Part 3 (1/2)

A fuller knowledge must its thirst a.s.suage.

Perhaps we would not deem those pleasures flown As bright as those which star the present age, Had not upon them long years lain The suns.h.i.+ne of an amber pane.

The dust of dim forgetfulness piles fast Upon the chains that thralled us yesterday.

So will it be when this day, too, is past, And in its arms we've seen it bear away The cares that brooded in the tired brain; The work that weighted down the weary hand; The high hopes that we struggled to attain; The problems that we could not understand.

Washed of its stain, bereft of any sting, Seen through the window of the Memory, Perchance, a gentler grace to it may cling Than we may now think possible to see.

For skies will gleam, though gray with rain, Like suns.h.i.+ne through that amber pane.

We may not stand on Patmos, and look through The star-hinged portals where the great pearls gleam.

No brush that unveiled beauty ever drew, Save one, that caught its shadow in a dream.

So lest we falter, faithless and afraid, The Merciful, remembering we are dust, Reveals not heaven for which our hearts have prayed, But by a token teaches us to trust; And day by day allows us to look through The window of the Memory, broad and vast, (Till jasper minarets rise into view) Upon the happy heaven of the past; And gives, till purer light we gain, The suns.h.i.+ne of that amber pane.

At a Tenement Window.

SOMETIMES my needle stops with half-drawn thread (Not often though, each moment's waste means bread, And missing st.i.tches leave the little mouths unfed).

I look down on the dingy court below: A tuft of gra.s.s is all it has to show,-- A broken pump, where thirsty children go.

Above, there s.h.i.+nes a bit of sky, so small That it might be a pa.s.sing blue-bird's wing.

One tree leans up against the high brick wall, And there the sparrows twitter of the spring, Until they waken in my heart a cry Of hunger, that no bread can satisfy.

Always before, when Maytime took her way Across the fields, I followed close. To-day I can but dream of all her bright array.

My work drops down. Across the sill I lean, And long with bitter longing, for unseen Rain-freshened paths, where budding woods grow green.

The water trickles from the pump below Upon the stones. With eyes half shut, I hear It falling in a pool where rushes grow, And feel a cooling presence drawing near.

And now the sparrows chirp again. No, hark!-- A singing as of some far meadow lark.

It is the same old miracle applied Unto myself, that on the mountain-side The few small loaves and fishes multiplied.

Behold, how strange and sweet the mystery!

The birds, the broken pump, the gnarled tree, Have brought the fullness of the spring to me.

For in the leaves that rustle by the wall All forests find a tongue. And so that gra.s.s Can, with its struggling tuft of green, recall Wide, bloom-filled meadows where the cattle pa.s.s.

How it can be, but dimly I divine.

These crumbs, G.o.d given, make the whole loaf mine.

A Song.

”Home-keeping hearts are happiest.”--LONGFELLOW.

THERE will be distant journeyings enough To reach that Land beyond the ether's sea, To satisfy the veriest roaming heart,-- Let me stay home with thee!

There will be new companions.h.i.+ps enough In that bright spirit-life. Why should we flee So soon to alien hearts and stranger scenes?