Yesterdays | Page 6

the treacherous sand,
And know I was sinking, sinking,?While the moaning sea sang a dirge for me,--
Why, that were comfort, I'm thinking.
IT DOES NOT MATTER
It does not matter very much to me
Through what strange ways my pathway now may lead;?Since I know that it runs away from thee,
I give it little heed.
It does not matter if in calm or strife,
There ebb or flow for me the future's tide.?I had but one great longing in my life,
And that has been denied.
It does not matter if I stand or fall,
Or walk with kings, or with the rank and file;?Life's loftiest aims and best ambitions all
Were centred in thy smile.
It does not matter what the world may say:
I feel no interest in its blame or praise.?I only know we dwell apart to-day,
And shall through endless days.
It does not matter. For my restless heart
Is numb to sorrow, or to pleasure's touch.?Since it must be that we two drift apart,
Why, nothing matters much.
THE UNDER-TONE
In the dull, dim dawn of day I heard?The twitter and thrill of a brown-backed bird,?As he sat and sang in the leafless tree,?A herald of beautiful days to be.
But the minor running under the strain?Went to my heart with a sudden pain,?For never so sad a sound I heard?As the troubled thrill of the brown-backed bird.
Not in the wearisome wash of waves,?With moaning murmur of wrecks and graves,?Not in the weird winds' wildest wail,?Not in the roar of the rushing gale.
Not in the sob of dying years?Are sounds so solemn and full of tears.?O herald of days that are green and glad,?Why was your morning song so sad?
Have you a secret hidden away,?Of sorrow to come with a coming day??Folded under a folded leaf,?Lies there trouble and bitter grief?
The shadow of death, and tears, and gloom?Coming to me when roses bloom??Will the beautiful days I long for so?Hold like your song a strain of woe?
What is the secret you hide from me?O herald of days that are to be??And why was that desolate minor moan?Lurking under your gladdest tone?
WORTH LIVING
I know not what the future may hold,
Or how to others it seems,?But I know my skies have held more gold
Than I used to find in my dreams.
Though the whole world sings of hopes death chilled,
In grateful truth I say,?That my best hopes have been fulfilled,
And more than fulfilled to-day.
Though oft my arrow I aim at the sun
To see it fall into the sand,?Yet just as often some work I have done
Is better than I have planned.
I do not always grasp the pleasure
For which I reach, maybe;?But quite as frequently over-measure
Is given by joy to me.
To-morrow may bring a grief behind it
That will thoroughly change my mood;?But we only can speak of a thing as we find it--
And I have found life good.
MORE FORTUNATE
I hold that life more fortunate by far
That sits with its sweet memories alone?And cherishes a joy for ever flown?Beyond the reach of accident to mar.?(Some joy that was extinguished like a star)
Than that which makes the prize so much its own?That its poor commonplacenesses are shown;?(Which in all things, when viewed too closely, are.)
Better to mourn a blossom snatched away
Before it reached perfection, than behold?With dry, unhappy eyes, day after day,?The fresh bloom fade, and the fair leaf decay.
Better to lose the dream, with all its gold,?Than keep it till it changes to dull grey.
HE WILL NOT COME
Take out the blossom in your hair abloom,
No more it seemeth beautiful, or bright,?And sickening is its subtly sweet perfume--
He will not come to-night.
Take off the necklace with its sparkling gem,
And rings that glow and glitter in the light,?And fling them in the case that waits for them--
He will not come to-night.
Take off the robe a little while ago
You chose, to make you fairer in his sight;?'Tis ten o'clock. So late you can but know
He will not come to-night.
He will not come. God grant you strength and grace,
For never more upon your mortal sight?Shall dawn a glimpse of that beloved face
That did not come to-night.
He will not come. And through the shadowed years,
The perfume of that blossom that you wore?Shall stir the fount of salt and bitter tears--
For one who comes no more.
WORN OUT
I saw a young heart in the grasp of pain;
With bruised breast, and broken, bleeding wing?Shipwrecked on hopeless love's tempestuous main,
Lay the poor tortured thing.
It pulsed with all the anguish of despair;
It ached with all a fond heart's awful power;?Yet I, who stood unhurt above it there,
Envied its lot that hour.
I, who have wasted all the sacred, deep
Emotions of my soul in spendthrift fashion,?Until no sorrow now can make me weep--
No joy stir me with passion.
I, who have scattered here and there the gold
Of my heart's store, until I spent the whole;?Yet unto each so little gave to hold,
That I enriched no soul.
I, who have sold the birthright of