V. How looks Appledore in a storm? I have seen it when its crags seemed frantic, Butting against the mad Atlantic, When surge on surge would heap enorme, Cliffs of emerald topped with snow, That lifted and lifted, and then let go A great white avalanche of thunder, A grinding, blinding, deafening ire Monadnock might have trembled under; And the island, whose rock-roots pierce below To where they are warmed with the central fire, You could feel its granite fibres racked, As it seemed to plunge with a shudder and thrill Right at the breast of the swooping hill, And to rise again snorting a cataract Of rage-froth from every cranny and ledge, While the sea drew its breath in hoarse and deep, And the next vast breaker curled its edge, Gathering itself for a mightier leap. North, east, and south there are reefs and breakers You would never dream of in smooth weather, That toss and gore the sea for acres, Bellowing and gnashing and snarling together; Look northward, where Duck Island lies, As if the moon should suddenly kiss, While you crossed the gusty desert by night, The long colonnades of Persepolis; Look southward for White Island light, The lantern stands ninety feet o'er the tide; There is first a half-mile of tumult and fight, Of dash and roar and tumble and fright, And surging bewilderment wild and wide, Where the breakers struggle left and right, Then a mile or more of rushing sea, And then the lighthouse slim and lone; And whenever the weight of ocean is thrown Full and fair on White Island head, That seems to shrink and shorten and Till the monster's arms of a sudden drop, You, meanwhile, where drenched you stand, Awaken once more to the rush and roar, And on the rock-point tighten your hand, As you turn and see a valley deep, That was not there a moment before, Suck rattling down between you and a heap Of toppling billow, whose instant fall Must sink the whole island once for all, Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas Feeling their way to you more and Or surely the miracle vanisheth, | Of that long cloud-bar in the West, Here is no startle of dreaming bird Nor noise of any living thing, THE WIND-HARP. The new moon, tranced in unspeakable I TREASURE in secret some long, fine blue! hair So they trembled to life, and, doubt- | Soft as the dews that fell that night, fully She said, "Auf wiedersehen!" Feeling their way to my sense, sang, They sit all day by the greenwood tree, But grief conquered, and all together They swelled such weird murmur as haunts a shore Of some planet dispeopled, more !" "Never AFTER THE BURIAL. YES, faith is a goodly anchor; And when over breakers to leeward But, after the shipwreck, tell me In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, Then better one spar of Memory, To the spirit its splendid conjectures, Immortal? I feel it and know it, There's a narrow ridge in the graveyard Would scarce stay a child in his race, Your logic, my friend, is perfect, I keep hearing that, and not you. Console if you will, I can bear it; It is pagan; but wait till you feel it, sion Tears down to our primitive rock. Communion in spirit! Forgive me, For a touch of her hand on my cheek. THE DEAD HOUSE. HERE once my step was quickened, To the foot it had known before. A glow came forth to meet me From the flame that laughed in the grate, And shadows adance on the ceiling, Danced blither with mine for a mate. "I claim you, old friend," yawned the arm-chair, "This corner, you know, is your seat"; "Rest your slippers on me," beamed the fender, "I brighten at touch of your feet." "We know the practised finger," Said the books, "that seems like And the shy page rustled the secret Sang the pillow, "My down once quivered On nightingales' throats that flew Through moonlit gardens of Hafiz To gather quaint dreams for you." Ah me, where the Past sowed heart'sease, The Present plucks rue for us men! I come back that scar unhealing Was not in the churchyard then. But, I think, the house is unaltered, Unaltered! Alas for the sameness That makes the change but more! "T is a dead man I see in the mirrors, "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, For it died that autumn morning That looks over woodland and corn. Thou only aspirest the more, To me 't is not cheer thou art singing: In thy boughs forever clinging, Of waves on the shore As thou musest still of the ocean And the sailor wrenched from the broken mast, Do I, in this vague emotion, The ship-building longer and wearier, A MOOD. I Go to the ridge in the forest Pine in the distance, Right for the zenith heading, Thine arms to the influence spreading |