Part 9 (1/2)

The crows that train o'er desert skies In endless caravans that have no goal But flight--where darkness flies-- From Pole to Pole.

The sombre zone of hills around That shrink in misty mournfulness from sight, With sunset aureoles crowned-- Before the night.

MOTHER-LOVE

The seraphs would sing to her And from the River Dip her cool grails of radiant Life.

The angels would bring to her, Sadly a-quiver, Laurels she never had won in earth-strife.

And often they'd fly with her O'er the star-s.p.a.ces-- Silent by worlds where mortals are pent.

Yea, even would sigh with her, Sigh with wan faces!

When she sat weeping of strange discontent.

But one said, ”Why weepest thou Here in G.o.d's heaven-- Is it not fairer than soul can see?”

”'Tis fair, ah!--but keepest thou Not me depriven Of some one--somewhere--who needeth most me?

”For tho' the day never fades Over these meadows, Tho' He has robed me and crowned--yet, yet!

Some love-fear for ever shades All with sere shadows-- Had I no child _there_--whom I forget?”

TO A SINGING WARBLER

”Beauty! all--all--is beauty?”

Was ever a bird so wrong!

”No young in the nest, no mate, no duty?”

Ribald! is this your song?

”Glad it is ended,” are you?

The Spring and its nuptial fear?

”And freedom is better than love?” beware you, There will be May next year!

”Beauty!” again, still ”beauty”?

Wait till the winter comes!

Till kestrel and hungry kite seek booty And the bleak cold benumbs!

Wait? nay, fling it to heaven The false little song you prate!

Too sweet are its fancies not to leaven Even the rudest fate!

SONGS TO A. H. R.

I