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Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing
Thy will always,

Through a long century's ripening fruition
Or a short day's;

Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait
If Thou come late.

Sarah Chauncey Woolsey [1845-1905]

"EX LIBRIS"

IN an old book at even as I read

Fast fading words adown my shadowy page,
I crossed a tale of how, in other age,

At Arqua, with his books around him, sped
The word to Petrarch; and with noble head
Bowed gently o'er his volume that sweet sage
To Silence paid his willing seigniorage.

And they who found him whispered, "He is dead!"
Thus timely from old comradeships would I
To Silence also rise. Let there be night,
Stillness, and only these staid watchers by,
And no light shine save my low study light-
Lest of his kind intent some human cry

Interpret not the Messenger aright.

Arthur Upson [1877–1908]

IN EXTREMIS

TILL dawn the Winds' insuperable throng
Passed over like archangels in their might,
With roar of chariots from their stormy height,
And broken thunder of mysterious song—

By mariner or sentry heard along

The star-usurping battlements of night-
And wafture of immeasurable flight,

And high-blown trumpets mutinous and strong.
Till louder on the dreadful dark I heard
The shrieking of the tempest-tortured tree,

And deeper on immensity the call

And tumult of the empire-forging sea;

Spinning

But near the eternal Peace I lay, nor stirred,
Knowing the happy dead hear not at all.

George Sterling [1869

SPINNING

LIKE a blind spinner in the sun,
I tread my days;

I know that all the threads will run
Appointed ways;

I know each day will bring its task,
And, being blind, no more I ask.

I do not know the use or name
Of that I spin:

I only know that some one came,
And laid within

My hand the thread, and said, "Since you
Are blind, but one thing you can do."

Sometimes the threads so rough and fast
And tangled fly,

I know wild storms are sweeping past,
And fear that I

Shall fall; but dare not try to find
A safer place, since I am blind.

I know not why, but I am sure
That tint and place,

In some great fabric to endure
Past time and race,

My threads will have; so from the first,
Though blind, I never felt accurst.

I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung
From one short word

Said over me when I was young,

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It, knowing not that God's name signed

My brow, and sealed me His, though blind.

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But whether this be seal or sign
Within, without,

It matters not. The bond divine
I never doubt.

I know He set me here, and still,
And glad, and blind, I wait His will;

But listen, listen, day by day,
To hear their tread

Who bear the finished web away,

And cut the thread,

And bring God's message in the sun,

"Thou poor blind spinner, work is done." Helen Hunt Jackson [1831-1885]

"SOME TIME AT EVE”

SOME time at eve when the tide is low,
I shall slip my mooring and sail away,
With no response to the friendly hail
Of kindred craft in the busy bay.
In the silent hush of the twilight pale,

When the night stoops down to embrace the day, And the voices call in the waters' flow

Some time at eve when the tide is low,
I shall slip my mooring and sail away.

Through the purpling shadows that darkly trail
O'er the ebbing tide of the Unknown Sea,
I shall fare me away, with a dip of sail
And a ripple of waters to tell the tale

Of a lonely voyager, sailing away

To the Mystic Isles where at anchor lay The crafts of those who have sailed before O'er the Unknown Sea to the Unseen Shore.

A few who have watched me sail away

Will miss my craft from the busy bay;

Some friendly barks that were anchored near,
Some loving souls that my heart held dear,
In silent sorrow will drop a tear--

Afterwards

But I shall have peacefully furled my sail
In moorings sheltered from storm or gale,

And greeted the friends who have sailed before
O'er the Unknown Sea to the Unseen Shore.
Lizzie Clark Hardy [18

3255

NIGHT

WHEN the time comes for me to die,
To-morrow, or some other day,
If God should bid me make reply,
"What would'st thou?" I shall say,

O God, Thy world was great and fair;
Yet give me to forget it clean!
Vex me no more with things that were,
And things that might have been.

I loved, I toiled, throve ill or well,

-Lived certain years and murmured not.
Now grant me in that land to dwell
Where all things are forgot.

For others, Lord, Thy purging fires,

The loves reknit, the crown, the palm.

For me, the death of all desires

In deep, eternal calm.

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I KNOW that these poor rags of womanhood,
This oaten pipe, whereon the wild winds played
Making sad music,―tattered and outfrayed,
Cast off, played out,—can hold no more of good,
Of love, or song, or sense of sun and shade.

What homely neighbors elbow me (hard by

'Neath the black yews) I know I shall not know, Nor take account of changing winds that blow, Shifting the golden arrow, set on high

On the gray spire, nor mark who come and go.

Yet would I lie in some familiar place,

Nor share my rest with uncongenial dead,—

Somewhere, may be, where friendly feet will tread.— As if from out some little chink of space

Mine eyes might see them tripping overhead.

And though too sweet to deck a sepulcher

Seem twinkling daisy-buds and meadow-grass; And so would more than serve me, lest they pass Who fain would know what woman rested there, What her demeanor, or her story was,—

For these I would that on a sculptured stone
(Fenced round with ironwork to keep secure)
Should sleep a form with folded palms demure,
In aspect like the dreamer that was gone,

With these words carved, "I hoped, but was not sure."

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OH, where will be the birds that sing,

A hundred years to come?

The flowers that now in beauty spring,

A hundred years to come?

The rosy lip, the lofty brow,

The heart that beats so gaily now,-
Oh, where will be love's beaming eye,
Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh,
A hundred years to come?

Who'll press for gold this crowded street,

A hundred years to come?

Who'll tread yon church with willing feet,

A hundred years to come?

Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth,
And childhood with its brow of truth,
The rich and poor, on land and sea,-
Where will the mighty millions be,

A hundred years to come?

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