OUT of the bosom of the sea,
From coasts where dim, rich treasures be,
By vast and urging forces blent,
Untired, untiring, and unspent,
The glad waves speed them one by one;
And, goal attained and errand done,
They lap the sands and softly lave, —
Wave after wave, wave after wave.

As stirred by longing for repose
Higher and higher each wave goes,
Striving to clasp with foam-white hands
The yielding and eluding sands;
And still the sea, relentless, grim,
Calls his wild truants back to him, —
Recalls the liberty he gave
Wave after wave, wave after wave.

All sad at heart and desolate
They heed the call, they bow to fate;
And outward swept, a baffled train,
Each feels his effort was in vain.
But fed by impulse lent by each
The gradual tide upon the beach
Rises to full, and thunders brave,
Wave after wave, wave after wave.

Ah, tired, discouraged heart and head,
Look up, and be thou comforted!
Thy puny effort may seem vain,
Wasted thy toil and naught thy pain,
Thy brief sun quench itself in shade,
Thy worthiest strength be weakness made,
Caught up in one great whelming grave,
Wave after wave, wave after wave.

Yet still, though baffled and denied,
Thy spended strength has swelled the tide.
A feather’s weight where oceans roll —
One atom in a mighty whole —
God’s hand uncounted agencies
Marshals and notes and counts as his:
His sands to bind, his threads to save,
His tides to build, wave after wave.

THE WORD WITH POWER

HOW shall the Word be preached with power?
Not with elaborate care and toil,
With wastings of the midnight oil,
With graceful gesture studied well,
And full intonèd syllable;
With trope and simile lending force
To subdivisions of discourse,
Or labored feeling framed to please —
The word of power is not in these.

How shall the Word be preached with power?
Not by a separate holiness
Which stands aloof to warn and bless,
Speaking as from a higher plane
Which common men may not attain;
Which treats of sin and want and strife
As things outside the priestly life,
And only draws anigh to chide,
Holding a saintly robe aside.

How shall the Word be preached with power?
Ah, needless to debate and plan!
Heart answereth unto heart in man;
Out of the very life of each
Must come the power to heal or teach.
The life all eloquent may grieve,
The brain may subtly work and weave,
But if the heart take not its share,
The word of power is wanting there.

How shall the Word be preached with power?
Go, preacher, search thy soul, and mark
Each want, each weakness, every dark
And painful dint where life and sin
Have beaten their hard impress in:
Apply the balm, and test the cure,
And heal thyself, and be thou sure
That which helps thee has power again
To help the souls of other men.

How shall the Word be preached with power?
Go ask the suffering and the poor,
Go ask the beggar at thy door,
Go to the sacred page and read
What served the old-time want and need:
The clasping hand, the kindling eye,
Virtue given out unconsciously,
The self made selfless hour by hour, —
In these is preached the Word with power!

TO FELICIA SINGING

SHE sat where sunset shadows fell,
And sunset rays, a miracle
Of palest blue and rose and amber,
Touched her and folded in their spell.

Her golden head against the sky
Was traced and outlined tenderly,
And, lily-soft in the soft late sunshine,
Her fair face blossomed to my eye.

She sang of love with tuneful breath,
Of sorrow, sweet as aught love saith;
Of noble pain, immortal longing,
And hope which stronger is than death.

And every word and every tone
Seemed born of something all my own.
’Twas I who sang, ’twas I who suffered;
Mine was the joyance, mine the moan.

Each lovely, vibrant, rapturous strain
Fulfilled my passion and my pain.
I was the instrument she played on;
I was her prelude and refrain.

And as dim echoes float and play
Through forests at the close of day,
Farther and farther, breathed mysterious
From glades and copses far away,

So echoed through my heart her song,
Deeper and deeper borne along,
Waking to life half-unsuspected
Grievings and hopes and yearnings strong.

Ah! life and heart may weary be
And youth may fail, and love may flee;
But when I hear her, see her singing,
The world grows beautiful to me.

