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Jesus calls us! O'er the tumult

Jesus calls us! O'er the tumult
Of our life's wild restless sea
Day by day his sweet voice soundeth,
Saying, ‘Christian, follow me’:

As of old Saint Andrew heard it
By the Galilean lake,
Turned from home, and toil, and kindred,
Leaving all for his dear sake.

Jesus calls us from the worship
Of the vain world's golden stores
From each idol that would keep us,
Saying, ‘Christian, love me more.’

In our joys and in our sorrows,
Days of toil and hours of ease,
Still he calls, in cares and pleasures,
‘Christian, love me more than these.’

Destiny

Why each is striving, from of old,
To love more deeply than he can?
Still would be true, yet still grows cold?
—Ask of the Powers that sport with man!

They yok'd in him, for endless strife,
A heart of ice, a soul of fire;
And hurl'd him on the Field of Life,
An aimless unallay'd Desire.

Delight

YOU butterfly!
You singing bird!
You dainty sweet
Sweet woman with the dancing feet!
At sight of you, I know not why,
Strange wistful memories are stirred
In my soul's depths, when you flash by.
I love you at each swift heart beat,
Yet sit and never say a word,
So many thoughts thrill thus unheard.

O! little throat,
So slim and white!
Dear voice as deep
Restful and wonderful as sleep…
Our whole souls ache at each full note,
Fall faint with rapture, swoon to flight
And follow where your love songs float,

The Elixir

“Oh brew me a potion strong and good!
One golden drop in his wine
Shall charm his sense and fire his blood,
And bend his will to mine.”

Poor child of passion! ask of me
Elixir of death or sleep,
Or Lethe's stream; but love is free,
And woman must wait and weep.

Hunting-Song

To me no pastime sweeter seems
Than through the woods to go,
Where throstle sings and falcon screams,
Where leap the hart and roe.

O would my love a throstle were
And sang on yonder spray;
Or, like a roe, came bounding fair—
I'd hunt her all the day!

Reading

One day in the bloom of a violet
I found a simple word;
And my heart went softly humming it,
Till the violet must have heard.

And deep in the depth of a crimson rose
A writing showed so plain,
I scanned it over in veriest joy
To the patter of summer rain.

And then from the grateful mignonette
I read—ah, such a thing!
That the glad tears fell on it like dew,
And my soul was ready to sing.

A few little words! Before that day
I never had taken heed;
But, oh, how I blessed the love that came—
The love that taught me to read!

Compensation

In the strength of the endeavor,
In the temper of the giver,
In the loving of the lover,
Lies the hidden recompense.

In the sowing of the sower,
In the fleeting of the flower,
In the fading of each hour,
Lurks eternal recompense.
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