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Aiding more bitterness to woe,
More loneness to desertion utter.
Until she saw this gush of light
Its slow way through the deadening night.
Singing sweet words her childhood knew,
Furl off, and leave her heaven blue.
Outwearied in the drifting snow,
No longer of its hopeless woe:
Old meadows, green with grass and trees,
And whiten in the western breeze, -
Rises within her heart again,
Makes summer of the icy rain.
From all humanity apart,
Through the lone chambers of her heart.
Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone,
No longer dreary and alone.
Against the opening door did weigh,
A woman on the threshold lay.
That she had found a calm release,
The song had borne her soul in peace.
Sometimes the heart of God takes in,
With silence 'mid the world's loud din;
And one of his great charities
Is Music, and it doth not scorn
Farther in guilt had wandered thence,
To die in maiden innocence.
The moon shines white and silent
On the mist, which, like a tide
O'er the wide marsh doth glide,
Silently far and wide.
Makes all things mysteries,
Up to the longing skies --
And tremulous replies.
In pulses come and go ;
Weighs on the grass below;
The dreaming cock doth crow.
The very bushes swell
As if beneath a spell, —
From childhood known so well.
O’er everything doth fall,
And yet so like a pall,-
And rest were come to all.
To make the charmed body
Almost like spirit be,
But rather wait until the time
Enough to enter thy pure clime,
What I through death must learn to be,
Than thou canst need in heaven with thee:
More near than ever, each to each:
My heavenly than my earthly speech;
The rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
The bank may break, the factory burn,
And soft white hands could hardly earn
A living that would serve his turn;
The rich man's son inherits wants,
His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles, and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit ?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labour sings;
A patience learned of being poor,
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door;
That with all others level stands;
But only whiten, soft white hands
This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to be, Worth being rich to hold in fee. O, poor man's son! scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign: A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
In his tower sat the poet
Gazing on the roaring sea,
Where there's none that loveth me.
And sinks back into the seas,
So to burst and be at ease.
That hath lain against my breast;
It will find a surer rest.
Ugly death stands there behind,
Him that toileth for his kind.'
And with bitter smile did mark
Swift into the hungry dark.
And the gale, with dreary moan,
Musing by the wave-beat strand,
Tracing words upon the sand :
Who hath been my life so long,
Be the spirit of his song?
I have traced upon thy shore,
Mine with love for evermore!'