And, fringing it with palest argent, I half used to fancy the sunshine there, Slow sheathes herself behind the So shy, so shifting, so waywardly margent Of that long cloud - bar in the rare, Was only caught for the moment and holden West, Whose nether edge, erelong, you While I could say Dearest! and kiss it, and then see again. The silvery chrism in turn anoint, In pity let go to the summer And then the tiniest rosy point Touched doubtfully and timidly Into the dark blue's chilly strip, As some mute, wondering thing below, 381 Awakened by the thrilling glow, Knew you what silence was before? I twisted this magic in gossamer strings Over a wind-harp's Delphian hol low; Then called to the idle breeze that swings All day in the pine-tops, and clings, and sings 'Mid the musical leaves, and said, 'Oh, follow Here is no startle of dreaming The will of those tears that deepen bird my words, That sings in his sleep, or strives And fly to my window to waken And fancied the huge sea-beast They swelled such weird murmur unseen Turning in sleep; it is the sea That welters and wavers uneas ily as haunts a shore Of some planet dispeopled,-'Nev ermore!' Round the lonely reefs of Apple- Then from deep in the past, as I TREASURE in secret some long, But 't is dark,' and they shud. fine hair Of tenderest brown, but so inwardly golden dered, 'where lieth she, Dark and cold! Forever must one be taken?' AUF WIEDERSEHEN SUMMER STILL thirteen years: 't is autumn now On field and hill, in heart and brain; The naked trees at evening sough; THE little gate was reached at The leaf to the forsaken bough last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast, With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said, - Auf wiedersehen!' The lamp's clear gleam flits up I linger in delicious pain; air To breathe in thought I scarcely Somewhere is comfort, somewhere One sweet sad voice ennobles To the spirit its splendid conjec death, And still, for eighteen centuries saith Softly,' Auf wiedersehen!' tures, To the flesh its sweet despair, Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket With its anguish of deathless hair! Immortal? I feel it and know it, If earth another grave must bear, spair, That, from an orient chamber there, cret,- Floats down, 'Auf wiedersehen!' There's a narrow ridge in the Deep down among sea-weed and It is pagan; but wait till you feel That little shoe in the corner, So worn and wrinkled and brown, With its emptiness confutes you, And argues your wisdom down. THE DEAD HOUSE HERE once my step was quickened, I come back that scar unhealing Was not in the churchyard then. But, I think, the house is unal tered, I will go and beg to look At the rooms that were once familiar To my life as its bed to a brook. Here beckoned the opening door, Unaltered! Alas for the sameAnd welcome thrilled from the ness That makes the change but more! 'T is a dead man I see in the mir. rors, 'T is his tread that chills the floor! To learn such a simple lesson, Need I go to Paris and Rome, That the many make the household, But only one the home? 'T was just a womanly presence, An influence unexprest, But a rose she had worn, on my gravesod Were more than long life with the rest! 'T was a smile, 't was a garment's rustle, 'T was nothing that I can phrase, But the whole dumb dwelling grew conscious, And put on her looks and ways. Were it mine I would close the shutters, Like lids when the life is fled, And the funeral fire should wind it, This corpse of a home that is dead. For it died that autumn morning That fringed thee with music be- Whether of war or hunting or the fore, And deeper thy roots embedding In the grace and the beauty of yore; Thou sigh'st not, 'Alas, I am older, The green of last summer is sear!' But loftier, hopefuller, bolder, Winnest broader horizons each year. oar, But was anhungered for some joy untried: For the brain grew not weary with the limbs, But, while they slept, still hammered like a Troll, Building all night a bridge of solid dream Between him and some purpose of his soul, To me 't is not cheer thou art sing. Or will to find a purpose. With |