misty love-notes, laughs and whisperings
The Night pours o'er the lips that fondle her,
And that faint breeze, filled with all fragrant sighs, —
That is her breath that quavers lover-wise —
O blessed sweetheart, with thy swart, sweet kiss,
Baptize me, drown me in black swirls of bliss!
THE HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN
The hour before the dawn!
O ye who grope therein, with fear and dread
And agony of soul, be comforted,
Knowing, ere long, the darkness will be gone,
And down its dusky aisles the light be shed;
Therefore, in utter trust, fare on – fare on,
This hour before the dawn!
GOOD-BY, OLD YEAR
Good-by, Old Year!
Good-by!
We have been happy – you and I;
We have been glad in many ways;
And now, that you have come to die,
Remembering our happy days,
'Tis hard to say, "Good-by —
Good-by, Old Year!
Good-by!"
Good-by, Old Year!
Good-by!
We have seen sorrow – you and I —
Such hopeless sorrow, grief and care,
That now, that you have come to die,
Remembering our old despair,
'Tis sweet to say, "Good-by —
Good-by, Old Year!
Good-by!"
FALSE AND TRUE
One said: "Here is my hand to lean upon
As long as you may need it." And one said:
"Believe me true to you till I am dead."
And one, whose dainty way it was to fawn
About my face, with mellow fingers drawn
Most soothingly o'er brow and drooping head,
Sighed tremulously: "Till my breath is fled
Know I am faithful!" … Now, all these are gone
And many like to them – and yet I make
No bitter moan above their grassy graves —
Alas! they are not dead for me to take
Such sorry comfort! – but my heart behaves
Most graciously, since one who never spake
A vow is true to me for true love's sake.
A BALLAD FROM APRIL
I am dazed and bewildered with living
A life but an intricate skein
Of hopes and despairs and thanksgiving
Wound up and unravelled again —
Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping,
I am wondering ever the while
At a something that smiles when I'm weeping,
And a something that weeps when I smile.
And I walk through the world as one dreaming
Who knows not the night from the day,
For I look on the stars that are gleaming,
And lo, they have vanished away:
And I look on the sweet-summer daylight,
And e'en as I gaze it is fled,
And, veiled in a cold, misty, gray light,
The winter is there in its stead.
I feel in my palms the warm fingers
Of numberless friends – and I look,
And lo, not a one of them lingers
To give back the pleasure he took;
And I lift my sad eyes to the faces
All tenderly fixed on my own,
But they wither away in grimaces
That scorn me, and leave me alone.
And I turn to the woman that told me
Her love would live on until death —
But her arms they no longer enfold me,
Though barely the dew of her breath
Is dry on the forehead so pallid
That droops like the weariest thing
O'er this most inharmonious ballad
That ever a sorrow may sing.
So I'm dazed and bewildered with living
A life but an intricate skein
Of hopes and despairs and thanksgiving
Wound up and unravelled again —
Till it seems, whether waking or sleeping,
I am wondering ever the while
At a something that smiles when I'm weeping,
And a something that weeps when I smile.
BRUDDER SIMS
Dah's Brudder Sims! Dast slam yo' Bible shet
An' lef' dat man alone – kase he's de boss
Ob all de preachahs ev' I come across!
Day's no twis' in dat gospil book, I bet,
Ut Brudder Sims cain't splanify, an' set
You' min' at eaze! W'at's Moses an' de Laws?
W'at's fo'ty days an' nights ut Noey toss
Aroun' de Dil-ooge? – W'at dem Chillen et
De Lo'd rain down? W'at s'prise ole Joney so
In dat whale's inna'ds? – W'at dat laddah mean
Ut Jacop see? – an' wha' dat laddah go? —
Who clim dat laddah? – Wha' dat laddah lean? —
An' wha' dat laddah now? "Dast chalk yo' toe
Wid Faith," sez Brudder Sims, "an' den you know!"
DEFORMED
Crouched at the corner of the street
She sits all day, with face too white
And hands too wasted to be sweet
In anybody's sight.
Her form is shrunken, and a pair
Of crutches leaning at her side
Are crossed like homely hands in prayer
At quiet eventide.
Her eyes – two lustrous, weary things —
Have learned a look that ever aches,
Despite the ready jinglings
The passer's penny makes.
And, noting this, I pause and muse
If any precious promise touch
This heart that has so much to lose
If dreaming overmuch —
And, in