Great Poems by American Women (7 page)

At the dead of night by the side of the Sea
I met my gray-haired enemy,—
The glittering light of his serpent eye
Was all I had to see him by.

 

At the dead of night, and stormy weather
We went into a cave together,—
Into a cave by the side of the Sea,
And—he never came out with me!

 

The flower that up through the April mould
Comes like a miser dragging his gold,
Never made spot of earth so bright
As was the ground in the cave that night.

 

Dead of night, and stormy weather!
Who should see us going together
Under the black and dripping stone
Of the cave from whence I came alone!

 

Next day as my boy sat on my knee
He picked the gray hairs off from me,
And told with eyes brimful of fear
How a bird in the meadow near

 

Over her clay-built nest had spread
Sticks and leaves all bloody red,
Brought from a cave by the side of the Sea
Where some murdered man must be.

I am weary of the working,

Weary of the long day's heat;

To thy comfortable bosom,

Wilt thou take me, spirit sweet?

 

Weary of the long, blind struggle

For a pathway bright and high,—

Weary of the dimly dying

Hopes that never quite all die.

 

Weary searching a bad cipher

For a good that must be meant;

Discontent with being weary,—

Weary with my discontent.

 

I am weary of the trusting

Where my trusts but torments prove;

Wilt thou keep faith with me? wilt thou

Be my true and tender love?

 

I am weary drifting, driving

Like a helmless bark at sea;

Kindly, comfortable spirit,

Wilt thou give thyself to me?

 

Give thy birds to sing me sonnets?

Give thy winds my cheeks to kiss?

And thy mossy rocks to stand for

The memorials of our bliss?

 

I in reverence will hold thee,

Never vexed with jealous ills,

Though thy wild and wimpling waters

Wind about a thousand hills.

Ye have a kind voice, sweet flowers!

Of pure angelic tone;

It has no echo in greenwood bowers,

But speaks to the heart alone.

 

Ye have looked on the blush of day,

And stolen its rosy hue;

But the fountain and song-bird's lay

Are silent, alas! to you.

 

No clambering vines caress

Your artless forms so fair;

Your velvet leaves are motionless,

For beauty is sleeping there.

 

And the flower-spirit hovers near,

And bears on its dove-like wing,

A gem that was once a pearly tear

On the infant cheek of spring.

 

Ye have a sad voice, sweet flowers!

That whispers of quick decay;

The garlands worn in happiest hours

Are the soonest to pass away.

 

I know that the frost of death

Ere long will silently chill;

But the fragrance exhaling now

Will linger around me still.

 

And thus doth a smile, the last

By the lips of a fond friend given,

A fragrance shed though that friend hath passed

To his home in the starry heaven.

She sat alone beside the couch of death,
And looked upon the features of her child;
The silken curls lay on its velvet cheek,
And as she stooped to kiss those parted lips
From which the ruby tints had scarcely fled,
It seemed as if her own sweet lullaby
Had hushed it to a soft and gentle sleep.
She clasped its little hands upon its breast,
And then in melancholy accents said:—
Oh no! it cannot be, thou art not dead!
Look up, my daughter! let me see again
Those laughing eyes in their long lashes hid;
'Tis hard to give thee up, in one short hour
To feel the hopes of years for ever crushed,
And severed one by one, those tender cords
That round the fibres of my heart were twined,
Till with my very life they seemed to blend.
Oh! there are wounds which time alone must heal,
And tears which only heaven can wipe away.
Thy mother's hand a pencil sketch shall draw
Of thee, my child, so beautiful and young;
For I would keep thine image near me still.
A moment, and the painful task begun,
She had been weeping bitterly, but now
All trace of tears had vanished from her cheek;
And she prayed earnestly to God for strength.
Nor was that prayer unheard. A still small voice
Had whispered consolation to her heart;
A hand unseen, to firmness nerved her own,
And soon her infant's picture was complete.

One sweetly solemn thought

Comes to me o'er and o'er;

I am nearer home to-day

Than I ever have been before;

 

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be;

Nearer the great white throne,

Nearer the crystal sea;

 

Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down;

Nearer leaving the cross,

Nearer gaining the crown.

 

But lying darkly between,

Winding down through the night,

Is the silent, unknown stream,

That leads at last to the light.

 

Closer and closer my steps

Come to the dread abysm:

Closer Death to my lips

Presses the awful chrism.

 

Oh, if my mortal feet

Have almost gained the brink;

If it be I am nearer home

Even to-day than I think;

 

Father, perfect my trust;

Let my spirit feel in death,

That her feet are firmly set

On the rock of a living faith!

By a Woman

O, my strong-minded sisters, aspiring to vote,
And to row with your brothers, all in the same boat,
When you come out to speak to the public your mind,
Leave your tricks, and your airs, and your graces behind!

