Illumed
Like to a little child, whose straying feet,
Tracking the fox-fire's guiling glint and gleam,
Have wandered far afield by marsh and stream
While just before the wavering glimmers fleet
On and still on where sky and meadow meet,
Till, spent and fearful in the gathering gloom,
At last he sees the guiding light of home,
Where love awaits and mother-kisses sweet.
So was it mine through fens of doubt to stray
Pursuing still some fair ephemeron,
Or fleeting gleam, or shimmering fallacy,
Till through the deepening dusk a beacon shone
Set by the hand of Love to light the way
O Father, to implicit trust in Thee!
In the Play
In a painted "Forest of Arden," in the glare of the garish light,
In doublet and hose, be-powdered and rouged, you sigh to me night by night;
Attuned to the sway of your cadenced voice, as a harp to the wooing wind,
I thrill at the touch of your painted lips—for—"I am your Rosalind!"
Could you know that my art in seeming was a dearer thing than art,
That the love-words spoken nightly spring straight from a loving heart;
Could you know that my soul speaks to you—aye soul and spirit and mind!
When I gaze deep into your eyes and breathe—"And I am your Rosalind!"
To you 'tis a vain dissembling—a part of the work of the day,
And the words that your voice makes music, but the dull, dead lines of the play.
Little you care for the woman you woo, save as a foil designed.
To prove your skill as a lover—yet—"I am your Rosalind!"
I merge in the player, the woman! The actress good at her art
Must needs look well to each glance and tone, must needs play still her part—