Take me now to thy breast, Earth, sweet mother of men. Hide me and let me sleep; So close and so dark and so deep There let me lie forgot When the dead at its blast are gone; Give me to hear it not, But only to slumber on. This is the fate I crave, For I look to the end and see If there be not rest in the grave There will never be rest for me. THE AGE I A PALE and soul-sick woman with wan eyes Fixed on their own reflection in the glass, Uncertain lips half-oped to say "Alas, Naked I stand between two mysteries, Finding my wisdom naught who am most wise." Behind, the shapes and fiery shadows pass Of fervent life; no joy in them she has, But gazing on herself she moans and sighs. And yet of knowledge she doth hold the key, And Power and Pleasure are her handmaidens, And all past years have given of their best To make her rich and great and strong and free, Who stands in slack and listless impotence, Marvelling sadly at her own unrest. II Her children cluster round about her knees; The hoarded wealth and wisdom of the Dead Of all past time they have inherited, And still within their hands it doth increase; Yet in their eyes is mirrored her dis-peace, Her weariness within their hearts is shed; Her dreary sorrow weighs each drooping head, And each soul sickens with her fell disease. To whom the fates have given No toilsome task thou knowest, Thou knowest no toil for raiment, Yet we of grosser stature When thou art tired returning, Within our souls are folden In sleep when toil is ended, prayer with hope attended, We traverse ways more splendid, And see a world more fair. Yet oft, when day is gleaming We would exchange our dreaming We have the long to-morrow, IDEAL MEMORY IF in the years that come such thing should be That we should part, with tears or deadly strife, That we should cease to share a common life, For tired hearts at last an end shall be, me. Not by my worst, when dull or bitterly The mind moved, and the evil in my blood Worked words of anger thy meek will withstood, Not by the hours I sinned 'gainst love and thee, Oh, not by these, dear love, remember me. First in our mind live things that perfect be, All shapes of joy or beauty, -day's low light Dying along the seaward edge of night, For I would have thy mind and memory There was an hour wherein a god's degree And stature seemed to clothe me, and I stood Supremely strong, and high, and great, and good: Oh, by that hour, when all I aimed to be I did appear, by that remember me ! My wife and I had kissed at morn, We slept last night clasped hand in hand, We dreamed of love, and did not see Earth's door you set so wide, alack Dear friend, what can I say or sing, The child at play is ignorant The path she wends we cannot track: THE ANGEL AT THE FORD I SOUGHT to hold her, but within her eyes I read a new strange meaning; faint they prayed, "Oh, let me pass and taste the great surprise ; Behold me not reluctant nor afraid!" "Nay, I will strive with God for this!" I cried, "As man with man, like Jacob at the brook, Only be thou, dear heart, upon my side!" "Be still," she answered, "very still, and look!" And straightway I discerned with inward dread The multitudinous passing of white souls, Who paused, each one with sad averted head, And flashing of indignant aureoles. Frances Isabel Parnell AFTER DEATH SHALL mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze break at last upon thy story? When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a sweet new sister hail thee, Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, that have known but to bewail thee? |