Perchance the echoes of old songs,
Found here a resting place at last,
With drifting perfume, that belongs
To roses of the past,—
Or all the moonbeams that were lost
On summer nights the world forgets,
May here be prisoned by the frost,
With souls of violets.
*****
The wind doth shepherd many things,—
And when the nights are long and cold,
Who knows how strange a flock he brings
All safely to the fold.
IN SOLITUDE
He is not all alone whose ship is sailing
Over the mystery of an unknown sea,
For some great Love with faithfulness unfailing
Will light the stars to bear him company.
Out in the silence of the mountain passes,
The heart makes peace and liberty its own,—
The wind that blows across the scented grasses
Bringing the balm of sleep,—comes not alone.
Beneath the vast illimitable spaces,
Where God has set His jewels in array,
A man may pitch his tent in desert places,
Yet know that heaven is not so far away.
But in the city—in the lighted city—
Where gilded spires point toward the sky,
And fluttering rags and hunger ask for pity,
Grey Loneliness in cloth-of-gold, goes by.