EURYDICE

HIS prayer availed! Touched by the tuneful plea,
The Lord of Death relaxed his iron hold,
And out of the swart shadows, deep and cold,
Stole the lost wife, the fair Eurydice.
He felt her soft arms in the old embrace,
He guessed the smile upon her unseen face,
And joyful turned him from the dreadful place.

A little patience, and all had been well;
A little faith, and bale had changed to bliss:
Was it too much that he should ask for this,
Whose love had dared the steep descent of hell?
Had faced the Furies and the tongues of fire,
The reek of torment, rising high and higher,
Proserpina’s sad woe and Pluto’s ire?

It seemed a little thing to hope and ask
That the glad wife, just rescued from the dead,
Should go unquestioning where her Orpheus led.
But no; for woman’s strength too hard the task.
“Why dost thou turn thine eyes away from me?
Am I grown ugly, then, unfit to see?
Unkind! Thou lovest not Eurydice!”

Was it because so short a time she stayed
Among the dead that she had not grown wise?
Do petty doubts and fears and jealousies,
Vanity, selfishness, the stain and shade
On mortal love, survive the poignant thrust
Which, winnowing souls from out their hindering dust,
Should wake the eyes to see, the heart to trust?

If we came back to those who love us so,
And fain would plead with Heaven for our recall,
Should we come back having forgotten all
The wisdom which all spirits needs must know?
Would the old faults revive, the old scars sting,
The old capacities for suffering
Quicken to life even in our quickening?

Oh, lovely myth, with just this marring stain!
I will not think that such deep wrong can be.
If ever it were given to one again
Earthward to turn in answer to Love’s plea,
Surely ’twould come in hushed and reverent guise,
With gentlest wisdom in far-seeing eyes,
Ripened for life by knowing Paradise.

THREE WORLDS

WITHIN three worlds my Sorrow dwells;
Each made her own by heavenly right;
And one is sadly sweet and fair,
And one is bright beyond compare,
And one is void of light.

One is the world of long-past things;
There she can go at will, and sit
And sun herself in love’s embrace,
And see upon a vanished face
The tender, old-time meanings flit.

The second, veiled in glory dim,
She only dares in part explore;
Upon its misty bound she stands,
And reaches out imploring hands
And straining eyes, but does no more.

It is the world of unknown joy,
Where thou, Beloved, amid thy kin,
The saints of God, the Sons of Light,
The company in robes of white,
Hast been made free to enter in.

She sees thee, companied with these,
Standing far off among the Blest,
And is content to watch and wait,
To stand afar without the gate,
Nor interrupt thy perfect rest.

And so she turns, and down she sinks
To her third world, that dreary one,
Which once was shared and lit by thee,
And never any more can be,
In which she dwelleth all alone.

It were too dark a world to bear,
Could she not go, her pain to still,
Into the fair world of the Past,
Into the glory, sure and vast,
Made thine by the Eternal Will.

In these three worlds my Sorrow sits,
And each is dear because of thee;
I joyed in that, I wait in this,
And in the fulness of thy bliss
Thou waitest too, I know, for me.

OPPORTUNITY

BUT yesterday, but yesterday,
She stood beside our dusty way,
Outreaching for one moment’s space
The key to fortune’s hiding-place.

With wistful meanings in her eyes,
Her radiance veiled in dull disguise,
A moment paused, then turned and fled,
Bearing her message still unsaid.

And we? Our eyes were on the dust;
Still faring on as fare all must
In the hot glare of midday sun
Until the weary way be done.

So, fast and far she sped and flew
Into the depths of ether blue;
And we, too late, make bitter cry,
“Come back, dear Opportunity!”

In vain: the fleet, unpausing wings
Stay not in their bright journeyings;
And sadly sweet as funeral bell
The answer drops, “Farewell! Farewell!”

CHRIST BEFORE PILATE.
A PICTURE

A DIM rich space, a vault of arching gold,
A furious, shouting rabble pressing near,
A single sentinel to bar and hold
With his one spear.

I see the Roman ruler careless sit
To judge the cause in his accustomed place;
I see the coarse, dull, cruel meanings flit
Across his face.

