HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. HEREAFTER. LOVE, when all these years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, That's our love. But you and I, dear, — shall we linger with it yet, On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen but you the blossom, Stream on sunset winds, and be the haze with which some hill is wet? Oh, beloved, if ascending, when we have endowed the world Only this our yearning answers, whereso'er that way defile, Above that low horizon lean, Where Craneneck o'er the woody gloom Lifts her steep mile of apple-bloom: Where Salisbury Sands, in yellow length With the great breaker measures strength; Where Artichoke in shadow slides, Yours is the river-road; and yours PALMISTRY. A LITTLE hand, a fair soft hand A hand as idle and as white As lilies on their stems; Dazzling with rosy finger-tips, Dazzling with crusted gems. Another hand, - a tired old hand, For folded, as the winged fly Sleeps in the chrysalis, Within this little palm I see That lovelier hand than this! FANTASIA. WE'RE all alone, we're all alone! The moon and stars are dead and gone: The night's at deep, the wind asleep, And thou and I are all alone! What care have we though life there be? Tumult and life are not for me! How late it is since such as this A FOUR-O'CLOCK. Ан, happy day, refuse to go! Ah, happy day, refuse to go! Ah, happy day, refuse to go! The rains roll off its crest like spray, It lifts again its spotless star. Blow, blow, dark March! To meet you here, Thrust upward from the central gloom, The stellar force of the old earth Pulses to life in this slight bloom. MY OWN SONG. Он, glad am I that I was born! Carries the soul from height to height! To me, as to the child that sings, The bird that claps his rain-washed wings, [flower, The breeze that curls the sun-tipped Comes some new joy with each new hour. Joy in the beauty of the earth, In which I live and breathe and move! Yet wilt thou wander, call the Joy even in the shapeless thought thrush, And have the wilds and waters hush To hear his passion-broken tune, Ah, happy day of happy June! A SNOWDROP. ONLY a tender little thing, So velvet soft and white it is; But March himself is not so strong, With all the great gales that are his. In vain his whistling storms he calls, In vain the cohorts of his power Ride down the sky on mighty blasts He cannot crush the little flower. Its white spear parts the sod, the snows Than that white spear less snowy are, That, some day, when all tasks are wrought, I shall explore that vasty deep For joy attunes all beating things, He reads the stars, and grasps the flame That quivers round the Throne on high, In war renowned, in peace sublime, He moves in greatness and in grace; She led him through the trackless His power, subduing space and time, wild, Where noontide sunbeam never blazed; The thistle shrunk, the harvest smiled; And Nature gladdened as she gazed. Earth's thousand tribes of living things, At Art's command, to him are given; The village grows, the city springs, And point their spires of faith to heaven. He rends the oak- and bids it ride, To guard the shores its beauty graced; He smites the rock-upheaved in pride, See towers of strength, and domes of taste. Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal, Fire bears his banner on the wave, He bids the mortal poison heal, And leaps triumphant o'er the grave. He plucks the pearls that stud the deep, Admiring Beauty's lap to fill; He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep, And mocks his own Creator's skill. Links realm to realm and race to |