Chapter II: Part 2

A queen may be rich in dominions,
Have crown and a scepter and throne,
Yet all of the riches of loving
To her be forever unknown;
Far greater the kingdom for woman
Where love is the power—her throne
In a heart of unswerving devotion,
Its measureless realms her own.

Thro’ the tapestried halls of the mansion
The ghost of dead honor may glide—
A sense of life’s holiest joys departed
In the lordliest castle abide.
Tho’ the chalice wealth drains should be golden,
No sweeter to him is the draught
Than the cup with the sparkle of water,
That humble contentment has quaffed.

Earth’s mines, and her jewel-strewn caverns,
With the station that title confers,
All poured at her feet, would not purchase
The treasure a mother counts hers.
Ay, hid in your home you will find them—
Love’s riches—vast treasures untold;
More precious than worldly possessions,
Though counted, by millions, in gold.

* * * * *

Then let not the demon of envy
E’er enter the soul to enthrall;
The Father is tenderly watching—
Is keeping a record of all.
Rewards we have missed in our earth-life
We’ll find in that mansion above,
All decked with the beauties of Heaven
And lighted with Infinite Love.

Complainings.

Never a dove came to nestle by me,
But green-eyed Envy was there to see—
Soiling its plumage of spotless white,
Making it vile as a raven of night.
Never a rose in my garden was born,
But was surrounded by many a thorn.

Never a sweet but was mingled with gall—
And freedom, forever, is shadowed by thrall;—
Fruit, that looked luscious while hanging in view,
Is blighted ere ripe, by a blistering dew;
Gold, that we gather and count as a joy,
Has little of pleasure and much of alloy;
Jealously burns, in her caustical fire,
My tenderest hope, with malevolent ire—
Ashes, of all, she has strewn in my path,
And mocks at my pain with demoniac laugh.

But hush thy complaining, my heart, and be still—
If Heaven, our measure, with blessings should fill,
How soon would the soul with satiety cloy,
And life would be robbed of delightsome employ,—
Incentive would sleep, and all motive would die,
If needs of our nature should utter no cry;
But lacking the goal our ambition would gain
Arouses our powers—gives strength to attain.

Our grandest achievements have birth in the throes
Of Penury’s labor; and multiplied woes
But nerve us to action—resist and endure,
And highest endeavor gives aid to secure
Success to the valiant in the struggle for right—
Though failure may sometimes descend like a blight—
Oft failure is blessing, that’s sent in disguise
To turn us from groveling to gaze on the skies.
Then learn through each trial, my soul, to rejoice,
And e’en from the cloud will Compassion’s own voice
Be heard thro’ the gloom, in response to your cry,
“Fear not the tempest, my child, it is I.”

Questionings.

When the pallid lids have fallen
O’er the eyes in dreamless sleep—
Eyes that wake no more with watching
Nor in loneliness will weep,
Will a touch of pity soften—
Warm that unimpassioned gaze?
For a moment will affection
Hallow all their clouded days?

When the heart, no longer beating,
All its painful throbbings o’er—
When it stirs life’s crimson current
With its hopes and fears no more,
Will another heart feel sorrow
For the stillness resting there?
Will it for a whole tomorrow
Wear a saddened shade of care?

When the weary hands are folded
For that long unbroken rest,
And the spirit wings in freedom
To its home among the blest,
Will one tender feeling waken
In that heart a fond regret,
That will last thro’ summer’s blooming—
That will never quite forget?

When the lips are cold and silent—
Hushed for aye their gentle speech,
With love’s whispers dying on them,
Will their mute appealing reach
To the rock-girt fount of feeling?
Will Remorse with stinging rod,
Smite and bring the welling tear-drops
To bedew the new-laid sod?

Persecuted.

Alone, alone I tread the shore
Where surges beat forevermore
With deaf’ning, hollow wail;
The sky, o’ercast with angry frown,
Doth drop the loaded clouds, low down,
To beat me with their hail.

And, helpless here upon the strand
With no out-reaching friendly hand,
I face the roaring sea.
With reverent love my soul is stirred,
And seeking TRUTH within Thy word
I come, dear Lord, to Thee.

Aye, take my hand in thine Oh, God!
And lead me, where Thine own have trod,
By waters, pure and sweet.
O, send thy Comforter to calm
The aching heart with holy balm,
And keep me at thy feet!

Nature’s gift had been more kind
If a pulpy, plastic mind,
To fit, with ease, their mold;
Then self-assumed, “straight orthodox”
Had gathered me, with petted flocks,
Within the church’s fold.

O, loving Christ! Am I not thine?
And Thy disciples, truly mine,
Each my sister or my brother,
By the heritage of heaven—
By the new commandment given,
That we all love one another?

O, help me Lord with thee to pray!—
“Forgive them Father,” Thou didst say,
“They know not what they do.”
May sheltering love, dear Lord, be mine—
O, keep my life thine, only thine,
My soul to conscience true!

O, Kindly Speak.

The chiding word that chills the flow
Of warm child-feeling, ere it gush
In sparkling jets, to catch the glow
And tinge of Life’s bright morning flush,
Is the human thunder-bolt—its path
Is marked by dwarfed and shrunken minds,
Souls scarred, as trees by lightning scath,
Which show, like them, the spoiler’s lines.

He Is Risen.

Crown of all our joys supernal
Is the hope of life eternal;
Burst in bloom ye lillies white!
Wreathe the altar and the cross,—
Dawn is born of brooding night,
Heaven’s joy of earthly loss,—
He is Risen!

In the starry fields of Heaven
Mansions bright, to us, are given:
Triumph o’er the grave He won
In the resurrection morn—
Life eternal is begun,
Hope to all the world is born,
He is Risen!

He hath passed thro’ Heaven’s portal,
We, thro’ Him have life immortal—
Death is met with faith and trust—
The tomb is lighted by His love;
Earth may claim the crumbling dust—
Souls will dwell with Christ above.
He is Risen!

Think not thou art left forsaken
Tho’ by sorrow’s tempest shaken;
From His son, God veiled his face—
Heaven’s light was e’en withdrawn,
But the cruel cross made place
For the glorious Easter dawn—
He is Risen!

The Christ.

In olive-crowned Gethsemane,
Alone the Savior sought the power
That wrought through him at Galilee,
To stay the tide of that dark hour.
With grief bowed soul he prayed, but grace
Was His, to say: “Thy will be done.”
From Christ the Father veiled his face
And gave the world His only Son.

