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over-brimmed and full;?Nothing remains for me.
I used to do so many things,--?Love thee and chide thee and caress;?Brush little straws from off thy way,?Tempering with my poor tenderness?The heat of thy short day.
Not much, but very sweet to give;?And it is grief of griefs to bear?That all these ministries are o'er,?And thou, so happy, Love, elsewhere,?Never can need me more:--
And I can do for thee but this?(Working on blindly, knowing not?If I may give thee pleasure so):?Out of my own dull, burdened lot?I can arise, and go
To sadder lives and darker homes,?A messenger, dear heart, from thee?Who wast on earth a comforter,?And say to those who welcome me,?I am sent forth by her.
Feeling the while how good it is?To do thy errands thus, and think?It may be, in the blue, far space,?Thou watchest from the heaven's brink,--?A smile upon my face.
And when the day's work ends with day,?And star-eyed evening, stealing in,?Waves a cool hand to flying noon,?And restless, surging thoughts begin,?Like sad bells out of tune,
I'll pray: "Dear Lord, to whose great love?Nor bound nor limit line is set,?Give to my darling, I implore,?Some new sweet joy not tasted yet,?For I can give no more."
And with the words my thoughts shall climb?With following feet the heavenly stair?Up which thy steps so lately sped,?And, seeing thee so happy there,?Come back half comforted.
THE CRADLE TOMB IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
A little, rudely sculptured bed,?With shadowing folds of marble lace,?And quilt of marble, primly spread?And folded round a baby's face.
Smoothly the mimic coverlet,?With royal blazonries bedight,?Hangs, as by tender fingers set?And straightened for the last good-night.
And traced upon the pillowing stone?A dent is seen, as if to bless?The quiet sleep some grieving one?Had leaned, and left a soft impress.
It seems no more than yesterday?Since the sad mother down the stair?And down the long aisle stole away,?And left her darling sleeping there.
But dust upon the cradle lies,?And those who prized the baby so,?And laid her down to rest with sighs,?Were turned to dust long years ago.
Above the peaceful pillowed head?Three centuries brood, and strangers peep?And wonder at the carven bed,--?But not unwept the baby's sleep,
For wistful mother-eyes are blurred?With sudden mists, as lingerers stay,?And the old dusts are roused and stirred?By the warm tear-drops of to-day.
Soft, furtive hands caress the stone,?And hearts, o'erleaping place and age,?Melt into memories, and own?A thrill of common parentage.
Men die, but sorrow never dies;?The crowding years divide in vain,?And the wide world is knit with ties?Of common brotherhood in pain;
Of common share in grief and loss,?And heritage in the immortal bloom?Of Love, which, flowering round its cross,?Made beautiful a baby's tomb.
"OF SUCH AS I HAVE."
Love me for what I am, Love. Not for sake?Of some imagined thing which I might be,?Some brightness or some goodness not in me,?Born of your hope, as dawn to eyes that wake?Imagined morns before the morning break.?If I, to please you (whom I fain would please),?Reset myself like new key to old tune,?Chained thought, remodelled action, very soon?My hand would slip from yours, and by degrees?The loving, faulty friend, so close to-day,?Would vanish, and another take her place,--?A stranger with a stranger's scrutinies,?A new regard, an unfamiliar face.?Love me for what I am, then, if you may;?But, if you cannot,--love me either way.
A PORTRAIT.
All sweet and various things do lend themselves?And blend and intermix in her rare soul,?As chorded notes, which were untuneful else,?Clasp each the other in a perfect whole.
Within her spirit, dawn, all dewy-pearled,?Seems held and folded in by golden noons,?While past the sunshine gleams a further world?Of deep star-spaces and mysterious moons.
Like widths of blowing ocean wet with spray,?Like breath of early blooms at morning caught,?Like cool airs on the cheek of heated day,?Come the fair emanations of her thought.
Her movement, like the curving of a vine,?Seems an unerring accident of grace,?And like a flower's the subtle change and shine?And meaning of her brightly tranquil face.
And like a tree, unconscious of her shade,?She spreads her helpful branches everywhere?For wandering bird or bee, nor is afraid?Too many guests shall crowd to harbor there.
For she is kinder than all others are,?And weak things, sad things, gather where she dwells,?To reach and taste her strength and drink of her,?As thirsty creatures of clear water-wells.
Why vex with words where words are poor and vain??In one brief sentence lies the riddle's key,?Which those who love her read and read again,?Finding each time new meanings: SHE IS SHE!
WHEN?
If I were told that I must die to-morrow,
That the next sun?Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow
For any one,?All the fight fought, all the short journey through:
What should I do?
I do not think that I should shrink or falter,
But just go on,?Doing my work, nor change, nor seek to alter
Aught that is gone;?But rise and move and love and smile and pray
For one more day.
And, lying down