On hoary Conway’s battlemented height, O poet-heart, I pluck for thee a rose! Through arch and court the sweet wind wandering goes; Round each high tower the rooks, in airy flight, Circle and wheel, all bathed in amber light; Low at my feet the winding river flows; Valley and town, entranced in deep repose, War doth no more appall, nor foes affright! Thou knowest how softly on the castle walls, Where mosses creep, and ivys far and free Fling forth their pennants to the freshening breeze, Like God’s own benizon this sunshine falls. Therefore, O friend, across the sundering seas Fair Conway sends this sweet wild rose to thee!
A CHRISTMAS SONNET
I wake at midnight from a slumber deep. Hark! are the clear stars singing? Sweet and low, As from far skies, floats music’s liquid flow, Waking earth’s happy children from their sleep. Now, from the bells a myriad voices leap, And all the brazen lilies are aglow With rapturous heart-beats, swinging to and fro As the glad chimes their rhythmic pulsing keep. O soul of mine, join thou the high refrain That rings from shore to shore, from sea to sea, Like song of birds that do but soar and sing! O heart of mine, what room hast thou for pain? With love and joy make holy symphony, And keep to-day the birthday of thy King!
POVERTY
The city woke. Down the long market-place Her sad eyes wandered, but no tears they shed. In her bare home a little child lay dead; Yet she was here, with white, impassive face, And hands that had no beauty and no grace, Selling her small wares for a bit of bread! Since they who live must eat though sore bestead What time had she to weep—what breathing space? Poor even in words, she had no fitting phrase Wherein to tell the story of her dole, But stood, like Niobe, a thing of stone, Or mutely went on her accustomed ways, Or counted her small gains, while her dumb soul, Shut in with grief, could only make its moan!
SURPRISES
I.
O Earth, that had so long in darkness lain, Waiting and listening for the Voice that cried, “Let there be light!”—on thy first eventide What woe, what fear, wrung thy dumb soul with pain! In darkling space down dropt the red sun, slain, With all his banners drooping. Far and wide Spread desolation’s vast and blackening tide. How couldst thou know that day would dawn again? But the long hours wore on, till lo! pale gleams Of faint, far glory lit the eastern skies, Broadening and reddening till the sun’s full beams Broke in clear, golden splendor on thine eyes. Darkness and brooding anguish were but dreams, Lost in a trembling wonder of surprise!
II.
Even so, O Life, all tremulous with woe, Thou too didst cower when, without sound or jar, From the high zenith sinking fast and far, Thy sun went out of heaven! How couldst thou know In that dark hour, that never tide could flow So ebon-black, nor ever mountain-bar Breast night so deep, without or moon or star, But that the morning yet again must glow? God never leaves thee in relentless dark. Slowly the dawn on unbelieving eyes Breaketh at last. Day brightens—and, oh hark! A flood of bird-song from the tender skies! From storm and darkness thou hast found an ark, Shut in with this great marvel of surprise!