Tho’ His displeasure hid the day,
Spread brooding terror o’er the land,
Tho’ yielding hate its earth-born sway,
O’er-ruling Love in wisdom planned;
While human might did glut its greed
With nod of law to sanction crime,
A good, by higher law decreed,
Went forth, encircling earth and time.

Far-reaching, ’twas to win the world—
Their cruel deeds of blinded rage—
Their mocking taunts like hell-brands hurled,
Still echo from the sacred page;
That bitter cup—the crown of thorn
Upon His suffering, sinless brow—
That wail, adown the ages borne—
Are loving worship winning now.

O! blot the hard, blasphemous creed,
“A sacrifice for wrath of God;”
And teach the world ’twas human deed
That stained with blood Golgotha’s sod.
The reeling earth and darkened sun
Proclaimed aloud Jehovah’s frown;
Yet taught us that His holy one
Had by life’s cross won Heaven’s crown.

That tho’ he passed thro’ death—the tomb
To calm a world in maddened strife,
From out its broken bars of gloom
A joy would beam to beacon life,
And bless for us that morning light
That points the glory path he trod
From persecution, death and night,
Through Resurrection, up to God.

’Tis through His bearing mortal woes
We feel the throb of Love Divine!
Though wrung with agonizing throes,
His words with God-like mercy shine;
They wake the world to faith and hope—
E’en from old Memnon’s music trill,
They turn the dusky Ethiope
To catch their soul-impassioned thrill.

“Forgive—they know not what they do!”—
O, holy prayer! In every tongue
Its tender pleading pulses thro’,
As when from Calvary’s cross it rung!—
O, arms of Love’s infinitude!
They still reach down to earth from Heaven
To bind in one great brotherhood,
Through Him, the rescued world—forgiven.

Feed My Lambs.

Jesus said, with tender pleading,
“If ye love me, feed my lambs”;
Thro’ His word He’s interceding—
Feed my lambs, my precious lambs;

(Chorus)—If ye love me, feed my lambs,
Feed my lambs, my precious lambs—
If ye love me feed my lambs.

From the hedges and the highways,
Bring the lambs all safely in;
Seek the wanderers in the byways,
Save them from the blight of sin.
If ye love me, etc.

Find each little son and daughter,
Bring them in with tender care;
Lead them to the crystal water,
In the pastures green and fair:—
If ye love me, etc.

The Kingdom of Heaven.

“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, in earth as in Heaven.”

O, the kingdom of Heaven will come!—
When His will shall be done
Upon earth, as above,
And victory won
Through a union of love,
Then, the kingdom of Heaven will come.

Our Christian Endeavor
Has linked, and forever,
The lands of all climes
Where the Savior is known.
O, bright is the morning
That brings us the dawning
Of the day that’s to band,
In one army, HIS OWN!
O, the kingdom of heaven will come!

When Christians, uniting,
The common foe fighting
Forget every difference
Of doctrine and creed,
And, hushing their pleading
For selfish succeeding,
Beg Heaven’s best gift
For humanity’s need,
Then the kingdom of Heaven will come.

When fervent in action
They trample on faction,
Intolerance, arrogance,
Tread them all down,
And put forth endeavor,
Through loving work ever,
For the saving of souls
With no thought of the crown,
Then, the kingdom of Heaven will come.

When earnest endeavor—
Most powerful lever—
Is thrust under sin
By all Christendom’s might,
Its walls will soon crumble—
The structure must tumble
When hotly assailed
By the legions of Right,
Aye, the kingdom of heaven will come.

When Christians are one,
Like the Father and Son,
And sects of all names
At one altar can kneel,
In God’s love believing,
For heaven achieving,
This creed and this purpose
Inspiring their zeal,
Then the kingdom of heaven will come.

Supplication.

O, thou Savior, Brother, mine,
God’s own love and tenderness,
Sent of Him with power divine—
Sent to soothe, sustain and bless:—
Light of Life! Oh blessed Word,
Be my help! Dear Savior come!
Hear my spirit’s pleading, Lord—
Pleading tho’ my lips are dumb.

Groping now in sorrow’s night
Guide, oh, guide me, Lord, I pray,
Quicken Thou my spirit’s sight
That I walk in wisdom’s way—
Be Thou, Lord, a presence nigh—
Thou canst still the angry sea,
Thou hast known Gethsemane—
O, Compassion, hear my cry!

Deep in agony of soul
Mother-love cries up to Thee—
Fiends have bound him to the bowl—
O, break his chains and set him free!

The Portrait.

O, arms of protection, now folded so still!—
Alone in the world, so wide and so chill!
O, eyes that would glow in a worshipful gaze!—
They’ll bless me no more with their love-beaming rays!
O, heart of devotion! thy warm throbbings o’er
Can give me asylum from sorrow no more.

* * * * *

O, veil it!—this lifeless creation of art—
The perfect is sacredly shrined in my heart!
Not silent, compassionless, framed in with gold,
Nor mantled with shadows of coffin and mould,
But youthful and strong and warm with the fire
That glows in a soul lit with noble desire.

Ay, thought gropeth not thro’ the darkness and gloom
Where the mortal is held in the bonds of the tomb.
PROGRESSION is stamped by the hand of God’s love;
The life coming after to this is _above_!
Our faith reaches up to the realms of bliss,
The sphere He has fashioned—the Home beyond this.

The deeds that gave blessing in the pathways of earth
Give impress and form to the Heavenly birth.
That face, beaming ever with the glorified light
Won here, in defending convictions of Right,
My soul, in its holy of holies, where free
From earth’s thronging distractions in spirit I see.

This portrait I gaze on—the glorified one—
And that is, to this, as a star, to the sun.

Out in the Woods.

Glad haunts of the summer!—the dim forest aisles,
Where Sylva receives us with welcoming smiles—
Gives couch of soft mosses, embowered with vines,
And smoothes from the forehead, care’s deep written lines.
Refreshing, she brings, for the world-weary brain
And soothes, with her silence, its fever and pain!—
Bids Somnus pour sweets from which restfulness flows,
And, hushing her realm into holiest calm,
She lulls the sick soul into gentle repose,
While winds, with the leafage, are chanting a psalm
That charms with its rythm. Rev’ry’s doorways unclose—
We slip to forgetfulness—sleep that is balm.

