Music and Other Poems | Page 6

of little rills,
Shadow of
clouds that swiftly pass,
And, after showers,
The smell of flowers
And of the good brown
earth,--
And best of all, along the way, friendship and mirth.
So let me keep
These treasures of the humble heart
In true
possession, owning them by love;
And when at last I can no longer
move
Among them freely, but must part
From the green fields and
from the waters clear,
Let me not creep
Into some darkened room and hide
From all that
makes the world so bright and dear;
But throw the windows wide
To welcome in the light;
And while I
clasp a well-beloved hand,
Let me once more have sight
Of the deep sky and the far-smiling
land,--
Then gently fall on sleep,
And breathe my body back to Nature's care,

My spirit out to thee, God of the open air.
SONNETS

WORK
Let me but do my work from day to day,
In field or forest, at the desk or loom,
In roaring market-place or
tranquil room;
Let me but find it in my heart to say,
When vagrant
wishes beckon me astray,
"This is my work; my blessing, not my
doom;
"Of all who live, I am the one by whom
"This work can best
be done in the right way."
Then shall I see it not too great, nor small,
To suit my spirit and to
prove my powers;
Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours,

And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall
At eventide, to play
and love and rest,
Because I know for me my work is best.
April, 1902.
LIFE
Let me but live my life from year to year,
With forward face and unreluctant soul;
Not hurrying to, nor turning
from, the goal;
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the
dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils; but
with a whole
And happy heart, that pays its toll
To Youth and Age,
and travels on with cheer.
So let the way wind up the hill or down,
O'er rough or smooth, the
journey will be joy:
Still seeking what I sought when but a boy,

New friendship, high adventure, and a crown,
My heart will keep the
courage of the quest,
And hope the road's last turn will be the best.
May, 1902.
LOVE

Let me but love my love without disguise,
Nor wear a mask of fashion old or new,
Nor wait to speak till I can
hear a clue,
Nor play a part to shine in others' eyes,
Nor bow my
knees to what my heart denies;
But what I am, to that let me be true,

And let me worship where my love is due,
And so through love
and worship let me rise.
For love is but the heart's immortal thirst
To be completely known
and all forgiven,
Even as sinful souls that enter Heaven:
So take me,
dear, and understand my worst,
And freely pardon it, because
confessed,
And let me find in loving thee, my best.
May, 1902.
THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN
When to the garden of untroubled thought
I came of late, and saw the open door,
And wished again to enter, and
explore
The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought,
And
bowers of innocence with beauty fraught,
It seemed some purer voice
must speak before
I dared to tread that garden loved of yore,
That
Eden lost unknown and found unsought.
Then just within the gate I saw a child,--
A stranger-child, yet to my
heart most dear;
He held his hands to me, and softly smiled
With
eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear:
"Come in," he said, "and play
awhile with me;
"I am the little child you used to be."
January, 1903.
LOVE'S REASON
For that thy face is fair I love thee not;

Nor yet because the light of thy brown eyes
Hath gleams of wonder
and of glad surprise,
Like woodland streams that cross a sunlit spot:

Nor for thy beauty, born without a blot,
Most perfect when it
shines through no disguise
Pure as the star of Eve in Paradise,--
For
all these outward things I love thee not:
But for a something in thy form and face,
Thy looks and ways, of
primal harmony;
A certain soothing charm, a vital grace
That
breathes of the eternal womanly,
And makes me feel the warmth of
Nature's breast,
When in her arms, and thine, I sink to rest.
February, 1904.
PORTRAIT AND REALITY
If on the closed curtain of my sight
My fancy paints thy portrait far away,
I see thee still the same, by
night or day;
Crossing the crowded street, or moving bright
'Mid
festal throngs, or reading by the light
Of shaded lamp some friendly
poet's lay,
Or shepherding the children at their play,--
The same
sweet self, and my unchanged delight.
But when I see thee near, I recognize
In every dear familiar way some
strange
Perfection, and behold in April guise
The magic of thy
beauty that doth range
Through many moods with infinite surprise,--

Never the same, and sweeter with each change.
May, 1904.
THE WIND OF SORROW
The fire of love was burning, yet so low
That in the