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A HEALTH
I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle s.e.x The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers; And lovely pa.s.sions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,-- The idol of past years!
Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers.
I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle s.e.x The seeming paragon-- Her health! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name.
Edward Coote Pinkney [1802-1828]
OUR SISTER
Her face was very fair to see, So luminous with purity:-- It had no roses, but the hue Of lilies l.u.s.trous with their dew-- Her very soul seemed s.h.i.+ning through!
Her quiet nature seemed to be Tuned to each season's harmony.
The holy sky bent near to her; She saw a spirit in the stir Of solemn woods. The rills that beat Their mosses with voluptuous feet, Went dripping music through her thought.
Sweet impulse came to her unsought From graceful things, and beauty took A sacred meaning in her look.
In the great Master's steps went she With patience and humility.
The casual gazer could not guess Half of her veiled loveliness; Yet ah! what precious things lay hid Beneath her bosom's snowy lid:-- What tenderness and sympathy, What beauty of sincerity, What fancies chaste, and loves, that grew In heaven's own stainless light and dew!
True woman was she day by day In suffering, toil, and victory.
Her life, made holy and serene By faith, was hid with things unseen.
She knew what they alone can know Who live above but dwell below.
Horatio Nelson Powers [1826-1890]
FROM LIFE
Her thoughts are like a flock of b.u.t.terflies.
She has a merry love of little things, And a bright flutter of speech, whereto she brings A threefold eloquence--voice, hands and eyes.
Yet under all a subtle silence lies As a bird's heart is hidden by its wings; And you shall search through many wanderings The fairyland of her realities.
She hides herself behind a busy brain-- A woman, with a child's laugh in her blood; A maid, wearing the shadow of motherhood-- Wise with the quiet memory of old pain, As the soft glamor of remembered rain Hallows the gladness of a sunlit wood.
Brian Hooker [1880-
THE ROSE OF THE WORLD
Who dreamed that beauty pa.s.ses like a dream?
For these red lips, with all their mournful pride, Mournful that no new wonder may betide, Troy pa.s.sed away in one high funeral gleam, And Usna's children died.
We and the laboring world are pa.s.sing by: Amid men's souls, that waver and give place, Like the pale waters in their wintry race, Under the pa.s.sing stars, foam of the sky, Lives on this lonely face.
Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode: Before you were, or any hearts to beat, Weary and kind one lingered by His seat; He made the world to be a gra.s.sy road Before her wandering feet.
William Butler Yeats [1865-
DAWN OF WOMANHOOD
Thus will I have the woman of my dream.
Strong must she be and gentle, like a star Her soul burn whitely; nor its arrowy beam
May any cloud of superst.i.tion mar: True to the earth she is, patient and calm.
Her tranquil eyes shall penetrate afar
Through centuries, and her maternal arm Enfold the generations yet unborn; Nor she, by pa.s.sing glamor nor alarm,
Will from the steadfast way of life be drawn.
Gray-eyed and fearless, I behold her gaze Outward into the furnace of the dawn.
Sacred shall be the purport of her days, Yet human; and the pa.s.sion of the earth Shall be for her adornment and her praise.
She is most often joyous, with a mirth That rings true-tempered holy womanhood, She cannot fear the agonies of birth,
Nor sit in pallid lethargy and brood Upon the coming seasons of her pain: By her the mystery is understood
Of harvest, and fulfilment in the grain.
Yea, she is wont to labor in the field, Delights to heap, at sunset, on the wain
Festoons and coronals of the golden yield.
A triumph is the labor of her soul, Sublime along eternity revealed.
Lo, everlastingly in her control, Under the even measure of her breath, Like crested waves the onward centuries roll.
Nor to far heaven her spirit wandereth, Nor lifteth she her voice in barren prayer, Nor trembleth at appearances of death.
She, G.o.dlike in her womanhood, will fare Calm-visaged and heroic to the end.
The homestead is her most especial care;
She loves the sacred hearth: she will defend Her G.o.ds from desecration of the vile.