* * * * *

The musical tinkle of the murmuring stream
Gave warp, for the web, of a beautiful dream,
And woof for the weaving, the slumber-god chose
From fragrance of violets, and queenly wild-rose.
The sunshine that sifted thro’ the crowns of the trees,
Made threadings of gold with the shadows of these!
The breeze, touching lightly, with cool finger tips
Was the kiss of an angel on the tired spirit’s lips.
O, the eider-down couches of slumberous ease,
And the tapestried halls that the millionaires please,
Can never, such rest, on the weary bestow,
As we find in this palace, where the luxuries grow.

Majestical forest!—Asylum of REST,
Where the crowd-jostled soul is ineffably blest—
Where primeval old trees, in their grandeur and might,
Guard Solitude’s shrine, from the vandal-world’s sight;
Where spice-bearing shrubs, and the sweet-scented ferns
Float odors as rich as when frankincense burns,
And the praise-breathing song of the thrush, from the boughs,
Wakes worship unknown thro’ the low-muttered vows.
“First temples of God!”—and still nearest His throne,
Where the spirit may drink, at the fountain, alone,
Receiving His blessing through the still, small voice,
While Nature’s true Acolytes whisper—rejoice.

Unforgiven.

Ah! that “Past”—that bitter parting,
Long ago, yet vivid seems—
Oft in midnight’s black arms folded
I have lived it o’er in dreams;
As a presence it has shadowed
Every path of life I’ve tried—
If I joined the festive circle
It was stalking by my side.

If I sat at hush of even
With a sense of love and trust,
It would come and stand before me,
Hissing out the word—unjust;
It has stretched its ghostly fingers
For all blessings to destroy,
And has poured its gall and wormwood
In each lifted cup of joy.

Had you winged a sweet forgiveness,
Sent it o’er the “silent line,”
It had proved a benediction
Falling on your life and mine.
Through the years that phantom presence,
Like a black bird o’er my door,
Seemed to say, by silent glowering,
“I will leave thee nevermore.”

_You_ can drive this haunting demon,
Send in place a snowy dove—
Only breathe the longed for blessing,
Not youth’s fervent tale of love,
And on friendship’s sacred altar
Light a pure and holy flame,
That may burn before the angels
Without blanch or blush of shame.

The Evening and the Morning.

“At Evening time it shall be light.”—Bible.

“The evening twilight of this life meets the morning twilight
of the next and they kiss each other.”—L. H. F.

When Life’s evening twilight gathers
Darkling shadows from the tomb,
Then a bright celestial morning
Kisses back the gathering gloom;
Robed in beauty’s bright adorning
This aurora—dawning glory,
Kisses back the gathering gloom.

When the crimson tide is throbbing
With the hopes that wildly mount,
And the sensuous soul is drinking
From enjoyment’s sparkling fount,
Then the thoughts will turn with shrinking
From the coming of life’s gloaming—
Death seems then a Stygian fount.

But when life’s weary day is closing—
When the lengthening shadows fall,
Sweetly singing angel voices
Come with blessing in their call!
The departing soul rejoices
With prevision, of Elysian,
Gladly welcoming the call.

As the spirit fetters loosen
And the soul gains greater height,
It will see the evening shadows
Meet and kiss the dawning light;
And, dispelling all the shadows,
This supernal life eternal,
Opens into morning light.

Aye, the golden gates swing open!
To reveal the splendors bright;
From His throne the glory streaming
Haloes Death with holy light;
Angels voicing their rejoicing—
Heaven’s mansions brightly gleaming,
Flood Life’s evening time with light.

The Unseen.

Do you feel my spirit with you—
Feel my kiss upon your lips?
Doth your heart throb with the message
That the messenger outstrips?

Ay, I know your thought, responding,
Know this soul-touch is of thine,
That you send me tender soothing
O’er love’s subtile, unseen line.

Soul to soul can tell its sorrow,
Sympathy response impart—
Joy can flash o’er lines of distance,
Touch and thrill a kindred heart.

Loneliness! I scarcely know it;
Loved ones in my spirit’s reach
Know my call and give me answer—
Silence pulses with their speech.

We have glimpse of joys, thro’ this one,
That await the soul above,
Where unbroken, sweet communion
Flows thro’ sympathy and love.

Painting.

O, beauteous Art! with heart o’erfilled with joy I stand
And offer up to God its silent, grateful praise
That He, in blessing, hath endowed a human hand
With gifts so near divine;
Thro’ these creations, warmed to life in Genius’ blaze,
Doth inspiration shine.

Here, oriental scenes are brought within my reach;
The beauty of the castled Rhine, in softened hues,
With fine, bewitching charm o’er-mastering speech,
My raptured gaze enchains;
I roam in dream the land whose purple vintage strews
With wealth its hills and plains.

And thus I dream and drink the blest enchantment in,
That flows from art, with full, ineffable delight;
Forgetting earth is cursed with sorrow, death and sin,
I taste supernal bliss,
And, in this ecstacy of joy, a world of light,
It seems, hath dropped to this.

Yet not with those I’d join who throng Art’s crowded hall,
Whose motive is to prove themselves profound in art
By use of bulky words, but which, in strident fall,
Each hearer doth impress
With lack of gift to grasp what colors may impart,
Or canvass may express.

Nor go with her whose hand, with long and tedious drill
Has learned to daub with paint—whose tongue, with flippant ease,
Can toss artistic nomenclature round at will,
Yet nothing knows of art—
Of art’s true self, whose secret power to hold and please
Is soul, in every part.
I’d put the shoes from off my feet, and then, alone
Before the work, would feel I stood on holy ground—
That there a spirit with its God had talked, and by His own
Had been informed, inspired—
Aye, minds should be, before they range this sacred bound,
In thoughtfullness attired.

And thus prepared, Perception’s polished plates receive
The artist’s dream, that seems with pulsing life aglow,
And o’er it Fancy’s magic fingers silent weave
Her draperies so real—
We seethe dimpling lake—we hear the streamlets liquid flow,
And shadowed coolness feel.

The Christian’s Armor.

_For the Band of Hope._

Firmly stand, unyielding wrestle,
All ye noble, earnest, youth,—
You are soldiers—God is calling,
Gird yourselves about with truth.

Wear the helmet of Salvation—
Let your feet with peace be shod,
Turn the fiery darts of evil
With the shield of “Faith in God.”

Arm you with the Spirit’s weapon,
’Tis God’s blessed, holy word,—
With the breast-plate of the righteous
You shall conquer Satan’s horde.