I see the pitiless priests who urge and rave,
Intent to see the victim sacrificed,
Fearful that scruple or that plea should save —
Where is the Christ?

Not that pale shape which stands amid the press,
In gentle patience uncomplainingly,
Clad in the whiteness of his Teacher’s dress —
That is not he!

That slender flame were easily blown out;
One furious gust of human hate, but one!
One chilling breath of treason or of doubt —
And it were gone!

But thou, O mighty Christ, endurest still;
Quenchless thy fire, fed by immortal breath,
Lord of the heart, Lord of the erring will,
And Lord of Death!

King of the world, thou livest to the end,
Ruling the nations as no other can;
Best comrade, healer, teacher, guide, best friend
And help of man.

I see thee, not a wan and grieving shape,
Facing, like lamb led forth for sacrifice,
The destiny from which is no escape,
With mild, sad eyes, —

But strong and brave and resolute to bear,
Knowing that Death, once conquered, was to be
Thy willing thrall, thy servant grave and fair,
Best help to thee!

The vision changes on the pictured scene;
The pallid Victim fades, and in his place
Comes a victorious, steadfast, glorious mien,
The true Christ’s face.

NON OMNIS MORIAR

OH, blue and glad the summer skies,
And golden green the widths of plain
Where sun and shadow mingled lay,
As forth we went, with gay intent,
Across the Mesa’s flowery rise,
To where the shimmering mountain chain
Beckoned and shone from far away!

The noontide flashed, the noontide sang,
Along the glittering distant track;
The dancing wind made answer brave.
It seemed that all kept festival,
That joy fires burned and joy bells rang;
But still our hearts went hovering back
To sit beside one lonely grave.

It seems so strange, so half unkind,
That still the earth with life should stir,
That still we smile, and still we jest.
And drink our share of sun and air
And joy – and leave her there behind;
Nor share such happy things with her
Who always gave us all her best!

And yet – our love is loyal still;
And yet – she joyed to have us gay;
And yet – the moving world moves on,
And does not wait our sad estate,
To soothe our hurt or note our ill,
But, touch by touch, and day by day,
Heals us, and changes every one.

But she? What is her work to do?
For never tell me that she lies
Inactive, lifeless, in the mould,
Content to keep a moveless sleep
While worlds revolve in courses new.
Her fiery zeal, her quick emprise,
Could never brook such rest to hold!

That grave but hides her worn-out dress, —
One of God’s sure-winged messengers
I see her, on swift errand sped,
Glad of the task which strong souls ask,
Earth’s sharpest pain grown littleness
In the new tide of life made hers,
Smiling that we should call her dead!

Smile on, dear Heart, until the dawn!
When once the eternal heights are bared,
And the long earthly shadows flit,
And with clear eyes we front the skies,
We too shall smile with heavenly scorn
At the dull, human selves who dared
To call life “Death” and pity it!

AT DAWN OF DAY

THE yellow lighthouse star is quenched
Across the lonely sea;
The mountains rend their misty veils,
The wind of dawn blows free;
The waves beat with a gladder thrill,
Pulsing in lines of spray,
And fast and far chime on the bar —
God bless my Dear to-day!

A thousand leagues may lie between
A world of distance dim;
But speeding with the speeding light
My heart goes forth to him.
Faster than wind or wave it flies,
As love and longing may,
And undenied stands by his side —
God bless my Dear to-day!

God bless him if he wake to smiles,
Or if he wake to sighs;
Temper his will to bear all fate,
And keep him true and wise;
Be to him all I fain would be
Who am so far away, —
Light, counsel, consolation, cheer —
God bless my Dear to-day!

The gradual light has grown full fain,
And streameth far abroad.
The urgence of my voiceless plea
Is gathered up by God.
Take some sweet thing which else were mine,
Inly I dare to pray,
And with it brim his cup of joy —
God bless my Dear to-day!

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

SO many things there might have been,
Had our dear child not died.
We count them up and call them o’er,
We weigh the less against the more, —
The joy she never knew or shared,
The bitter woes forever spared,
The dangers turned aside,
Heaven’s full security, – and then
Perplexed we sigh, – all might have been.

