New Poems | Page 5

sky
Of ours, we met.
Now winter night shall see
Again us two,
While howls the tempest
higher,
Sit warmly by the fire
And dream and plan, as we
Were
wont to do.

And, hand in hand, at large
Our thoughts shall walk
While storm
and gusty rain,
Again and yet again,
Shall drive their noisy charge

Across the talk.
The pleasant future still
Shall smile to me,
And hope with wooing
hands
Wave on to fairy lands
All over dale and hill
And earth and
sea.
And you who doubt the sky
And fear the sun -
You - Christian with
the pack -
You shall not wander back
For I am Hopeful - I
Will
cheer you on.
Come - where the great have trod,
The great shall lead -
Come,
elbow through the press,
Pluck Fortune by the dress -
By God, we
must - by God,
We shall succeed.
TO OTTILIE
YOU remember, I suppose,
How the August sun arose,
And how
his face
Woke to trill and carolette
All the cages that were set

About the place.
In the tender morning light
All around lay strange and bright
And
still and sweet,
And the gray doves unafraid
Went their morning
promenade
Along the street.
THIS GLOOMY NORTHERN DAY
THIS gloomy northern day,
Or this yet gloomier night,
Has moved
a something high
In my cold heart; and I,
That do not often pray,

Would pray to-night.
And first on Thee I call
For bread, O God of might!
Enough of
bread for all, -
That through the famished town

Cold hunger may lie
down
With none to-night.

I pray for hope no less,
Strong-sinewed hope, O Lord,
That to the
struggling young
May preach with brazen tongue
Stout Labour,
high success,
And bright reward.
And last, O Lord, I pray
For hearts resigned and bold
To trudge the
dusty way -
Hearts stored with song and joke
And warmer than a
cloak
Against the cold.
If nothing else he had,
He who has this, has all.
This comforts under
pain;
This, through the stinging rain,
Keeps ragamuffin glad

Behind the wall.
This makes the sanded inn
A palace for a Prince,
And this, when
griefs begin
And cruel fate annoys,
Can bring to mind the joys
Of
ages since.
THE WIND IS WITHOUT THERE AND HOWLS IN THE
TREES
THE wind is without there and howls in the trees,
And the
rain-flurries drum on the glass:
Alone by the fireside with elbows on
knees
I can number the hours as they pass.
Yet now, when to cheer
me the crickets begin,
And my pipe is just happily lit,
Believe me,
my friend, tho' the evening draws in,
That not all uncontested I sit.
Alone, did I say? O no, nowise alone
With the Past sitting warm on
my knee,
To gossip of days that are over and gone,
But still
charming to her and to me.
With much to be glad of and much to
deplore,
Yet, as these days with those we compare,
Believe me, my
friend, tho' the sorrows seem more
They are somehow more easy to
bear.
And thou, faded Future, uncertain and frail,
As I cherish thy light in
each draught,
His lamp is not more to the miner - their sail
Is not
more to the crew on the raft.
For Hope can make feeble ones earnest

and brave,
And, as forth thro' the years I look on,
Believe me, my
friend, between this and the grave,
I see wonderful things to be done.
To do or to try; and, believe me, my friend,
If the call should come
early for me,
I can leave these foundations uprooted, and tend
For
some new city over the sea.
To do or to try; and if failure be mine,

And if Fortune go cross to my plan,
Believe me, my friend, tho' I
mourn the design
I shall never lament for the man.
A VALENTINE'S SONG
MOTLEY I count the only wear
That suits, in this mixed world, the
truly wise,
Who boldly smile upon despair
And shake their bells in
Grandam Grundy's eyes.
Singers should sing with such a goodly
cheer
That the bare listening should make strong like wine,
At this
unruly time of year,
The Feast of Valentine.
We do not now parade our "oughts"
And "shoulds" and motives and
beliefs in God.
Their life lies all indoors; sad thoughts
Must keep
the house, while gay thoughts go abroad,
Within we hold the wake
for hopes deceased;
But in the public streets, in wind or sun,
Keep
open, at the annual feast,
The puppet-booth of fun.
Our powers, perhaps, are small to please,
But even negro-songs and
castanettes,
Old jokes and hackneyed repartees
Are more than the
parade of vain regrets.
Let Jacques stand Wert(h)ering by the
wounded deer -
We shall make merry, honest friends of mine,
At
this unruly time of year,
The Feast of Valentine.
I know how, day by weary day,
Hope fades, love fades, a thousand
pleasures fade.
I have not trudged in vain that way
On which life's
daylight darkens, shade by shade.
And still, with hopes decreasing,
griefs increased,
Still, with what wit I have shall I, for one,
Keep
open, at the annual feast,
The puppet-booth of fun.

I care not if the wit be poor,
The old worn motley stained with rain
and tears,
If but the courage still endure
That filled and
strengthened hope in earlier years;
If still, with friends averted, fate
severe,
A glad, untainted cheerfulness be mine
To