Then with earnest supplication
Hold the way to Heaven’s throne;
By the spirit’s true devotion
God will know and bless his own.

To My Friend,

MRS. ANNA PRICHARD.

And is time old? How swift he runs!
His months like birds of passage fly.
How slow he rolled a year of suns
When we were children, you and I,
How far away the spring time seemed
When winter wore his angry frown—
An age, when apple blossoms gleamed
Ere they would drop their fruitage down.

Then childhood’s eager heart was waiting
For expectations to unfold,
And churlish time seemed years belating
The wished-for blessings to withhold;
Then Fancy’s fingers held the brush
And painted all the future bright;
Its clouds but showed the rosy flush
Each dawn had woven with its light.

Impatient then, our youthful feet
To climb the distant sun clad hills
Where Pleasure, from her vintage sweet,
For each, a golden chalice fills—To
stand beneath the shining arch,
By rainbow-tinted promise spanned:—
What fine advance, in Life’s grand march,
Our strong, young courage planned.

But ah! in life’s late afternoon,
No worldly wealth, no laurels won—
I grieve that time has fled so soon
With so much planned, left all undone;
The barren years, like surf-worn sand,
With glints of sun and shadow flecked,
Are strewn with fragments as the strand
And show where Hope’s rich cargoes wrecked.

No mould of sloth lies o’er the years—
No waste of dissipation’s fire
Is smoldering in regrets and tears,
Yet youth’s fond dream—intense desire
A cruel fate has still denied;
Or, was it Heaven’s kind decree
That set that cherished wish aside
To bring a richer gift to me?

There’s naught in God’s infinitude
Of gifts for us, like home and wife,
And happy, blessed motherhood,
The crowning gift of woman’s life.
These gifts transmute to dear delight
Each humble task, all toil and care,
And keep home’s sacred altar bright
With love’s sweet offerings there.

All these, and one more gift is mine
That stirs with joy my brooding thought—
A friendship rare and true as thine,
A chain—all precious links—inwrought
With sacred trust. Oh hush, my heart,
No more in bitterness complain:
Thou wouldst not with thy treasures part
Youth’s wildest dream of power to gain.

Hill-Crest Home.

TO MRS. A. FOSKETT POTTER.

The picture, you rave over there on the wall,
Is weak by the one hung in memory’s hall.
While that one is held by the fetters of art
To rules of perspective—can only give part,
The other has range over hill-top and dell,
From the vaulted blue sky to the depths of the well—
Can even give sense of refreshing from this—
Show stars gleaming thro’ from its seeming abyss.

It has other delights, never reached with a brush,
The ravishment held in the notes of a thrush
(The sweetest voiced bird of the singing-bird throng)
Reverberant groves all a-thrill with its song.

Then the river, that knit a bright edge on the farm,
Enmantled with vapor—etherial charm!
As if dawn and the dew, meeting, playfully kissed
When the sun peeping over dissolved them in mist;
Like a gauzy, white chrisom cloth lightly it lies
O’er the rosy-faced morning, new-born of the skies.
Now, mellow and sweet as the music of dream,
Or a softly touched lute, comes the song of the stream;
Enchanted I listen, ay, listen and gaze
Till sound seems enwreathed with this luminous haze
That’s woven for nymphs, of the sunshine and spray;
And veiled in these light robes they mingle in play
Till on bloom scented breezes they’re floated away.

I promised to tell of my humble old home,
But my pen wanders off where my feet used to roam,
So the home of my childhood I picture for you
Must cover the rambles “my infancy knew.”
Come, stand ’neath that maple with me, if you will:
The manse, looking south from the brow of the hill,
Has the River, the valley, “The Island” in view—
(O! if mem’ry’s bright search-light could give it to you,
And you, with my childhood’s own vision, could see
The love-lighted beauty, that glowed there for me!)
While eastward the valley-farms glint thro’ the trees,
Whose grandeur had saved them to the thither-most shore,
And hills, as a back ground of beauty for these,
A richly-robed forest in stateliness bore;
And this, to my child fancy, held up the skies
Where the dawn, stealing in thro’ their bright rosy dyes,
Peeped in at my window to waken me when
The sun-gleams, aflash in the dew-spangled glen,
Out rivaled Golconda in jewels and gold—
When lambkins went frolicking down from the fold
To nip the soft grass or to drink from the brook—Ah,
there was a spot, just beyond where they drank,
Where the brook cut the hill for its opposite bank,
And nestled above was a shadowy nook
With a rustic root-bench which a wind-warring tree
Had thrown out to anchor its hold on the hill:
There, glad as the laughter of innocent glee,
Came the musical tinkle and play of the rill,
A melody sweet, to that ærie of mine,
Where, safe from intrusion as cliff dweller, I
Heard, fresh from her lips, Nature’s message divine,
Told sweetly, thro’ beauties, of earth and the sky.

An old fallen tree made a foot-bridge across
That led to this hiding—this sanctum of mine.
Bright fern fringes bordered its soft rug of moss—
A wild grape had thatched with a clambering vine
That hid for my coming bright sparkles of dew.
O, bower of beauty, so temptingly cool!
’Twas the home of the fairies and they only knew
The hours spent there that were stolen from school.
The brook-bordered fields of that moderate farm
Had each, for my heart, individual charm.—
The skies that bent over had glories unknown
To all other lands, even Italy’s own.
More golden its sunsets than any since seen:—
Its shadowy woodland, so rich in its green,
Had springs purling down in a dusky ravine:
There oft at the fount, where the waters distilled,
My leaf-fashioned cup I have held to be filled.
O, nectar twould be if again I could drink
Of the sparkles that fell there like pearls from its brink,
As it tinkled down sweetly from its rock-basined source
To join with its peers in their river-ward course.
In those shadowy depths, hid away from the world,
Most delicate forms of the fronds were uncurled:
Spring-beauties, anemonies, clematis white,
With violets, bluebells and maiden-hair fern,—
There were some of them ever to keep the spot bright,
To waft me good-bye and to greet my return.
Then the hillside, our play-ground—I never can tell
Its riches of beauty in bower and dell.
The sunrise would kiss with its first ruddy glow
Then slip to the river that murmured below
And lighting its ripples with flashes of gold
It made all the valley a joy to behold.
That River! It ever kept time with my heart,—
Grew into my soul, of my life was a part.
It echoed my laughter, was sad when I wept—
When drowsy it lulled me with song till I slept.—
’Twas playmate and teacher, companion and friend,
From the “deep-hole” that mirrored the trees at “the bend”
To that spot of enchantment, where the willows bent low
To whisper their love. There the river went slow
As if hushing its wonted, wild, rollicking flow
To linger and listen—the story, so sweet,
’Twould have all the zephyr-swayed branches repeat.

