoning is too noble to be told
By Time's slow fingers on its sands of gold.
RECOGNITION
As in a foreign land one threads his way
'Mid alien scenes, knowing no face he meets;
And, hearing his name spoken, turns and greets
With wondering joy a friend of other days;