We might have seen her sweet cheeks glow
With love’s own happy bloom,
Her eyes with maiden gladness full,
Finding the whole world beautiful;
We might have seen the joyance fail,
The dear face sadden and grow pale,
The smiles fade into gloom,
Love’s sun grow dim and sink again, —
Either of these it might have been.

We might have seen her with the crown
Of wifehood on her head,
A queen of home’s fair sovereignties,
With little children at her knees;
Or, broken-hearted and alone,
Bereft and widowed of her own,
Mourning beside her dead, —
This thing or that, beyond our ken,
It might have been, it might have been.

There is no need of question now,
No doubts or risks or fears:
Safe folded in the Eternal care,
Grown fairer each day and more fair,
With radiance in the clear young eyes
Which in cool depths of Paradise
Look without stain of tears,
Reading the Lord’s intent, and then
Smiling to think what might have been.

We too will smile, O dearest child!
Our dull souls may not know
The deep things hidden from mortal sense,
Which feed thy heavenly confidence.
On this one sure thought can we rest,
That God has chosen for thee the best,
Or else it were not so;
He called thee back to Heaven again
Because he knew what might have been.

SOME TIME

THE night will round into the morn,
The angry storm-wind cease to beat,
The spent bird preen his wet tired wing,
Grief ceaseth when the babe is born.
There comes an end to hardest thing
Some time, —
Some time, some far time, late but sweet.

I could not keep on with the fight;
I could not face my want, my sin,
The baffled hope, the urgent foe,
The mighty wrong, the struggling right,
Excepting that I surely know
Some time —
Some time, some dear time, – I shall win.

I could not hold so sure, so fast,
The truth which is to me so true,
The truth which men deride and shun,
Were I not sure it shall at last
Be held as truth by every one
Some time, —
Some time all men shall own it too.

Some time the morning bells shall chime,
Some time be heard the victor-song,
Some time the hard goal be attained,
The puzzles shall be clear some time,
The tears all shed, the gains all gained,
Some time —
Ah, dear time, tarry not too long!

THE STARS ARE IN THE SKY ALL DAY

THE stars are in the sky all day;
Each linkèd coil of Milky Way,
And every planet that we know,
Behind the sun are circling slow.
They sweep, they climb with stately tread, —
Venus the fair and Mars the red,
Saturn engirdled with clear light,
And Jupiter with moons of white.
Each knows his path and keeps due tryst;
Not even the smallest star is missed
From those wide fields of deeper sky
Which gleam and flash mysteriously,
As if God’s outstretched fingers must
Have sown them thick with diamond dust.
There are they all day long; but we,
Sun-blinded, have no eyes to see.

The stars are in the sky all day;
But when the sun has gone away,
And hovering shadows cool the west,
And call the sleepy birds to rest,
And heaven grows softly dim and dun,
Into its darkness one by one
Steal forth those starry shapes all fair —
We say steal forth, but they were there,
There all day long, unseen, unguessed,
Climbing the sky from east to west.
The angels saw them where they hid,
And so, perhaps, the eagles did,
For they can face the sharp sun-ray,
Nor wink, nor need to look away;
But we, blind mortals, gazed from far,
And did not see a single star.

I wonder if the world is full
Of other secrets beautiful,
As little guessed, as hard to see,
As this sweet starry mystery?
Do angels veil themselves in space,
And make the sun their hiding-place?
Do white wings flash as spirits go
On heavenly errands to and fro,
While we, down-looking, never guess
How near our lives they crowd and press?
If so, at life’s set we may see
Into the dusk steal noiselessly
Sweet faces that we used to know,
Dear eyes like stars that softly glow,
Dear hands stretched out to point the way,
And deem the night more fair than day.

NOW

LOVE me now! Love has such a little minute!
Day crowds on day with swift and noiseless tread,
Life’s end comes ere fairly we begin it;
Pain jostles joy, and hope gives place to dread.
Love me now!
It will be too late when we are dead!

