The Cornflower, and Other Poems Part 16

STRENGTH.

Write on Life's tablet all things tender, great and good, Uncaring that full oft thou art misunderstood.

Interpretation true is foreign to the throng That runs and reads; heed not its praise or blame. Be strong!

Write on with steady hand, and, smiling, say, "'Tis well!"

If when thy deeds spell _Heaven_ The rabble read out _h.e.l.l_.

THE TIME AND THE DEED.

Art going to do a kindly deed?

'Tis never too soon to begin; Make haste, make haste, for the moments speed, The world, my dear one, has pressing need Of your tender thought and kindly deed.

'Tis never too soon to begin.

But if the deed be a selfish one, 'Tis ever too soon to begin; If some heart will be sorer when all is done, Put it off! put it off from sun to sun, Remembering always, my own dear one, 'Tis ever too soon to begin.

DISCONTENT.

My soul spoke low to Discontent: Long hast thou lodged with me, Now, ere the strength of me is spent, I would be quit of thee.

Thy presence means revolt, unrest, Means labor, longing, pain; Go, leave me, thou unwelcome guest, Nor trouble me again.

I longed for peace--for peace I cried; You would not let her in; No room was there for aught beside The turmoil and the din.

I longed for rest, prayed life might yield Soft joy and dear delight; You urged me to the battlefield, And flung me in the fight.

We two part company to-day.

Now, ere my strength be spent, I open wide my doors and say: "Begone, thou Discontent!"

Then something strong and sweet and fair Rose up and made reply: Who gave you the desire to dare And do the right? 'Twas I.

The coward soul craves pleasant things, Soft joys and dear delights-- I scourged you till you spread your wings And soared to n.o.bler heights.

You know me but imperfectly-- My surname is Divine; G.o.d's own right hand did prison me Within this soul of thine,

Lest thou, forgetting work and strife, By human longings prest, Shouldst miss the grandest things of life, Its battles and unrest.

A PRAYER OF LOVE.

A prayer of love, O Father!

A fair and flowery way Life stretches out before these On this their marriage day.

O pour Thy choicest blessing, Withhold no gift of Thine, Fill all their world with beauty And tenderness divine!

A prayer of love, O Father!

This holy love and pure, That thrills the soul to rapture, O may it e'er endure!

The richest of earth's treasures, The gold without alloy, The flower of faith unfading, The full, the perfect joy!

No mist of tears or doubting, But in their steadfast eyes The light divine, the light of love, The light of Paradise.

A prayer of love, O Father!

A prayer of love to Thee, G.o.d's best be theirs for life, for death, And all Eternity!

WILD STRAWBERRIES.

The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways-- Ho! for the fields and the wildwood!

The scents, the sights, and the dear delights-- Ho! for our care-free childhood!

Heavy the air with a fragrance rare, Strawberries ripe in the meadow, Luscious and red where the vines are spread Thickly in sun and shadow.

The glad, glad days, and the pleasant ways, Chorus of wild birds calling: "Strawberry ripe! Ho! strawberry ripe!"

From dawn till the dew is falling.

SPRING.

O the frozen valley and frozen hill make a coffin wide and deep, And the dead river lies, all its laughter stilled within it, fast asleep.

The trees that have played with the merry thing, and freighted its breast with leaves, Give never a murmur or sigh of woe--they are dead--no dead thing grieves.

No carol of love from a song-bird's throat; the world lies naked and still, For all things tender, and all things sweet, have been touched by the gruesome chill.

Not a flower--a blue forget-me-not, a wild rose, or jasmine soft-- To lay its bloom on the dead river's lips, that have kissed them all so oft.

But look! a ladder is spanning the s.p.a.ce 'twixt earth and the sky beyond, A ladder of gold for the Maid of Grace--the strong, the subtle, the fond!

Spring, with the warmth in her footsteps light, and the breeze and the fragrant breath, Is coming to press her radiant face to that which is cold in death.

Spring, with a mantle made of the gold held close in a sunbeam's heart Thrown over her shoulders bonnie and bare--see the sap in the great trees start!

Where the hem of this flowing garment trails, see the glow, the color bright, A stirring and spreading of something fair--the dawn is chasing the night!