Chapter 4 I. Guiney.

* * *

Triumph.[8]

The dawn came in through the bars of the blind,-

And the winter's dawn is gray,-

And said, "However you cheat your mind,

The hours are flying away."

A ghost of a dawn, and pale, and weak,-

"Has the sun a heart," I said,

"To throw a morning flush on the cheek

Whence a fairer flush has fled?"

As a gray rose-leaf that is fading white

Was the cheek where I set my kiss;

And on that side of the bed all night

Death had watched, and I on this.

I kissed her lips, they were half apart,

Yet they made no answering sign;

Death's hand was on her failing heart,

And his eyes said, "She is mine."

I set my lips on the blue-veined lid,

Half-veiled by her death-damp hair;

And oh, for the violet depths it hid

And the light I longed for there!

Faint day and the fainter life awoke,

And the night was overpast;

And I said, "Though never in life you spoke

Oh, speak with a look at last!"

For the space of a heart-beat fluttered her breath,

As a bird's wing spread to flee;

She turned her weary arms to Death,

And the light of her eyes to me.

H.C. Bunner.

[8] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

* * *

Evening Song.[9]

Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands,

And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea,

How long they kiss in sight of all the lands.

Ah! longer, longer, we.

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,

As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,

And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done,

Love, lay thine hand in mine.

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart;

Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.

O night! divorce our sun and sky apart,

Never our lips, our hands.

S. Lanier.

[9] From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

* * *

"The Woods That Bring the Sunset Near."

The wind from out the west is blowing,

The homeward-wandering cows are lowing,

Dark grow the pine-woods, dark and drear,-

The woods that bring the sunset near.

When o'er wide seas the sun declines,

Far off its fading glory shines,

Far off, sublime, and full of fear,-

The pine-woods bring the sunset near.

This house that looks to east, to west,

This, dear one, is our home, our rest;

Yonder the stormy sea, and here

The woods that bring the sunset near.

R.W. Gilder.

* * *

At Night.

The sky is dark, and dark the bay below

Save where the midnight city's pallid glow

Lies like a lily white

On the black pool of night.

O rushing steamer, hurry on thy way

Across the swirling Kills and gusty bay,

To where the eddying tide

Strikes hard the city's side!

For there, between the river and the sea,

Beneath that glow,-the lily's heart to me,-

A sleeping mother mild,

And by her breast a child.

R.W. Gilder.

* * *

"Still in Thy Love I Trust."

Still in thy love I trust,

Supreme o'er death, since deathless is thy essence;

For, putting off the dust,

Thou hast but blest me with a nearer presence.

And so, for this, for all,

I breathe no selfish plaint, no faithless chiding;

On me the snowflakes fall,

But thou hast gained a summer all-abiding.

Striking a plaintive string,

Like some poor harper at a palace portal,

I wait without and sing,

While those I love glide in and dwell immortal.

A.A. Fields.

* * *

The Future.

What may we take into the vast Forever?

That marble door

Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor,

No fame-wreathed crown we wore,

No garnered lore.

What can we bear beyond the unknown portal?

No gold, no gains

Of all our toiling: in the life immortal

No hoarded wealth remains,

Nor gilds, nor stains.

Naked from out that far abyss behind us

We entered here:

No word came with our coming, to remind us

What wondrous world was near,

No hope, no fear.

Into the silent, starless Night before us,

Naked we glide:

No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us,

No comrade at our side,

No chart, no guide.

Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow,

Our footsteps fare:

The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow-

His love alone is there,

No curse, no care.

E.R. Sill.

* * *

Prescience.

The new moon hung in the sky,

The sun was low in the west,

And my betrothed and I

In the churchyard paused to rest-

Happy maiden and lover,

Dreaming the old dream over:

The light winds wandered by,

And robins chirped from the nest.

And lo! in the meadow-sweet

Was the grave of a little child,

With a crumbling stone at the feet,

And the ivy running wild-

Tangled ivy and clover

Folding it over and over:

Close to my sweetheart's feet

Was the little mound up-piled.