Love me now! While we still are young together,
While glad and brave the sun shines overhead,
Hand locked in hand, in blue, smiling weather.
Sighing were sin, and variance ill bestead;
It will be too late when you are dead!

Love me now! Shadows hover in the distance,
Cold winds are coming, green leaves must turn red.
Frownest thou, my Love, at this sad insistence?
Even this moment may the dart be sped.
Love me now!
It will be too late when I am dead!

JUST BEYOND

WHEN out of the body the soul is sent,
As a bird speeds forth from the opened tent,
As the smoke flies out when it finds a vent,
To lose itself in the spending, —

Does it travel wide, does it travel far,
To find the place where all spirits are?
Does it measure long leagues from star to star,
And feel its travel unending?

And caught by each baffling, blowing wind,
Storm-tossed and beaten, before, behind,
Till the courage fails and the sight is blind,
Must it go in search of its heaven?

I do not think that it can be so;
For weary is life, as all men know,
And battling and struggling to and fro
Man goes from his morn to his even.

And surely this is enough to bear, —
The long day’s work in the sun’s hot glare,
The doubt and the loss which breed despair,
The anguish of baffled hoping.

And when the end of it all has come,
And the soul has won the right to its home,
I do not believe it must wander and roam
Through the infinite spaces groping.

No; wild may the storm be, and dark the day,
And the shuddering soul may clasp its clay,
Afraid to go and unwilling to stay;
But when it girds it for going,

With a rapture of sudden consciousness,
I think it awakes to a knowledge of this,
That heaven earth’s closest neighbor is,
And only waits for our knowing;

That ’tis but a step from dark to day,
From the worn-out tent and the burial clay,
To the rapture of youth renewed for aye,
And the smile of the saints uprisen;

And that just where the soul, perplexed and awed,
Begins its journey, it meets the Lord,
And finds that heaven and the great reward
Lay just outside of its prison!

CONTACT

NO soul can be quite separate,
However set apart by fate,
However cold or dull or shy,
Or shrinking from the public eye.
The world is common to the race,
And nowhere is a hiding-place;
Before, behind, on either side,
The surging masses press, divide;
Behind, before, with rhythmic beat,
Is heard the tread of marching feet;
To left, to right, they urge, they fare,
And touch us here, and touch us there.
Hold back your garment as you will,
The crowding world will rub it still.
Then, since such contact needs must be,
What shall it do for you and me?

Shall it be cold and hard alone,
As when a stone doth touch a stone,
Fruitless, unwelcome, and unmeant,
Put by as a dull accident,
While we pass onward, deaf and blind,
With no relenting look behind?
Or as when two round drops of rain,
Let fall upon a window-pane,
Wander, divergent, from their course,
Led by some blind, instinctive force,
Mingle and blend and interfuse,
Their separate shapes and being lose,
Made one thereafter and the same,
Identical in end and aim,
Nor brighter gleam, nor faster run,
Because they are not two, but one?

Or shall we meet in warring mood,
The contact of the fire and flood,
Decreed by Nature and by Will,
The one to warm, the one to chill,
The one to burn, the one to slake,
To thwart and counteract and make
Each other’s wretchedness, and dwell
In hate irreconcilable?
Or as when fierce fire meets frail straw,
And carries out the fatal law
Which makes the weaker thing to be
The prey of strength and tyranny;
A careless touch, half scorn, half mirth,
A brief resistance, little worth;
A little blaze soon quenched and marred,
And ashes ever afterward?

No; let us meet, since meet we must,
Not shaking off the common dust,
As if we feared our fellow-men,
And fain would walk aloof from them;
Not fruitlessly, as rain meets rain,
To lose ourselves and nothing gain;
Not fiercely, prey to adverse fate,
And not to spoil and desolate.
But as we meet and touch, each day,
The many travellers on our way,
Let every such brief contact be
A glorious, helpful ministry;
The contact of the soil and seed,
Each giving to the other’s need,
Each helping on the other’s best,
And blessing, each, as well as blest.