A Womans Love Letters | Page 6

touch,?For Time is long, and though I may not will?To question Fate, I am a woman still.
Battle Song.
Clear sounds the call on high:?"To arms and victory!"?Brave hearts that win or die,
Dying, may win;?Proudly the banners wave,?What though the goal's the grave??Death cannot harm the brave,--
Through death they win.
Softly the evening hush?Stilling strife's maddened rush?Cools the fierce battle flush,--
See the day die;?A thousand faces white?Mirror the cold moonlight?And glassy eyes are bright
With Victory.
Content.
I have been wandering where the daisies grow,?Great fields of tall, white daisies, and I saw?Them bend reluctantly, and seem to draw?Away in pride when the fresh breeze would blow?From timothy and yellow buttercup,?So by their fearless beauty lifted up.
Yet must they bend at the strong breeze's will,?Bright, flawless things, whether in wrath he sweep?Or, as oftimes, in mood caressing, creep?Over the meadows and adown the hill.?So Love in sport or truth, as Fates allow,?Blows over proud young hearts, and bids them bow.
So beautiful is it to live, so sweet?To hear the ripple of the bobolink,?To smell the clover blossoms white and pink,?To feel oneself far from the dusty street,?From dusty souls, from all the flare and fret?Of living, and the fever of regret.
I have grown younger; I can scarce believe?It is the same sad woman full of dreams?Of seven short weeks ago, for now it seems?I am a child again, and can deceive?My soul with daisies, plucking one by one?The petals dazzling in the noonday sun.
Almost with old-time eagerness I try?My fate, and say: "un peu," a soft "beaucoup,"?Then, lower, "passionément, pas du tout;"?Quick the white petals fall, and lovingly?I pluck the last, and drop with tender touch?The knowing daisy, for he loves me "much."
I can remember how, in childish days,?I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall?Must love me "passionately" or "not at all."?Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays?It knows not what, and heedlessly demands?The best that life can give with out-stretched hands!
Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize?Peace above passion, and the summer life?Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife?Of armed ambitions. They alone are wise?Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold?Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.
Sea-Song.
A dash of spray,?A weed-browned way,--?My ship's in the bay,?In the glad blue bay,--?The wind's from the west?And the waves have a crest,?But my bird's in the nest?And my ship's in the bay!
At dawn to stand?Soft hand to hand,?Bare feet on the sand,--?On the hard brown sand,--?To wait, dew-crowned,?For the tarrying sound?Of a keel that will ground?On the scraping sand.
A glad surprise?In the wind-swept skies?Of my wee one's eyes,--?Those wondering eyes.?He will come, my sweet,?And will haste to meet?Those hurrying feet?And those sea-blue eyes.
I know the day?Must weary away,?And my ship's in the bay,--?In the clear, blue bay,--?Ah! there's wind in the west,?For the waves have a crest,?But my bird's in the nest?And my ship's in the bay!
Gratitude.
There are some things, dear Friend, are easier far?To say in written words than when we sit?Eye answering eye, or hand to hand close knit.?Not that there is between us any bar?Of shyness or reserve; the day is past?For that, and utter trust has come at last.
Only, when shut alone and safe inside?These four white walls,--hearing no sound except?Our own heart-beatings, silences have crept?Stealthily round us,--as the incoming tide?Quiet and unperceived creeps ever on?Till mound and pebble, rock and reef are gone.
Or out on the green hillside, even there?There is a hush, and words and thoughts are still.?For the trees speak, and myriad voices fill?With wondrous echoes all the waiting air.?We listen, and in listening must forget?Our own hearts' murmur, and our spirits' fret;
Even our joys,--thou knowest;--when the air?Is full to overflowing with the sense?Of hope fulfilled and passion's vehemence.?There is no place for words; we do not dare?To break Love's stillness, even though the power?Were ours by speech to lengthen out the hour.
But here in quietness I can recall?All I would tell thee, how thou art to me?Impulse and inspiration, and with thee?I can but smile though all my idols fall.?I wait my meed as others who have known?Patience till to their utmost stature grown.
As when the heavens are draped in gloomy gray?And earth is tremulous with a vague unrest?A glory fills the tender, troubled West?That glads the closing of November's day,?So breaks in sun-smiles my beclouded sky?When day is over and I know thee nigh.
Thou art so much, all this and more, to me,?And what am I to thee? Can I repay?These many gifts? Is there no royal way?Of recompense, so I may proudly see?The man my heart delights to praise renowned?For wealth and honor, and with rapture crowned?
Ah! though there is no recompense in love?Yet have I paid thee, given these gifts to thee,?Joy, riches, worship. Thou hast joy in me,?Is it not so, Beloved? Who shall prove?No worship of thee