A ROO , but there's singin' I've struck up
Wid niver a note to be heard,
When me heart widout sthirrin' the silence
Shtood by me and sang like a bird!

So if all the ould dreams that escaped me
Were sung to the chunes that got free,
I'd be weavin' ye rainbows av rapture
And shamin' the thrush, ma-chree!

But och, 'tis the birds that are ailin',
Bide close by our coaxin' and sing;
'Tis the music worth housin' and keepin'
Foriver makes off on the wing!

They do me wrong who show me sad of face,
Slender and stooped, gentle, and meek, and mild,
As if I were forever reconciled
To sting of hate and bitter of disgrace.
I was youth's lover, swiftest in the race,
Gay friend of beggars, brother to the wild,
No lily-featured, woman-hearted child,
But a great laugher, confident of place.

Shepherd and fisher, sailor, carpenter,
I strode the hills and fellowed with the sun,
Knew arms and bosoms and slow steady eyes,
Felt each new April through my body stir,—
Then, when 'twas over, and the loving done,

The little lonely souls go by
Seeking their God who lives on high
With conscious step and hat and all
As if on Him they meant to call
In some sad ceremonial.

But I who am a pagan child,
Who know how dying Plato smiled,
And how Confucius lessoned kings,
And of the Buddha's wanderings
Find God in very usual things.

Mohammed and the Brahma led
Me past the gateway of the dead,
And even Astarte's temple dim
No less than Raphael's cherubim
Have somehow led me back to Him.

I would not take from them their faith

If I could purge my love and make it pure
Of all except the essence of divine;
If I could turn to crystal flood its wine
And change to peace its passion and allure,
Then, like a holy flame in paths obscure,
Lift its translucent light and make it shine
A beacon to some other soul than mine,
Perchance I might my loneliness endure.
But I am weak and woman, and my heart
Falters before the last great sacrifice,
A stumbling-block to stay my ardent will;
And thus I must accept the lesser part
And try forever just to blind my eyes

All day the spell of that dear play has lain
Upon me; and my thoughts, unceasingly,
Dream round its various happenings and round thee,
Who didst so fascinate my heart and brain.
I see thee standing now as thou didst stand
Last night upon the stage; thy high, sweet face
Uplifted to thy lover's, and the grace
Of thy young figure, circled by his hand,
Gowned in deep red, which seemed sad with thy sorrow:
And round the gown, and o'er the red, there swept
A veil of black, whose gathered meshes crept
Up to thy curving throat, and there did borrow

From vast pavilions cold and grey,
My wingèd thoughts upmounting fly;
“Press on,” the cloud-horizons say,
“Your dreams are pathways up the sky.”
“Press on,” the beacon star-lamps tall
Of mighty constellations call.

A hundred thousand things I pass,—
Each is to me a thing apart,
A flake of snow, a blade of grass,
Its face I see, but not its heart;
I lack the magic cord that ties
All things I wis, to make me wise.

And yet a music sweet and dim
Swells often to a strain sublime,
As if the singing seraphim

Servant of God, of thee the world had need,
For this thy glory, this thy triple crown,
Thy soul from out its battlemented creed
Glowed with that love which melts all barriers down.

Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see?
His trembling love unfolded hear?
And mark the while th' impassion'd tear,
Th' impassion'd tear of agony?

Adown his anxious features steal,
Nor then one burst of pity feel?
But, as bereav'd of ev'ry sense,
Look on with cold indifference.
Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms,
Go bless some gayer, happier, arms;
Go, rest secure, thy fear give o'er,
These eyes shall follow thee no more;
And never shall these lips impart
One thought of all that rends my heart.

Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh,

The hills may crumble into dust,
The earth may swallow up the sea,
But naught can shake my living trust
In Him whose firm hands moulded me.

For when I draw myself apart
From things which make my vision dim,
Deep in the silence of my heart
He meets me, and I speak with Him.

I LIVE in the heart of a garden
With cypresses all about;
To the east and west, and the south and north,
Straight shadowy paths run out.

There are ancient gods in my garden;
They have faces young and pale;
And a hundred thousand roses here
Enrapture the nightingale.

Yet, among the gods of the garden,
The roses and gods, I think,
Daylong, of a far-off clover field,
And the song of a bob-o-link.