Ye were bearing hence to that mystic sphere Thoughts no mortal may utter here,—
Songs that on earth may not be sung,— Words too holy for human tongue,—
The golden deeds that we would have done,— The fadeless wreaths that we would have won!
And hence it was that our souls with you Traversed the measureless waste of blue,
Till you passed under the sunset gate, And to us a voice said, softly, “Wait!”
MAUD AND MADGE
Maud in a crimson velvet chair Strings her pearls on a silken thread, While, lovingly lifting her golden hair, Soft airs wander about her head. She has silken robes of the softest flow, She has jewels rare and a chain of gold, And her two white hands flit to and fro, Fair as the dainty toys they hold.
She has tropical birds and rare perfumes; Pictures that speak to the heart and eye; For her each flower of the Orient blooms,— For her the song and the lute swell high; But daintily stringing her gleaming pearls She dreams to-day in her velvet chair, While the sunlight sleeps in her golden curls, Lightly stirred by the odorous air.
Down on the beach, when the tide goes out, Madge is gathering shining shells; The sea-breeze blows her locks about; O’er bare, brown feet the white sand swells. Coarsest serge is her gown of gray, Faded and torn her apron blue, And there in the beautiful, dying day The girl still thinks of the work to do.