Puslapio vaizdai
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An Impression.

A WIND-SWEPT sky,

And waste of moorland stretching to the west; The sea, low moaning in a strange unrestOne seagull's cry.

Washed by the tide,

The rocks lie sullen in the waning light;
The foam breaks in long strips of hungry white,
Dissatisfied.

Above, around,

Thunderous calm of drought that kills and sears;
Silence, in travail, waiting birth of tears,—
No conscious sound.

Upon the hill

The gorse seems thirsting for the rain; but far,
Low poised on the horizon line, a star
Shines, lonely still.

The Invitation.

ACROSS the stream, the aspen branches kiss,
Close intertwining till they almost seem

One, for they understand Life's obvious bliss
Across the stream.

The world is brighter there; the sunset beam
Turns all the river's bend to gold, while this
Small island, dark with shadows, takes no gleam.

From there to here-between, no vast abyss—
Sweet, it is rose-flushed, like a lover's dream.
Something awaits us that we dare not miss,
Across the stream!

To the Stoic Within.

"TIs well," thou sayest,

"to spurn

A world would else spurn thee;
Draw in the empty hand;
Shut eyes that longing tire;
Since it is vain to yearn
When most is show we see,——
Air flickering on hot sand
To mock the soul's desire ;——
Then welcome knife, or fire,
And the serene command
(O heavenly cautery!)
That bids an instant burn
To win a life's release,
Self-masterdom, sure peace."

Yes, peace is well; but war
Better for who can fight,

When wronged weakness sues
'Gainst foes to spread a shield
And such as recreant are,
Lest wages prove too light,
Or maim themselves to excuse
Due service in the field,
Themselves to slavery yield;
To save their life, they lose
Life's cause, their love of right;-
A loss more shameful far

Than shameful'st shame or loss The indifferent world can cause.

Stretch out thy hands then; not In expectation vain,

But lavishing thy good; All is not good that's gold. Advance thine eyes that sought Beauty, to seek again, But heavenlier understood Worship what they behold. And let desire be bold To aim at what it would,Full joy, surcease of pain, To glad the common lot; So shall thy world become Not hostile, but a home.

Fatherhood.

A KISS, a word of thanks, away
They're gone, and you forsaken learn
The blessedness of giving; they

(So Nature bids) forget, nor turn
To where you sit, and watch, and yearn.

And you (so Nature bids) would go

Thro' fire and water for their sake;

Rise early, late take rest, to sow

Their wealth, and lie all night awake

If but their little finger ache.

The storied prince, with wondrous hair,

Which stole men's hearts, and wrought his bale Rebelling, since he had no heir

Built him a pillar in the dale,

"Absalom's," lest his name should fail.

It fails not, though the pillar lies

In dust; because the outraged one,

His father, with strong agonies Cried it until the day was done, "O Absalom, my son, my son!"

So Nature bade. Or might it be

God, who in Jewry once (they say)
Cried with a great cry, "Come to Me,

Children," who still held on their way,
Though He spread out His hands all day?

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