A little longer left for human joy;
To win and lose,—man's masterful employ,—
To dream and ponder.
A little longer! But, O, sweeter this
Than any lesser grace or lowlier bliss
In earth's wide blindness:
A little longer left for lifting hearts,
Healing hurt souls, for earth's most heavenly arts—
For love and kindness.
THE SINGING RIVER
I
I read the poet's verses by the stream
Where late with him I walked; the twilight gleam
Faded, the page darkened, and from the sky
The day, withdrawing gradual, came to die
Slowly, into a memory and a sigh.
II
There as I read, the poet's lyric dream
Mixt with the silvery clamor of the stream,
And, tho' the night fell, and I read no more,
Still on and on the mingled measures pour:
"Beauty is one," they murmur o'er and o'er.
THE SOLACE OF THE SKIES
When fell the first great sorrow of my life,—
He dying from whom my mortal frame was drawn,—
Into the night I fled, long ere the dawn,
Succor to bring for her, the stricken wife.