Stricken with nameless fears,

She shrank and clung to me,

And her eyes were filled with tears

For a sorrow I did not see:

Lightly the winds were blowing,

Softly her tears were flowing-

Tears for the unknown years

And a sorrow that was to be!

T.B. Aldrich.

* * *

In August.

All the long August afternoon,

The little drowsy stream

Whispers a melancholy tune,

As if it dreamed of June

And whispered in its dream.

The thistles show beyond the brook

Dust on their down and bloom,

And out of many a weed-grown nook

The aster-flowèrs look

With eyes of tender gloom.

The silent orchard aisles are sweet

With smell of ripening fruit.

Through the sere grass, in shy retreat,

Flutter, at coming feet,

The robins strange and mute.

There is no wind to stir the leaves,

The harsh leaves overhead;

Only the querulous cricket grieves,

And shrilling locust weaves

A song of Summer dead.

W.D. Howells.

* * *

That Day You Came.

Such special sweetness was about

That day God sent you here,

I knew the lavender was out,

And it was mid of year.

Their common way the great winds blew,

The ships sailed out to sea;

Yet ere that day was spent I knew

Mine own had come to me.

As after song some snatch of tune

Lurks still in grass or bough,

So, somewhat of the end o' June

Lurks in each weather now.

The young year sets the buds astir,

The old year strips the trees;

But ever in my lavender

I hear the brawling bees.

L.W. Reese.

* * *

Negro Lullaby.

Bedtimes' come fu' little boys,

Po' little lamb.

Too tiahed out to make a noise,

Po' little lamb.

You gwine t' have to-morrer sho'?

Yes, you tole me dat, befo',

Don't you fool me, chile, no mo',

Po' little lamb.

You been bad de livelong day,

Po' little lamb.

Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way,

Po' little lamb.

My, but you's a-runnin' wild,

Look jes' lak some po' folks' chile;

Mam' gwine whup you atter while,

Po' little lamb.

Come hyeah! you mos' tiahed to def,

Po' little lamb.

Played yo'se'f clean out o' bref,

Po' little lamb.

See dem han's now,-sich a sight!

Would you ever b'lieve dey's white!

Stan' still 'twell I wash dem right,

Po' little lamb.

Jes' caint hol' yo' haid up straight,

Po' little lamb.

Hadn't oughter played so late,

Po' little lamb.

Mammy do' know whut she'd do,

Ef de chillun's all lak you;

You's a caution now fu' true,

Po' little lamb.

Lay yo' haid down in my lap,

Po' little lamb.

Y'ought to have a right good slap,

Po' little lamb.

You been runnin' roun' a heap.

Shet dem eyes an' don't you peep,

Dah now, dah now, go to sleep,

Po' little lamb.

P.L. Dunbar.

* * *

A Woman's Thought.

I am a woman-therefore I may not

Call to him, cry to him,

Fly to him,

Bid him delay not!

And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet:

Still as a stone-

All silent and cold.

If my heart riot-

Crush and defy it!

Should I grow bold-

Say one dear thing to him,

All my life fling to him,

Cling to him-

What to atone

Is enough for my sinning!

This were the cost to me,

This were my winning-

That he were lost to me.

Not as a lover

At last if he part from me,

Tearing my heart from me-

Hurt beyond cure,-

Calm and demure

Then must I hold me-

In myself fold me-

Lest he discover;

Showing no sign to him

By look of mine to him

What he has been to me-

How my heart turns to him,

Follows him, yearns to him,

Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me,

Thou God above me!

R.W. Gilder.

* * *

The Flight.

Upon a cloud among the stars we stood.

The angel raised his hand and looked and said,

"Which world, of all yon starry myriad

Shall we make wing to?" The still solitude

Became a harp whereon his voice and mood

Made spheral music round his haloed head.

I spake-for then I had not long been dead-

"Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood

A moment on these orbs ere I decide ...

What is yon lower star that beauteous shines

And with soft splendor now incarnadines

Our wings?-There would I go and there abide."

He smiled as one who some child's thought divines:

"That is the world where yesternight you died."