Poems of Passion Part 11

Inconstancy with flippant mien The fading primrose chose to wear.

One moment Love the rose paused by; But Beauty picked it for her hair.

Love paced the garden with a sigh He found no fitting emblem there.

Then suddenly he saw a flame, A conflagration turned to bloom; It even put the rose to shame, Both in its beauty and perfume.

He watched it, and it did not fade; He plucked it, and it brighter grew.

In cold or heat, all undismayed, It kept its fragrance and its hue.

"Here deathless love and pa.s.sion sleep,"

He cried, "embodied in this flower.

This is the emblem I will keep."

Love wore carnations from that hour.

[Ill.u.s.tration:]

LIFE IS TOO SHORT.

Life is too short for any vain regretting; Let dead delight bury its dead, I say, And let us go upon our way forgetting The joys and sorrows of each yesterday Between the swift sun's rising and its setting We have no time for useless tears or fretting: Life is too short.

Life is too short for any bitter feeling; Time is the best avenger if we wait; The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing; We have no room for anything like hate.

This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealing That thick and fast about our feet are stealing: Life is too short.

Life is too short for aught but high endeavor-- Too short for spite, but long enough for love.

And love lives on forever and forever; It links the worlds that circle on above: 'Tis G.o.d's first law, the universe's lever.

In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never "Life is too short."

A SCULPTOR.

As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, lifts Chisel and hammer to the block at hand, Before my half-formed character I stand And ply the s.h.i.+ning tools of mental gifts.

I'll cut away a huge, unsightly side Of selfishness, and smooth to curves of grace The angles of ill-temper.

And no trace Shall my sure hammer leave of silly pride.

Chip after chip must fall from vain desires, And the sharp corners of my discontent Be rounded into symmetry, and lent Great harmony by faith that never tires.

Unfinished still, I must toil on and on, Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, "'Tis done."

BEYOND.

It seemeth such a little way to me Across to that strange country--the Beyond; And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be The home of those of whom I am so fond, They make it seem familiar and most dear, As journeying friends bring distant regions near.

So close it lies that when my sight is clear I think I almost see the gleaming strand.

I know I feel those who have gone from here Come near enough sometimes to touch my hand.

I often think, but for our veiled eyes, We should find Heaven right round about us lies.

I cannot make it seem a day to dread, When from this dear earth I shall journey out To that still dearer country of the dead, And join the lost ones, so long dreamed about.

I love this world, yet shall I love to go And meet the friends who wait for me, I know.

I never stand above a bier and see The seal of death set on some well-loved face But that I think, "One more to welcome me When I shall cross the intervening s.p.a.ce Between this land and that one 'over there'; One more to make the strange Beyond seem fair."

And so for me there is no sting to death, And so the grave has lost its victory.

It is but crossing--with a bated breath And white, set face--a little strip of sea To find the loved ones waiting on the sh.o.r.e, More beautiful, more precious than before.

[Ill.u.s.tration:]

THE SADDEST HOUR.

The saddest hour of anguish and of loss Is not that season of supreme despair When we can find no least light anywhere To gild the dread, black shadow of the Cross; Not in that luxury of sorrow when We sup on salt of tears, and drink the gall Of memories of days beyond recall-- Of lost delights that cannot come again.

But when, with eyes that are no longer wet, We look out on the great, wide world of men, And, smiling, lean toward a bright to-morrow, Then backward shrink, with sudden keen regret, To find that we are learning to forget: Ah! then we face the saddest hour of sorrow.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ACROSS THE SEA OF SILENCE]

SHOW ME THE WAY.

Show me the way that leads to the true life.

I do not care what tempests may a.s.sail me, I shall be given courage for the strife; I know my strength will not desert or fail me; I know that I shall conquer in the fray: Show me the way.

Show me the way up to a higher plane, Where body shall be servant to the soul.

I do not care what tides of woe or pain Across my life their angry waves may roll, If I but reach the end I seek, some day: Show me the way.

Show me the way, and let me bravely climb Above vain grievings for unworthy treasures; Above all sorrow that finds balm in time; Above small triumphs or belittling pleasures; Up to those heights where these things seem child's-play: Show me the way.

Show me the way to that calm, perfect peace Which springs from an inward consciousness of right; To where all conflicts with the flesh shall cease, And self shall radiate with the spirit's light.

Though hard the journey and the strife, I pray, Show me the way.

MY HERITAGE.

I into life so full of love was sent That all the shadows which fall on the way Of every human being could not stay, But fled before the light my spirit lent.

I saw the world through gold and crimson dyes: Men sighed and said, "Those rosy hues will fade As you pa.s.s on into the glare and shade!"