But the loveliest view from the home on the hill—
The one that could ever enrapture and thrill,
Was a calm summer eve with the stars beaming thro’
From the unclouded depths of the fathomless blue,—
“The city of God” filling vastness above,
Each mansion aglow with the light of His love.
Enhancing the beauty a broad, rising moon,
That followed a day with a languorous noon—
A day that in going left the sun-door ajar,
When a breeze, that was born of a rain-cloud afar,
Had stolen thro, softly, with the great evening star,
And whispered a vow to the languishing flowers
To bring them, ere morning, refreshing in showers.

Then the murmur of waters—the ripple in view,
The robings of Nature, aglitter with dew,
The sway of the trees, and the rose-petals strewn—
The kiss of the breeze, that has breath of the June.
Just sit in our group on the balcony there
And dream of this scene, inexpressibly fair
(Remember this gable looks square at the noon):
How the gateways of glory thrown wide by the moon
Could pour their white floods on the beautiful scene—
What charm in the mingling of shadow and sheen!

The river went north in its tortuous trend
And wound thro’ the valley with many a bend.
This lake-like expanse, deep and smoothe, as you see,
Lying right in the pathway, ’tween Luna and me,
On an evening like this seemed a great burnished glass.
The Island shore here, had a margin of grass—
The round little cove cutting into its edge
Grew ferns on its banks and was dotted with sedge.

In the far-reaching shadows of lofty old trees
This part of the Island was hid from the noon;
Its quiet invited to slumberous ease;
Here the River flowed gently as Afton or Doon.
Kind Nature had woven a pleachy thick screen
Of forest and vines that were standing between,
And made this remote from the town and its mills.
The zephyr-stirred leaves with their mystical chant—
That soft, lulling murmur, that muffles and stills—
Hushed the tumult and jar of the noisy “old plant”
And made this a spot ever calm and serene,
Fit temple for worship, embosomed in green.
Here, the river seemed charmed by some mythical lore—
It loitered along, seemed reluctant to pass,
While eddying wavelets crept up on the shore
And kissed, with their cool lips, the velvety grass.

On, slowly it flows until reaching a place
Where a glimpse may be caught of the swift running “Race;”
There it breaks into foam with a current so wild—
They rush to the meeting like mother and child.
With a plaint in its story that the mother-stream thrills,
Race babbles and tells how it toiled at the mills—Was
prisonned and held, by the strength of the flume—
Was power that wrought on the spindle and loom.
Received in her bosom with loving embrace
They mingle their songs, then, the River and Race,
Delighting us all with their musical tones,
While silver-capped ripples go dancing o’er stones.

* * * * *

Aye, “Hill-crest” had beauty beyond all compare,
But words can ne’er picture how wondrously fair
For one whose misfortune ’tis not to have seen
That river—that hillside—the trees in their green—
Heard the music of waters, o’er pebbles at play,
Or, lapping ’mong rocks and then swirling away—
The brook leaping down to be lost in the stream
As womanhood merges our girl-hood’s young dream—If
her childhood’s bare feet have ne’er pressed that cool sod
Where first I loved Nature, thro’ Nature her God.

Lillies of the Valley.

O, pearly, waxen, lilly bells!
Glad the tale your coming tells—
Blithest time, of all the year,
Happy, blooming spring is here
With lillies-of-the-valley.

Shining like the precious gem,
Divers bring from ocean’s floor;
God in blessing scattered them
Blooming by the humblest door;
Springing in some sheltered nook,
Peeping by a mouldering wall,
Nodding by a babbling brook,
Purest, sweetest flowers of all,
Are lillies-of-the-valley.

Hidden from life’s cares and frets
Is the loved embowered spot
Sacred to our floral pets—
Lillies and forget-me-not;
Tho’ the poet’s fondest dream
Wreaths about the violet,
With the morning’s dew agleam,
Lovlier and sweeter yet
Are lillies-of-the-valley.

Roses fade and fall apart—
Lose their beauty with their bloom,
In the lillies perfect heart
Lingers long its sweet perfume;
Mem’ries dear we’ll ne’er forget,
With their tender thrills of bliss,
Hover round the mignonette,
Yet, a charm supreme to this,
Have lillies-of-the-valley.

Queens of color, tall and proud
Bloom among the asphodels,
But of all that lauded crowd
None so loved as lilly bells!
Pansy bright with dreamy eyes
Seems acquaint with mystic lore,
Whispers “hope” when sorrow sighs,
Yet, we love the lillies more,
Sweet lillies-of-the-valley.

They will breathe the tender thought
Sympathy would fain reveal,
But, with love’s fond message fraught,
Half their charm is to conceal.
Lillies of the Valley.
Rosebud boldly tells the tale
Cupid sent it to confess—
With the fragrance they exhale
Lillies whisper,—“You may guess.”

Pearly Shells.

All the rainbow hues are hiding
In the pearly shells of white,
But their beauties are depending
On the mystic powers of light;—
Going, coming, like the blushes
On a modest maiden’s cheek,
As her heart-throb quick confesses
What her lips would never speak.

Husband, there’s a heart that’s loving
With devotion pure and deep;
If you’d know its fullest blessing,
If the treasure you would keep,
You must flash the light upon it,
Beaming out from loving eyes;
Then, as shell, reflecting sunlight,
It will glow with lovely dyes.

All within and all about it
Soon will catch the won’drous charm,
By reflection and absorption
Home will aye be bright and warm;
But if left alone in darkness,
Through a life of gloom and night,
Like the sea-shell, pure and pearly,
It will be but cold and white.

Courage.

Now with zeal that will not falter
Rally once again for Right,
Trusting ever and believing
God is all supreme in might.

Let us work—give earnest effort,
Ere the day in darkness set,
Work with faith and love untiring—
He will crown our labors yet.

Though allies of rum are legion,
Fear no evil may betray,
For He’s given angels o’er us
Charge to keep us in the way.

We shall “tread upon the adder,”
If our faith be strong in God;
Aye, “the dragon we shall trample”
If with “Gospel Peace” we’re shod.

Trailing Arbutus.

