Songs Ysame

ONCE, many centuries ago,
Men tried to build a tower so high
That rising upward, round on round,
Its pinnacle should reach the sky.

And as they toiled and built and dreamed and planned,
What hopes went upward with the rising stone!
That daring feet ere long should mount and stand
Upon the golden stairway to the throne.

And then a dire confusion fell
Upon the workers, building there.
Men called and shouted each to each
With strange, uncomprehended speech,
And what it meant no one could tell;
So they left building in despair.

Yet in their hearts still lived the hope that they
Might scale the ramparts of the sky some day.

Sometimes our souls expand and glow
With holy visions bright and pure;
But when from these deep vales below
We proudly try to climb and reach
With clumsy masonry of speech,
And rounds of rhyme that shall endure,
That sky-born thing, that heavenly theme,
Touched only by a prayer or dream,
A swift confusion o'er us flies,
And sudden chills our hands benumb.
Our minds are blurred, our tongues are dumb,
The vision fades away and dies.

Yet still we dream that song some day may be
Rung through the arches of Eternity.

The Old Bell

THE vines have grown so thick and twined so strong,
With clinging hold, about the bell that swings
In the old tower, that now it never rings.
No one has heard its voice for seasons long.

Sit by me on the broken belfry stair,
And I will tell the simple tale to you
Of those whose graves through yonder arch you view,
Scattered about the churchyard, here and there.

Ah me! How closely memory's tendrils twine
About the heart, and choke the words that spring.
It only throbs, the touch half-answering,
Like this old bell, held speechless by the vine.

The Sea

FOREVER, like a heart that knows no peace,
Like one who wanders weary to and fro
About the earth, but finds no resting-place,
The sweeping tides of ocean ebb and flow.

Like a discarded lover who entreats
For favor still, and will not be denied,
Up to the beach, with soft, caressing touch
And tearful broken whispers, steals the tide.

But still repulsed, it slow and sad withdraws,
Yet at the dear one's feet its treasures lays,
And turns again, to wail its sorrows out
Through all the hopeless nights and dreary days.

Married

IT is such a little while
From the time the fledgling tries
To tip from the edge of the nest to the bough,
Then lifts its wings and flies.

Till it sits in its own wee nest,
Surprised out of growth or ken,
And half-way feels that in some strange way
It is learning to fly again.

Motherhood

FOR two dear heads of bronze and amber,
For baby eyes of blue and brown,
For two who cling, and kiss, and clamber,
And on my shoulder nestle down.

All little hearts are dearer to me,
All little faces sweet and bright,
All childish tears and woes undo me,
And I would heal them all to-night.

Sufficiency

THE bird that sings one only strain,
To tell his passion o'er and o'er,
Can feel as much of joy or pain