A MESSAGE
I bid thee sing the song I would have sung— The high, pure strain that since my soul was born, Clearer and sweeter than the bells of morn, Through all its chambers hath divinely rung! In thee let my whole being find a tongue; Pluck thou the rose where I have plucked the thorn, Nor leave the perfect flower to fade forlorn. Youth holds the world in fee—and thou art young! O my glad singer of the tuneful voice, Where my wing falters be thou strong to soar, Striking the deep, clear notes beyond my reach, Beyond the plummet of a woman’s speech. Sing my songs for me, and from some far shore My happy soul shall hear thee and rejoice!
WHEN LESSER LOVES
When lesser loves by the relentless flow Of mighty currents from my arms were torn And swept, unheeding, to that silent bourn Whose mystic shades no living man may know, By night, by day, I sang my songs; and so, Out of the sackcloth that my soul had worn, Weaving my purple, I forgot to mourn, Pouring my grief out in melodious woe! Now am I dumb, dear heart. My lips are mute. Yet if from yonder blue height thou dost lean Earthward, remembering love’s last wordless kiss, Know thou no trembling thrills of harp or lute, Dying soft wails and tender songs between, Were half so voiceful as this silence is!
GEORGE ELIOT
Pass on, O world, and leave her to her rest! Brothers, be silent while the drifting snow Weaves its white pall above her, lying low With empty hands crossed idly on her breast. O sisters, let her sleep! while unrepressed Your pitying tears fall silently and slow, Washing her spotless, in their crystal flow, Of that one stain whereof she stands confessed. Are we so pure that we should scoff at her, Or mock her now, low lying in her tomb? God knows how sharp the thorn her roses wore, Even what time their petals were astir In the warm sunshine, odorous with perfume. Leave her to Him who weighed the cross she bore!
KNOWING
One summer day, to a young child I said, “Write to thy mother, boy.” With earnest face, And laboring fingers all unused to trace The mystic characters, he bent his head (That should have danced amid the flowers instead) Over the blurred page for a half-hour’s space; Then with a sigh that burdened all the place Cried, “Mamma knows!” and out to sunshine sped. O soul of mine, when tasks are hard and long, And life so crowds thee with its stress and strain That thou, half fainting, art too tired to pray, Drink thou this wine of blessing and be strong! God knows! What though the lips be dumb with pain, Or the pen drops? He knows what thou wouldst say.
A THOUGHT
(SUGGESTED BY READING
“A MIRACLE IN STONE”)
Oh, thou supreme, all-wise, eternal One, Thou who art Lord of lords, and King of kings, In whose high praise each flaming seraph sings; Thou at whose word the morning stars begun With song and shout their glorious course to run; Thou unto whom the great sea lifts its wings, And earth, with laden hands, rich tribute brings From every shore that smiles beneath the sun; Thou who didst write thy name upon the hills And bid the mountains speak for thee alway, Yet gave sweet messages to murmuring rills, And to each flower that breathes its life away— Oh! dost thou smile, or frown, when man’s conceit Seeks in this pile of stone the impress of thy feet?