_Emblematic Flower of Michigan W. C. T. U._

In Flora’s dominion no flower’s so fitting
To symbol our union of labor and love;
Not tender and petted, a hot-house exotic,
It lives when the tempest is raging above.
Sweet forest-born flower! ’Twas Michigan’s dower
When Nature apportioned her gifts that are rare—
So lovely, yet lowly! Affection, that’s holy,
Seems blent with its fragrance and breathing a prayer
That the loved may be borne in the arms of His care.

Its coming we hail as a promise of blessing—
That chains shall be riven, a glory be born;
Its delicate hue is a hint of our mission—
The soft, rosy blush that first tinges the morn,
When hope is awakening and gloom is receding—
A pressage of light that shall gladden the world,
When darkness has fled and the cloud-rack is lifted
And day’s golden banners on the hills are unfurled.

It needs not the florist, with art and punctilio
Nor asks for the smiles of the sun-lighted skies,
But richest and brightest, ’tis found in seclusion,
In depths of the woodland where dark shadow lies;
Far up on the highlands, or creeping on lowlands,
’Mong towering oaks or ’neath whispering pines,
The shell-tinted bloom of our sweet, trailing laurel
The lowliest objects with beauty entwines.

’Tis Purity’s emblem—Priscilla’s loved flower!
Oft springing in fenlands where dark, sodden mould
Grows vile-odored herbage, e’en poison-fed night-shade,
Yet, pure there, its waxen, sweet blossoms unfold.
Thus white-ribbon bands, thro’ the moral morasses,
Tho’ threading the paths which the vilest are in,
With purity throned in the soul of all action,
May labor ’mid evils, unsullied by sin.

Ah! truly, no flower in Flora’s dominion,
Can symbol the virtues and graces like this—
’Tis faith and endurance in winter’s wild tempest,
While gentleness tenderly speaks in the kiss
That comes in its fragrance, on fairy winged zephyr
And hope, in the buds swelling under the snow,
Is whispering of joys when the full opened blossoms
Shall herald the summer, with roseate glow.

We’ll gather it in, from our own native woodlands,
And wreathe, with its beauty, our altar of prayer;
The holiest thought, with its ambient odor,
Is stirred, as with incense, afloat on the air.
We love it!—we love it! our sweet trailing laurel,
And make it our emblem in labor for God—
For home, with its blessings and love-lighted altar,
And land of our birth, with its trial-tracked sod.

Encouragement.

What wealth of enjoyment a sentence may hold
That flows in a rill of encouraging words!
The heart’s weary wings with new strength will unfold,
While quick resolution all feebleness girds.
The sunset may brighten—outrival the dawning,
If sympathy’s warm touch the drooping life thrills;
Tho’ autumn has put out her gold-tassled awning
And mantled with haze all the woodlands and hills—
Tho’ the vintage hath yielded the first of its wines—
Tho’ shadows lie eastward in wavering lines,
And evening has whispered the low uttered warning—
“The glories of Day have all drifted afar”—
The spirit will rally encouraged by love.
E’en twilight may deepen, if only this star
Shall gleam with its vestal light brightly above,
We’ll work thro’ life’s gloaming, till angels unbar
The orient gates of Eternity’s morning.

Faith.

O, by and by the sun will shine again—
Will throw glad light on hill, and field, and plain;
The earth will smile ’neath Plenty’s joyous reign,
And we shall know that “God remembers the world.”

Aye, by and by the clouds will roll away
And then a greater boon, a golden day
Will seem, because we’ve known a gloomy May
When Doubt, o’er brooding, shadowed all our world.

Let Hope’s bright sunshine gladden every hour,
E’en tho’ the skies with angry tempests lower;
Believe, beyond, above, a higher Power
Doth watch and guard, with loving, care the world.

Shrink not nor e’er, with dread, thy part delay;
With faith and courage meet each coming day—
Let duties well performed pave all thy way,
Thus make a royal pathway thro’ the world.

Tho’ sorrows should be thick along thy path,
Remember none are sent to thee in wrath;
Love fires the bolt that makes the lightning scath—
A law that gives a brighter, better world.

With frowning face Calamity may come,
Ay, strike a hemisphere with terror dumb,
But let no boding fear thy faith benumb,
For He who made, in wisdom rules the world.

Tho’ skies and seas their floods together roll—
Tho’ earth should pass, a shriveled scroll,
His care is over each immortal soul—
He’ll gather us to His eternal world.

Nirvana.

Possession blest of that Celestial sphere
Beyond the reach of hope and fear;
Salvation’s port—Elysian shore
Where souls remain, forevermore,
In blissful calm, disturbed by naught
Evolved by ranging, restless Thought,
And where Eternal arms of Peace
Enfolding, give secure release
From chains that bind, to Death and Sin—
A severance from the What-has-been—
An end of seeming endless range;
No farther transmigrating change,
But REST of soul, that’s sweet, supreme,
Beyond, the touch of Life’s wild dream:
A draught that quenches all desire—
Extinguishes Ambition’s fire,
And leave, an essence, pure, divine,
That shall with Brama ever shine,
Quiescent in that blest repose
To which the wise Guatama rose.

Heredity.

Thro’ your Eden creeps the Serpent
Luring to the paths of sin:
In your own, weak self-indulgence
Life accursing crimes begin:
Aye, you blight your own with evils
Yielding to the tempter’s sway,
Hushing conscience, Sin imputing
To Eve’s early, shadowed day.

Science swings her torch above you
From her lofty templed heights—
Paths, by which the Race climb upward,
By command of God she lights;
Can you, with His laws before you,
Violate your sacred trust?
Dare you taint the soul you’re moulding
For Eternity, with lust?

Holy is your mission, mother,
Lives confided to your care—
Shall they, of your dissipations
Foulest scars forever bear?
Hush the voice of self-indulgence—
Thrust the serpent from your heart,
That he lure not to partaking
Of the sins you may impart.

While the fires of Being kindle
At your own life’s flame and glow
And the mother love is springing
From this holy interflow—
While the crimson tide is pulsing
Thro’ but one heart, for the two,
Stain not thou, with sin, the fountain
That the new life passes through.

Pebbles.

Pebbles, thrown upon the shore
By a storm-stirred wild commotion,
Tell of tumult, crash and roar,
When wild furies lashed the ocean.

Pebbles, gathered from the shore
When the waves were only sighing,
Tell of balmy evening strolls
When the sunset fires were dying.