 

For instance, when you by the world would be seen
As reporter, or editor (first-class, I mean),
I think—just to come to the point in one line—
What you write will be finer, if 'tis not too fine.

 

Pray, don't let the thread of your subject be strung
With “golden,” and “shimmer,” “sweet,” “filter,” and “flung;”
Nor compel, by your style, all your readers to guess
You've been looking up words Webster marks
obs.

 

And another thing: whatever else you may say,
Do keep personalities out of the way;
Don't try every sentence to make people see
What a dear, charming creature the writer must be!

 

Leave out affectations and pretty appeals;
Don't “drag yourself in by the neck and the heels,”
Your dear little boots, and your gloves; and take heed,
Nor pull your curls over men's eyes while they read.

 

Don't mistake me; I mean that the public's not home,
You must do as the Romans do, when you're in Rome;
I would have you be womanly, while you are wise;
'Tis the weak and the womanish tricks I despise.

 

On the other hand: don't write and dress in such styles
As astonish the natives, and frighten the isles;
Do look, on the platform, so folks in the show
Needn't ask, “Which are lions, and which tigers?” you know!

 

‘Tis a good thing to write, and to rule in the state,
But to be a true, womanly woman is great:
And if ever you come to be that, 'twill be when
You can cease to be babies, nor try to be men!

He who plants a tree

Plants a hope.

Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope;

Leaves unfold into horizons free.

So man's life must climb

From the clods of time

Unto heavens sublime.

Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree,

What the glory of thy boughs shall be?

 

He who plants a tree

Plants a joy;

Plants a comfort that will never cloy;

Every day a fresh reality,

Beautiful and strong,

To whose shelter throng

Creatures blithe with song.

If thou couldst but know, thou happy tree,

Of the bliss that shall inhabit thee!

 

He who plants a tree,—

He plants peace.

Under its green curtains jargons cease.

Leaf and zephyr murmur soothingly;

Shadows soft with sleep

Down tired eyelids creep,

Balm of slumber deep.

Never hast thou dreamed, thou blessed tree,

Of the benediction thou shalt be.

 

He who plants a tree,—

He plants youth;

Vigor won for centuries in sooth;

Life of time, that hints eternity!

Boughs their strength uprear;

New shoots, every year,

On old growths appear;

Thou shalt teach the ages, sturdy tree,

Youth of soul is immortality.

 

He who plants a tree,—

He plants love,

Tents of coolness spreading out above

Wayfarers he may not live to see.

Gifts that grow are best;

Hands that bless are blest;

Plant! life does the rest!

Heaven and earth help him who plants a tree,

And his work its own reward shall be.

I do not own an inch of land,

But all I see is mine,—

The orchard and the mowing-fields,

The lawns and gardens fine.

The winds my tax-collectors are,

They bring me tithes divine,—

Wild scents and subtle essences,

A tribute rare and free;

And, more magnificent than all,

My window keeps for me

A glimpse of blue immensity,—

A little strip of sea.

 

Richer am I than he who owns

Great fleets and argosies;

I have a share in every ship

Won by the inland breeze,

To loiter on yon airy road

Above the apple-trees.

I freight them with my untold dreams;

Each bears my own picked crew;

And nobler cargoes wait for them

Than ever India knew,—

My ships that sail into the East

Across that outlet blue.

 

Sometimes they seem like living shapes,—

The people of the sky,—

Guests in white raiment coming down

From heaven, which is close by;

I call them by familiar names,

As one by one draws nigh.

So white, so light, so spirit-like,

From violet mists they bloom!

The aching wastes of the unknown

Are half reclaimed from gloom,

Since on life's hospitable sea

All souls find sailing-room.

 

The ocean grows a weariness

With nothing else in sight;

Its east and west, its north and south,

Spread out from morn till night;

We miss the warm, caressing shore,

Its brooding shade and light.

A part is greater than the whole;

By hints are mysteries told.

The fringes of eternity,—

God's sweeping garment-fold,

In that bright shred of glittering sea,

I reach out for and hold.

 

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl,

Float in upon the mist;

The waves are broken precious stones,—

Sapphire and amethyst

Washed from celestial basement walls,

By suns unsetting kist.

Out through the utmost gates of space,

Past where the gray stars drift,

To the widening Infinite, my soul

Glides on, a vessel swift,

Yet loses not her anchorage

In yonder azure rift.

 

Here sit I, as a little child;

The threshold of God's door

Is that clear band of chrysoprase;

Now the vast temple floor,

The blinding glory of the dome

I bow my head before.

Thy universe, O God, is home,

In height or depth, to me;

Yet here upon thy footstool green

Content am I to be;

Glad when is oped unto my need

Some sea-like glimpse of Thee.