Only the sliding of the wave Beneath the plank, and feel so near A cold and lonely grave, A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the sidelong shark Upturned patiently, Ever waiting there for thee: Look down and see those shapeless forms, Which ever keep their dreamless sleep Far down within the gloomy deep, And only stir themselves in storms, Rising like islands from beneath, And snorting through the angry spray, As the frail vessel perisheth In the whirls of their unwieldy play; Look down! Look down! Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, That waves its arms so lank and brown, Beckoning for thee! Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Into the cold depth of the sea! Thus, on Life's lonely sea, Here all is pleasant as a dream ; The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, The green grass floweth like a stream Into the ocean's blue; enter; She hath a natural, wise sincerity, A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her A dignity as moveless as the centre; So that no influence of earth can stir Her steadfast courage, nor can take away The holy peacefulness, which, night and day, Unto her queenly soul doth minister. Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear; These are Irené's dowry, which no fate Can shake from their serene, deepbuilded state. In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth No less than loveth, scorning to be bound With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes, Giving itself a pang for others' sakes; No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye, Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride That passeth by upon the other side; For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. Right from the hand of God her spirit FROM the close-shut windows gleams no spark, The night is chilly, the night is dark, The darkness is pressing coldly around, The world is happy, the world is wide, O, 't is a bitter and dreary word, We each are young, we each have a heart, Why stand we ever coldly apart? WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. THIS little blossom from afar Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk, And numbered over, half afraid, "He loves me, loves me not," she cries; "He loves me more than earth or heaven!" And then glad tears have filled her That I may keep at bay The changeful April sky of chance Some of thy pensiveness serene, That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light, And deck me in a robe of white, A little of thy merriment, Ye have been very kind and good Of all good things I would have part, Heaven help me! how could I forget That blossoms here as well, unseen, MY LOVE. I. NOT as all other women are II. Great feelings hath she of her own, III. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. IV. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise ; V. She hath no scorn of common things, And patiently she folds her wings VI. Blessing she is: God made her so, VII. She is most fair, and thereunto |