Pebbles—some of brightest hue—
That were snatched by dimpled fingers
When the waves came rolling in—
Loving thought around them lingers.

Pebbles, in life’s pathway lie
That the careless roughly tread,
While another passing by
Finds them gems that lustre shed.

Pebbles—scan them—cast away
Wave-worn, rounded bits of stone,
But if one hath lighting ray,
Keep the treasure as thine own.

* * * * *

When the heart is sorrow-laden
Seek the spirit’s shrine of prayer,
Jesus there will meet and bless you
And you’ll leave your burdens there.

* * * * *

As the blessed, healing mentha
Holds for mortal pains nepentha,
So hath sympathy the art
To soothe the bruises of the heart.

* * * * *

From each act, however small,
Some result must ever fall;
Drop a pebble in the wave
Distant shores its ripples lave.

* * * * *

Give gladness to childhood! ’twill brighten life’s years;
Pour hydromel for it, unmingled with tears,
So fondly, caressingly, memory clings
To youth’s every joy, forgetting its stings.

* * * * *

Experience teaches some lessons of worth—
That wealth is not always of lordliest birth,
That duty makes labor, tho’ humble, sublime—
That crucial trial gives strength to the soul:—
There’s no royal road to Life’s coveted goal,
Earth’s throngs must all pass the same doorway of Time.

* * * * *

If Heaven’s light beam on your tears,
Hope’s bright bow will span the cloud,
While God’s own promise, calming fears,
Will lift the soul by sorrow bowed.

* * * * *

Mystery deep, thy doors unbar,
And let us look within!—
Thought goes ranging far—afar,
On webs our fancies spin.

* * * * *

The life I live is not my own—
’Tis subterfuge and dross,
The yearning soul makes hidden moan,
With secret sense of loss.

* * * * *

O, dear Savior, I am weary—
Let me rest my soul with Thee!
Mansions bright, Thou art preparing—
Wilt thou, Jesus, welcome me?

* * * * *

For the bright, warm joys, once cherished,
There’s a withered rose and a brown, sere leaf;
Ah! dear were the hopes that perished,
Yet there’s wealth of life, in the golden sheaf.

* * * * *

When a gleam of the sun, thro’ a rift in the storm,
Throws a light on our path, that was shadowed before,
We look to the cloud, for the beautiful form
Of the bow, that is promise to us, evermore.

* * * * *

The rose is girt with thorns about,
The berries sweet, with briars—
Thus Fate doth ever hedge us from
Our heart’s supreme desires.

* * * * *

Tossing, rolling, restless sea,
Picture thou of Life to me—Shadow-clouds
now floating o’er,
Foam and drift-wood on the shore:—
Depths of dark and billowy waves,
Wrecking hopes and hollowing graves—
Breaking on the beach in moans,
Seem thy cavern’s echoed groans.

Prosperous winds, and thou wilt bear,
On thy heaving bosom fair,
Snowy sails, with treasures laden
From the distant, sun-kissed Aden,—
Costly fabrics—richest stores,
For their own, dear, home-lit shores,
Where Love’s altars brightly burn,
While she waits their glad return.

* * * * *

In all this beauteous world of ours
What gift, of Love, so sweet as flowers!

* * * * *

O, sweet is the fountain of soothing
That ever is found in His Word—
Drink deeply when heart-wounds are bleeding
And the peace of the spirit is stirred.

Words.

O, words may be loving and mellow in tone,
Sweet as the dew on the flowers of Hermon,
Gently imparting a blessing their own,
Precious with promise, as Olivet’s sermon.

Words may be careless, and cruel and coarse—
Be tauntingly hurled, or so bitterly spoken,
Resistless as lightning’s destroying force,
They scar with their scathing the heart they have broken.

Words may have edge that is keener than steel—
May pierce with their points like the swift-flying arrow;
They hurt with these stings while the victim will feel,
Then tear through the heart like a torturing harrow.

Words may be venomed with malice and spite,
May wither with scorn, with contempt and derision—
Be dreaded like adders when coiling to bite
Or hiss out their poison in whispered suspicion.

Aye, words may be vile as a basilisk’s breath—
A falsehood the germ—an ovum of evil,
Impregnate with calumny’s virus innate,
Then heated and hovered by envy and hate;
Thus “brooded by serpents,” like the monster medieval,
Come forth with his powers of blasting with death.

But words that are warmed in the sunlight of love
Will soothe with their feeling a brother’s affliction;
’Tis the Spirit from heaven that comes like a dove,
So gently descending in sweet benediction.

’Tis blessed receiving what kindness imparts,
How trifling so ever the token,
Thrice blessed, the giving of solace to hearts
That words of injustice have blighted and broken.
There’s comfort and balm for life’s various smarts
In words of true sympathy, tenderly spoken.

Mother.

Oh! mother, mine, mother, mine, come to me now,
With a touch of thy hand sweep the care from my brow;
Oh, come, on the wings of the silences come,
Dear mother, my own, as you reigned in our home.

Oh! mother, mine, mother, mine, come now at eve.
I sit in the gloaming, in loneliness grieve;
The world is so selfish, so cold and unkind,
Sweet solace for pain in thy love I would find.

Oh! mother, mine, mother, mine, hear me, I pray!
In the silence of night, blot the sorrows of day;
And point me away from the earth and its care.
To the beautiful dwelling—that mansion so fair,

Where mother, mine, mother mine, waiteth for me,
With loved ones who’re watching my barque on life’s sea—
Who’ll stretch out their welcoming hands from the shore,
When I reach the glad haven, all buffetings o’er.

Hands.

There are hands we fondly cherish
Not alone for form and grace,
But the loving deeds that mold them,
Place them next a sainted face.

They can soothe as if with magic,
When the fever-furies rage;
Their caresses, unobstrusive,
E’en a heartache can assuage.

Hands can emphasize a welcome,
Far beyond the gifts of speech,
And their language, plain and truthful,
Doubt did never yet impeach.

Aye! there’s feeling warm and tender,
Ever pulsing in the palm,
In whose kindly, silent pressure
Sorrow finds a healing balm.

Love’s sweet mysteries course their fingers,
For their lightest touch of tips
Has the secret gift of thrilling,
Like affection’s clinging lips.

They can knit with mystic flosses
Such a net about the heart—
Earth has naught so near a heaven
As this thraldom doth impart.

Hands have heart-beats throbbing through them
And the lightning flash of thought;
’Tis by such that grand impulsions
Into living deeds are wrought.

