Or, governed by a boisterous whim, Drop down and rustle on the glass. One poor, heart-broken, outcast girl Faces the east-wind's searching flaws, And, as about her heart they whirl, Her tattered cloak more tightly draws. The flat brick walls look cold and bleak, Her bare feet to the sidewalk freeze; Yet dares she not a shelter seek, Though faint with hunger and disease. The sharp storm cuts her forehead bare, She lingers where a ruddy glow More loneness to desertion utter. She hears a woman's voice within, Singing sweet words her childhood knew, Outside the porch before the door, Her cheek upon the cold, hard stone, She lies, no longer foul and poor, No longer dreary and alone. Next morning something heavily Against the opening door did weigh, And there, from sin and sorrow free, A woman on the threshold lay. A smile upon the wan lips told That she had found a calm release, And that, from out the want and cold, The song had borne her soul in peace. For, whom the heart of man shuts out, And one of his great charities Is Music, and it doth not scorn To close the lids upon the eyes Of the polluted and forlorn ; Far was she from her childhood's home, MIDNIGHT. THE moon shines white and silent O'er the wide marsh doth glide, A vague and starry magic Makes all things mysteries, The fireflies o'er the meadow The dreaming cock doth crow. All things look strange and mystic, From childhood known so well. The snow of deepest silence O'er everything doth fall, O wild and wondrous midnight, A PRAYER. GOD! do not let my loved one die, But rather wait until the time O, let her stay! She is by birth We need her more on our poor earth Than thou canst need in heaven with She hath her wings already, I Then, God, take me! We shall be near, My heavenly than my earthly speech; THE HERITAGE. THE rich man's son inherits lands, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, A heritage, it seems to me, What doth the poor man's son inherit ? What doth the poor man's son inherit ? What I through death must learn to A heritage, it seems to me, be; A king might wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit? To make the outcast bless his door; O rich man's son ! there is a toil But only whiten, soft white hands, O poor man's son ! scorn not thy state; Toil only gives the soul to shine, In his tower sat the poet Gazing on the roaring sea, "Take this rose," he sighed, "and throw it Where there's none that loveth me. On the rock the billow bursteth And sinks back into the seas, Ugly death stands there behind, Foam and spray drive back to leeward, And the gale, with dreary moan, Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, Through the breakers all alone. II. Stands a maiden, on the morrow, Who hath been my life so long, Mine with love forevermore !" But, with omen pure and meet, Brings a little rose, and throws it Humbly at the maiden's feet. Full of bliss she takes the token, And, upon her snowy breast, Soothes the ruffled petals broken With the ocean's fierce unrest. "Love is thine, O heart! and surely Peace shall also be thine own, For the heart that trusteth purely Never long can pine alone." III. In his tower sits the poet, Blisses new and strange to him Fill his heart and overflow it With a wonder sweet and dim. Up the beach the ocean slideth With a whisper of delight, And the moon in silence glideth Through the peaceful blue of night. Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder Flows a maiden's golden hair, Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, Kiss his moon-lit forehead bare. "Life is joy, and love is power, Death all fetters doth unbind, Strength and wisdom only flower When we toil for all our kind. Hope is truth, the future giveth More than present takes away, And the soul forever liveth - Nearer God from day to day." Not a word the maiden uttered, Fullest hearts are slow to speak, But a withered rose-leaf fluttered Down upon the poet's cheek. |