In the blue and clear pearl-ocean,
To the diver in his cell,
Comes the pure air to regale him,
But if atmosphere should fail him
Then the ocean deeps are hell.

So, Thou Source of Love and Power,
While in fields of earth we plod,
Give us atmospheres of healing,
Ever in our lives revealing
The refreshing sense of God.

The dreamy drift of honeysuckle scent,
A sensuous breath of beauty on the night—
And we who shared the intimate delight
Of Life and Love with youth and rapture blent!
For such complete communion we were meant—
To be but one in thought, and that thought right.
To love the lovely and to find the Light!

A THOUSAND times I would have hoped,
A thousand times protested;
But still, as through the night I groped,
My torch from me was wrested,
And wrested.

How often with a succoring cup
Unto the hurt I hasted!
The wounded died ere I came up;
My cup was still untasted,—
Untasted.

Of darkness, wounds, and harsh disdain
Endured. I ne'er repented.
'T is not of these I would complain:
With these I were contented,—
Contented.

Here lies the misery, to feel
No work of love completed;
In prayerless passion still to kneel,

A SUDDEN flash of heat,
A sudden sharp word said,
And at his guilty feet
The thing called love lay dead.

Fare thee well, love!—We must sever!
Not for years, love; but for ever!
We must meet no more—or only
Meet as strangers—sad and lonely.
Fare thee well!

Fare thee well, love!—How I languish
For the cause of all my anguish!
None have ever met and parted
So forlorn and broken-hearted.
Fare thee well!

Fare thee well, love!—Till I perish
All my truth for thee I'll cherish;
And, when thou my requiem hearest,
Know till death I loved thee, dearest.
Fare thee well!

Make us, O God! in whom we breathe, and move,
Worthy to love Thee, and to win thy love!
Thy word informs us how thy love is won,
By grateful trust in thy beloved Son!
Through every season may such trust encrease!
We know it duty, and we feel it peace.

The Lark mounts up to greet the dawn,
Midway between the earth and sky,
The glad morn yearns and smiles upon
The bright-winged spirit, whose song fills
The pulsing air with music rills,
Glad'ning the Angels that pass by.

For never morn comes down to earth,
That is not borne on Angels' wings;
Music is of celestial birth,
And like the Lark, with voice of love,
Pure as God's light, it soars above,
When Woman from her full heart sings.

So, Maiden, thou shalt be the Lark,
And I, the long-expectant Morn;
Bring back the lost Dove to its Ark,

The yellow thirst that maddens men,
Doth lead them over bog and fen,
Through sullen seas to climes of cold,
Where wait the fertile fields of gold.

O life, O love, O hope, O fate,
Unceasing ever, early, late,
We see in dreams, by night, by day,
Some Eldorado—far away.

Oh , trust not Love—the wayward boy,
But haste, if you'd detain him,
Ere time can beauty's bond destroy,
Or other eyes and lips decoy,
With Hymen to enchain him.

The humming-bird the blossom leaves
Whene'er its sweets are failing;
The silken web the spider weaves
Yields up the prey to which she cleaves,
When autumn winds are wailing.

And Love, when beauty's bloom decays,
Will spread his fickle pinion,
And prove the web in which he plays
Too weak against the rude world's ways
To hold the roving minion.

Each man is limited by inborn traits;
—Beyond a certain point he cannot go;
The wise excel in high or low estates;
—The good mock not good workers just below.

If one can lift a weight of half a ton,
—Give him full credit, yet not praise him more
Than one who, lifting less, his best has done,
—Nor give the latter less than actual score.

We grant that each has striven toward the best,
—Yet judge by failure, not by worth or toil.
The “highest” is not worthier than the rest,
—And none should other's worthy effort spoil.