Hands may be a sculptor’s pattern,
Tipped with smooth, shell-tinted nails,
Yet convey a touch, repulsive
As of scaly serpent trails.

If the soul is gross and selfish,
There’s no art the trait conceals,
But the hand in mold or clasping,
To the sentient heart reveals.

Idle hands are limp and nerveless,
Lack expression, fervor, grasp—
They receive nor give sensation,
Simply lie within your clasp.

Hands may flash a wealth of jewels,
Yet display a pauper soul—
God inscribes these outspread tablets
From the spirit’s hidden scroll.

Endymion.

When the noble son of Zeus
Asked the gift of youth immortal,
Little wot he of the ages
Stretching onward from life’s portal;
Tho’ he walked with gods, he wearied,
Wished for rest, intense and deep,—
Asked another gift of Zeus;
That of everlasting sleep.

And his thoughtless wish was granted;
Glad he hushed his soul’s repining
In the winged god’s misty vapors
And, on Latmos’ height reclining,
Laid down all earth’s cares and trials—
All its wearying heat and strife,
Yet within his dormant being,
Held the essences of life.

Fair Selene, robed in beauty,
Wandering forth in loneliness,
Bent above the youth admiring—
Touched him with a light caress;
And her gazing woke his spirit
To a dream’s ecstatic bliss,
As her lips, with tender fondness,
Snatched from his that holy kiss.

And her heart’s new, quickened pulsing
Thrilled along love’s unseen wires,—
Stirred in him responsive passion,—
Lit his soul’s electric fires.
Then the roused, enrapt Endymion,
Shaking off the slumbrous air,
Cried,—“Ye gods, take back your giving,
All life’s perils I will dare;
Wake my soul to keenest feeling,
Let its sense of pleasure reign,
Tho’ my path were paved with spear-points
I would count the waking gain.”

Glad he left the heights so longed for,
Sought the lowland’s balmy air,
Leading her, the loved Selene,
Thro’ the flowery valleys fair,
Where the paths all flash with diamonds
From the jewelled crown of Night,—
Where the lake upon his bosom
Rocks the sleeping lillies white,
And his lullaby in whispers
Floating thro’ the leafy dell,
Mingling with perfume and zephyr
Wove a sweet entrancing spell.

And ’twas there at Sylva’s altar,
With the gazing stars above,
Soul to soul, by mute impulsion,
That they pledged eternal love;
Ay, ’twas then the spheric paean,
Through the great expanses spread,
When in Beauty’s listening stillness,
Peace and Purity were wed.

And tonight I see them roaming
Thro’ the flowery paths of eld—
Thro’ the valley, by the lakelet,
Where their nuptial feast was held;
Where the moon-beams dance with shadows,
In the hushed, half-hidden glen,
Shunning Mammon’s crowded cities
And the busy walks of men.

But linger not too long, Selene,—
Hasten from thy lover’s side,
Or, in fleecy cloud-wrought vesture
From the gaze of Eos hide;
Else like darkly mantled Pleiad,
Wailing robes of forfeit glory,
Thou wilt find thy charms are stolen
By the jealous, fair Aurora.

Hasten, hasten, for she cometh,—
Venus bright doth herald now,
All Jove’s pageantry attends her,
Erse’s gems bedeck her brow,
And her royal robes are ’broidered
Rich with rose and amethyst;—
Hasten, but with thine Endymion
Keep the holy evening tryst.

Calypso—The Lover’s Pocket.

Erastes saw with vain regret
A hedge of guards was thickly set
Around the fair one he would woo;
For Flora’s aid he quick applied—
“Be art of yours with Love’s allied
And Cupid’s throng shall kneel to you.”

Then Flora wrought that mystic flower
And graced with it Love’s Sylvan bower,
And there a wildling still it grows;
The hue she gave was pearly white,
But Love would add one more delight
And mingled in a blush of rose.

T’was given such an artless guise
That e’en suspicion’s prying eyes
Doth no intriguing plan suppose:
And there within, securely hid,
Beneath the blossom’s fringy lid
The lover’s missive finds repose.

* * * * *

“Wilt thou, dear maid, thy wealth resign
And drink with me love’s ruby wine—
In weal or woe my fortune’s share?”
She wrote and hid—“I will be thine—
With love’s devotion ever mine
There’s naught but I could dare.”

A closely folded plan for flight
(That marked the nearest moonless night,)
The Orchid in its heart concealed.
While vigilance unconscious slept,
Two dusky steeds thro’ darkness swept
Across an unfrequented field
And brought the lovers quickly where
A waiting priest, with pledge and prayer,
The sacred bonds of wedlock sealed.

Paternal pride aroused, irate,
With bluster came, a moment late,—
The holy rite had joined their hands,
The vows were made, the pledges given
That bound the twain as one in heaven,
Despite his wrath and stern commands.

“How could you thus,” he cried in rage,
“Defy my will, disgrace my age!
I’ll disinherit and disown—And
you shall have eternal scorn
For wedding with that lowly born—
Aye, you shall reap as you have sown.”

* * * * *

“O, woman! thou art gall and wine—
Deceit’s worst name, to me, is thine!
I thought her will succumbed to mine,
So cheerful, happy, she had seemed.
I felt within a conscious pride
In power to hold, subdue and guide—
That she was conquered, fondly dreamed.”

“Along the wood she walked with me,
Among the wild flowers, gay and free,
(I guarded her with watchful eye,)
With eager hand she plucked and smiled
As guileless as a happy child—
No love-lorn look—no sob or sigh.”

“Aye, woman’s ways and woman’s wiles
Are knitted in with looks and smiles
By which man’s wisdom oft is foiled.
She’ll seem so gently yielding _will_
While scheming for her own way, still—
With sweet deceits will blind us, till
Our dearest hopes have been despoiled.”

“But, ’tis senseless nursing helpless wrath,—
Shall I strew thorns along her path
Whose only dower’s a father’s curse?—
Drive them out with want to roam?
I think I’ll take the couple home—
In truth, her parents did much worse.”

* * * * *

Calypso, still with winning grace,
Adorns the ferny, sedgey place
By purling brook or shaded dell,
And only Cupid knows its art
Of hiding in its fragrant heart
The secret, sweet, that Love would tell.

What Is Love?

Not the fierce-destroying power
Of the hot sirocco’s breath,
Withering every tender flower,
Strewing all its path with death
Or helpless, silent sorrow.