Fifty years Other Poems | Page 6

feverish light,
Welcome the
darkness without fear or doubt,
And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep

Into the quiet bosom of the Night.
THE YOUNG WARRIOR
Mother, shed no mournful tears,
But gird me on my sword;
And
give no utterance to thy fears,
But bless me with thy word.
The lines are drawn! The fight is on!
A cause is to be won!
Mother,
look not so white and wan;
Give Godspeed to thy son.
Now let thine eyes my way pursue
Where'er my footsteps fare;
And
when they lead beyond thy view,
Send after me a prayer.
But pray not to defend from harm,
Nor danger to dispel;
Pray,
rather, that with steadfast arm
I fight the battle well.
Pray, mother of mine, that I always keep
My heart and purpose strong,

My sword unsullied and ready to leap
Unsheathed against the
wrong.
THE GLORY OF THE DAY WAS IN HER FACE
The glory of the day was in her face,
The beauty of the night was in
her eyes.
And over all her loveliness, the grace
Of Morning
blushing in the early skies.
And in her voice, the calling of the dove;
Like music of a sweet,
melodious part.
And in her smile, the breaking light of love;
And all
the gentle virtues in her heart.
And now the glorious day, the beauteous night,
The birds that signal
to their mates at dawn,
To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight

Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.

SONNET
(_From the Spanish of Plácido_)
Enough of love! Let break its every hold!
Ended my youthful folly!
for I know
That, like the dazzling, glister-shedding snow,
Celia,
thou art beautiful, but cold.
I do not find in thee that warmth which
glows,
Which, all these dreary days, my heart has sought,
That
warmth without which love is lifeless, naught
More than a painted
fruit, a waxen rose.
Such love as thine, scarce can it bear love's name,
Deaf to the
pleading notes of his sweet lyre,
A frank, impulsive heart I wish to
claim,
A heart that blindly follows its desire.
I wish to embrace a
woman full of flame,
I want to kiss a woman made of fire.
FROM THE SPANISH
Twenty years go by on noiseless feet,
He returns, and once again they
meet,
She exclaims, "Good heavens! and is that he?"
He mutters,
"My God! and that is she!"
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND
Three students once tarried over the Rhine,
And into Frau Wirthin's
turned to dine.
"Say, hostess, have you good beer and wine?
And where is that pretty
daughter of thine?"
"My beer and wine is fresh and clear.
My daughter lies on her funeral
bier."
They softly tipped into the room;
She lay there in the silent gloom.
The first the white cloth gently raised,
And tearfully upon her gazed.

"If thou wert alive, O, lovely maid,
My heart at thy feet would to-day
be laid!"
The second covered her face again,
And turned away with grief and
pain.
"Ah, thou upon thy snow-white bier!
And I have loved thee so many
a year."
The third drew back again the veil,
And kissed the lips so cold and
pale.
"I've loved thee always, I love thee to-day,
And will love thee, yes,
forever and aye!"
BEFORE A PAINTING
I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine
What I beheld; nor by
what laws of art
He had created life and love and heart
On canvas,
from mere color, curve and line.
Silent I stood and made no move or
sign;
Not with the crowd, but reverently apart;
Nor felt the power
my rooted limbs to start,
But mutely gazed upon that face divine.
And over me the sense of beauty fell,
As music over a raptured
listener to
The deep-voiced organ breathing out a hymn;
Or as on
one who kneels, his beads to tell,
There falls the aureate glory filtered
through
The windows in some old cathedral dim.
I HEAR THE STARS STILL SINGING
I hear the stars still singing
To the beautiful, silent night,
As they
speed with noiseless winging
Their ever westward flight.
I hear the
waves still falling
On the stretch of lonely shore,
But the sound of a
sweet voice calling
I shall hear, alas! no more.

GIRL OF FIFTEEN
Girl of fifteen,
I see you each morning from my window
As you
pass on your way to school.
I do more than see, I watch you.
I
furtively draw the curtain aside.
And my heart leaps through my eyes

And follows you down the street;
Leaving me behind, half-hid

And wholly ashamed.
What holds me back,
Half-hid behind the curtains and wholly
ashamed,
But my forty years beyond your fifteen?
Girl of fifteen, as you pass
There passes, too, a lightning flash of time

In which you lift those forty summers off my head,
And take those
forty winters out of my heart.
THE SUICIDE
For fifty years,
Cruel, insatiable Old World,
You have punched me
over the heart
Till you made me cough blood.
The few paltry things
I gathered
You snatched out of my hands.
You have knocked the
cup from my thirsty lips.
You have laughed at my hunger of body and
soul.
You look at me now and think,
"He is