I grow upon a thorny waste;
Hot noontide lies on all the way,
And with its scorching breath makes haste
Each freshening dawn to burn and slay,
Yet patiently I bide and stay:
Knowing the secret of my fate,
The hour of bloom, dear Lord, I wait,
Come when it will, or soon or late,
A hundred years are but a day.
MY LITTLE GHOST.
I know where it lurks and hides,
In the midst of the busy house,
In the midst of the children's glee,
All clay its shadow bides:
Nobody knows but me.
On a closet-shelf it dwells,
In the darkest corner of all,
Mid rolls of woollen and fur,
And faint, forgotten smells
Of last year's lavender.
That a ghost has its dwelling there
Nobody else would guess,—
"Only a baby's shoe,
A curl of golden hair,"
You would say, "a toy or two,—
"A broken doll, whose lips
And cheeks of waxen bloom
Show dents of fingers small,—
Little, fair finger-tips,—
A worn sash,—that is all."
Little to see or to guess;
But whenever I open the door,
There, faithful to its post,
With its eyes' sad tenderness,
I see my little ghost.
And I hasten to shut the door,
I shut it tight and fast,
Lest the sweet, sad thing get free,
Lest it flit beside on the floor,
And sadden the day for me,
Lest between me and the sun,
And between me and the heavens,
And the laugh in the children's eyes,
The shadowy feet should run,
The faint gold curls arise
Like a gleam of moonlight pale,
And all the warmth and the light
Should die from the summer day,
And the laughter turn to wail,
And I should forget to pray.