To find that storms and waves have into calm subsided,
My well-nigh broken bark has into harbor glided,
And find the compass true in which my soul confided.
ASTERS
A bunch of fresh asters, purple and white and red,
Stands on my table, fixed in a Mexican bowl,
Thanks I did render for food which my body has fed,
But not for the blossoms that gladdened and nourished my soul.
The joy they awake may be truer thanksgiving,
Though wordless, accepted by Him who did say:
“Man by the bread alone shall not be living,”
And bid us behold the fair lilies that grow by the way.
BUTTERFLIES
I sit on my porch the long after-noon,
And dream, and dream, and dream;
And the butterflies hover across the lawn,
In shadow and golden beam,
From flower to flower they flutter and fly,
The sweet of their beauty to find,
And out of my dream I wake with a cry:
“Ah, thus is my unquiet mind!”
For the chalice of life has few sweets for me,
But mostly some bitter thing,
The flowers which I planted with youthful glee,
So often their poison bring,
And the dreams that I dream are of things that are past,
With remorse for their follies and hopes,
That the few joys of life so briefly do last,
And the noon-day so rapidly slopes.
Yet, the butterflies dance for a time without care,
And why should I murmur and fret,
While the summer is here, and all nature is fair,
And gleams mid the shadows are set?
I’ll banish remorse and the sorrow which slays,
And dance with the butterflies gay,
And dream little less, and enter the ways
Of things which remain for a day.
THE ROSEBUSH
Against a quivering, golden beam,
Where dance a myriad winged things,
A rosebush stands, entranced in a dream,
While one gay thrush in the elm-tree sings,
It sends from wealth of a perfume sweet
An offering up to the happy bard,
Whose flood of melody flows to meet
The floating essence of wild-rose nard.