Golden and still the hours; russet gold
The birch-leaves o'er the silver of the bark;
Pale gold the poplars, like a lady's hair,
And thunderous gold along the hollows dark
The sunlit brackens flare.
THE LOVERS
There are ghosts we walk with, lady of mine,
Arm in arm, and side by side,
Pallid ghosts, though the sun may shine,
Ghosts that are cold in the warmth of day,
And neither of us may fend them away,
But step by step they go with us, stride by stride.
There are doors in your heart that are shut to me,
And behind them dwellers I cannot know;
And my soul has windows that open wide
On a ghostly, memoried country-side,
That—lady of mine—you never will see,
Where your voice will never be heard, nor your footsteps go.
So we walk together, hand in hand,
While dark eyes peer at us, pale forms come,
And speak in my ear—or call your name
With a voice I hear not, for praise or blame,
And you walk alone with that ghostly band,
While I go by the side of you, pitying, powerless, dumb.
THE GENTLE HEART
What shall harm the gentle heart
In its purpose undefiled?
Even grief shall lose its smart
In some way becoming part
Of that nature, soothed and gentled,
As a sorrow to a child.
Through the blackness and the sin
Of the old world's wrongs and woes,
And through the greater dark within,
The gentle heart shall surely win,
As some bright angel, armed with mercy,
Swiftly on his errand goes.