Green grew the reeds and pale they were,
And all the sunless grass was gray;
The sluggish coils of marsh-water
Dripped thickly over root and stone;
In the deep woods there was no day,
No day within them, shine or sun,—
Only the night alway.
And evermore the cypresses
Against the cold sky rocked and swung;
The lurching of...
I weep those dead lips, white and dry,
On which no kisses lie,
Those eyes deserted of desire,
And love’s soft fire.
I weep the folded feet and hands,
Held fast in linen bands;
Still heart, cold breasts,—for them my dole:
God hath the soul.
Child with the hungry eyes,
The pallid mouth and brow,
And the lifted, asking hands,
I am more starved than thou.
I beg not on the street;
But where the sinner stands,
In secret place, I beg
Of God, with outstretched hands.
As thou hast asked of me,
Raising thy downcast head,
So have I asked of Him,...
The trembling train clings to the leaning wall
Of solid stone; a thousand feet below
Sinks a black gulf; the sky hangs like a pall
Upon the peaks of everlasting snow.
Then of a sudden springs a rim of light,
Curved like a silver sickle. High and higher—
Till the full moon burns on the breast of night,
And a million firs stand...
Venus has lit her silver lamp
Low in the purple West,
Casting a soft and mellow light
Upon the sea’s full breast;
In one clear path—as if to guide
Some pale, wayfaring guest.
Far out, far out the restless bar
Starts from a troubled sleep,
Where, roaring through the narrow straits,
The meeting waters leap;...
Ah me! I know how like a golden flower
The Grand Ronde valley lies this August night,
Locked in by dimpled hills where purple light
Lies wavering. There at the sunset hour
Sink downward, like a rainbow-tinted shower,
A thousand colored rays, soft, changeful, bright.
Later the large moon rises, round and white,
And three Blue Mountain...
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow,
And down underneath is the loveliest nook,
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.
One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,
And one is for love, you know,
And God put another in for luck,—
If you search, you will find where they grow.
But...
Thy span of life was all too short—
A week or two at best—
From budding-time, through blossoming,
To withering and rest.
Yet compensation hast thou—aye!—
For all thy little woes;
For was it not thy happy lot
To live and die a rose?
It seemed to be but chance, yet who shall say
That ’t was not part of Nature ’s own sweet way,
That on the field where once the cannon’s breath
Laid many a hero cold and stark in death,
Some little children, in the after-years,
Had come to play among the grassy spears,
And, all unheeding, when their romp was done,
Had left a wreath...
I met a little Elf-man, once,
Down where the lilies blow.
I asked him why he was so small
And why he didn’t grow.
He slightly frowned, and with his eye
He looked me through and through.
“I ’m quite as big for me,” said he,
“As you are big for you,”
