That He is “very man,” I need
None other proof than this,—
That He has “rest” for those who feel
Almost too tired for bliss.
IN AN OLD ORCHARD
Sweet avalanches of scented snow
Bury one deep, as I lie below
The laden white boughs abloom and ablow
In the dear old orchard, where long ago
My grand-dame dreamed, as I’m dreaming now,
With love in her heart and youth on her brow.
O, blossom-time passes too soon, too soon!
And grey night follows the golden noon,
And Autumn though ruddy brings ruin and rune,
And passion ne’er warms the cold heart of the moon.
So let me dream on, ’mid the apple-blooms sweet,
For noontide and bloomtide are fair as they’re fleet.
And then when the blue of the sky is o’ercast,
And Summer is ended, and harvest is past,
And the loosened leaves earthward are fluttering fast,
And the sleep that is dreamless is mine at last,
O, make my grave here; and lay me to rest
Where the sweet-scented snow shall fall light on my breast.
BY THE SEA
I think, as the white sails come and go,
Of the welcomes loud, and the farewells low;
Of the meeting lips, and the parting tears,
Of the new-born hopes, and the growing fears,
Of the eyes that glow, and the cheeks that pale,
As the hazy horizon’s mystic veil
Is silently parted, and to and fro
The white sails come and the white sails go.
And a grey mist gathers, and all grows dim
As I watch alone by the ocean’s rim.
For a dream is mine—ah me! ah me!
That salt with tears is the salt salt sea.
O, yearning eyes and outstretched hands!
O, divided lives, and divided lands!
As long as the waters ebb and flow
Shall the white sails come and the white sails go.
REGRET
“It might have been,” is the sad refrain
That forever haunts my weary brain,
Till heart and soul grow weak with pain.