I laid my inventory at the hand
Of Death, who in his gloomy arbour sate;
And while he conned it, sweet and desolate
I heard Love singing in that quiet land.
He read the record even to the end—
The heedless, livelong injuries of Fate,
The burden of foe, the burden of love and hate;
The wounds of foe, the bitter wounds of friend:

All, all, he read, ay, even the indifference,
The vain talk, vainer silence, hope and dream.
He questioned me: “What seek'st thou then instead?”
I bowed my face in the pale evening gleam.

Loose hands and part: I am not she you sought,
——The fair one whom in all our dreams you see,
——But something more of earth and less than she,
That crowded her an instant from your thought.
Blameless we face the fate this hour has brought.
——Unwitting I took hers; I set you free
——From all that you unwitting gave to me;
Seek her and find her; I do grudge her naught.
Love, after daylight, dark; so there is left
——This season stripped of you; but yet I know,
Remembering the old, I cannot make
These new days bitter or myself bereft.

I HOLD him, verily, of mean emprise,
Whose rashness tempts a strength too great to bear;
As I have done, alas! who turned mine eyes
Upon those perilous eyes of the most fair.
Unto her eyes I bow'd;
No need her other beauties in that hour
Should aid them, cold and proud:
As when the vassals of a mighty lord,
What time he needs his power,
Are all girt round him to make strong his sword.

With such exceeding force the stroke was dealt
That by mine eyes its path might not be stay'd;
But deep into the heart it pierced, which felt

I love the church that Jesus bought,
And know that it is right;
I go there on Sunday morning,
But not on Sunday night.

I love to sing the songs of God,
Such worship must be right,
This I do on Sunday morn,
But not on Sunday night.

God bless the preacher too,
And give him power and might,
But put the sinner in his place,
I won't be there Sunday night.

I love to hear the Gospel too,
It gives me pure delight;
I hear it on Sunday morning,
But not on Sunday night.

I know I need more strength
To keep me in the fight;

Not to thee, Bedford, mournful is the tale
Of days departed. Time in his career
Arraigns not thee that the neglected year
Hath past unheeded onward. To the vale
Of years thou journeyest; may the future road
Be pleasant as the past; and on my friend
Friendship and Love, best blessings, still attend,
Till full of days he reach the calm abode
Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age
Of virtue: with such reverence we behold
The silver hairs, as some gray oak grown old
That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage,
Now like a monument of strength decay'd,

Nothing comes
from him,
not so much as a note
asking,
“Do you remember
the pledge of love
we made?”—
so distant has he become.

Now I no longer wait my love to tell,
As 't were a weakness love should not commit;
E'en did avowal my fond hope dispel,
My passion would of weakness me acquit.
Enamoured thus and holden by its spell,
Evasive words disloyal were, unfit
To emphasize the exquisite happiness
My boldest accents falteringly express;
Here, take my hand, and, life-long wedded, lead
Me by thy side; and, with my hand, my heart
Given thee long since in thought, given now in deed;
My life, my love, shall play no faithless part.
Blest be that hour, when, meeting face to face,

No more the slow stream spreading clear in sunlight
Lacing the swamp with intricate shining channels
Patterned by wind and the dipping tall marsh grasses:

No more the mica glint in the sliding water
The bright-winged flies and the muskrat gone like a shadow
No more the curved trout breaking concentric silver:

Now the basalt cliffs and the yellow foam in the eddies
Now the strong brown water boiling deeply from under
Now the log abutment left where the bridge has fallen:

O the slow stream lovely, lovely no more in sunlight:

I DO forgive you for the pain I bear,
Though bitter pain is mingled with my bliss;
For still I think, while thrilling to your kiss,
“He found that other woman much more fair.”
I read your words, and see, immortal there,
Another love—how warm it was to this!
And know that from my face you still must miss
The beauty that another used to wear.

Yet I forgive you, Dear, and bow my head
To Destiny, my master and your own,—
He sets the way wherein my feet must tread;
And if he give me nothing quite mine own,—
I know some day my heart, so sore bested,

Look back with longing eyes and know that I will follow,
Lift me up in your love as a light wind lifts a swallow,
Let our flight be far in sun or windy rain—
But what if I heard my first love calling me again?

Hold me on your heart as the brave sea holds the foam,
Take me far away to the hills that hide your home;
Peace shall thatch the roof and love shall latch the door—
But what if I heard my first love calling me once more?

Look back with longing eyes and know that I will follow,
Lift me up in your love as a light wind lifts a swallow,