Coolidge Susan

A Few More Verses


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as soon as uttered,

      And yet the word had power.

      Away they sped, the words:

      One, like a wingèd seed,

      Lit on a soul which gave it room,

      And straight began to bud and bloom

      In lovely word and deed.

      The other careless word,

      Borne on an evil air,

      Found a rich soil, and ripened fast

      Its rank and poisonous growths, and cast

      Fresh seeds to work elsewhere.

      The speakers of the words

      Passed by and marked, one day,

      The fragrant blossoms dewy wet,

      The baneful flowers thickly set

      In clustering array.

      And neither knew his word;

      One smiled, and one did sigh.

      “How strange and sad,” one said, “it is

      People should do such things as this!

      I’m glad it was not I.”

      And, “What a wondrous word

      To reach so far, so high!”

      The other said, “What joy ’twould be

      To send out words so helpfully!

      I wish that it were I.”

      INFLUENCE

      COUCHED in the rocky lap of hills,

      The lake’s blue waters gleam,

      And thence in linked and measured rills

      Down to the valley stream,

      To rise again, led higher and higher,

      And slake the city’s hot desire.

      High as the lake’s bright ripples shine,

      So high the water goes,

      But not a drop that air-drawn line

      Passes or overflows;

      Though man may strive and man may woo,

      The stream to its own law is true.

      Vainly the lonely tarn its cup

      Holds to the feeding skies;

      Unless the source be lifted up,

      The streamlet cannot rise:

      By law inexorably blent,

      Each is the other’s measurement.

      Ah, lonely tarn! ah, striving rill!

      So yearn these souls of ours,

      And beat with sad and urgent will

      Against the unheeding powers.

      In vain is longing, vain is force;

      No stream goes higher than its source.

      AN EASTER SONG

      A SONG of sunshine through the rain,

      Of spring across the snow,

      A balm to heal the hurts of pain,

      A peace surpassing woe.

      Lift up your heads, ye sorrowing ones,

      And be ye glad of heart,

      For Calvary and Easter Day,

      Earth’s saddest day and gladdest day,

      Were just one day apart!

      With shudder of despair and loss

      The world’s deep heart was wrung,

      As lifted high upon his cross

      The Lord of Glory hung,

      When rocks were rent, and ghostly forms

      Stole forth in street and mart;

      But Calvary and Easter Day,

      Earth’s blackest day and whitest day,

      Were just one day apart!

      No hint or whisper stirred the air

      To tell what joy should be;

      The sad disciples, grieving there,

      Nor help nor hope could see.

      Yet all the while the glad, near sun

      Made ready its swift dart.

      And Calvary and Easter Day,

      The darkest day and brightest day,

      Were just one day apart!

      Oh, when the strife of tongues is loud,

      And the heart of hope beats low,

      When the prophets prophesy of ill,

      And the mourners come and go,

      In this sure thought let us abide,

      And keep and stay our heart, —

      That Calvary and Easter Day,

      Earth’s heaviest day and happiest day,

      Were but one day apart!

      SO LONG AGO

      THEY stood upon the vessel’s deck

      To catch our farewell look and beck.

      Two girlish figures, fair and frail,

      Hovering against a great white sail

      Like spirit shapes in dazzling air, —

      I seem to see them standing there,

      Always together, always so, – ,

      ’Twas long ago, oh, long ago!

      The east was bright with yellow noon,

      The flying vessel vanished soon.

      Flashes of jubilant white spray

      Beckoned and pointed her the way.

      A lessening speck she outward sped;

      Sadly we turned, but still we said,,

      “They will come back again, we know,” —

      ’Twas long ago, so long ago!

      Those faces sweet, those happy eyes,

      Looked nevermore on Western skies;

      Where the hot sunbeams weave their net

      O’er cedar-crowned, sad Olivet,

      They who had shared their lives shared death,

      Tasting at once the first strange breath

      Of those quick airs for souls that flow

      So long ago, so long ago!

      In vain we picture to our eyes

      The convent gray, the still, blue skies,

      The mountain with its bordering wood; —

      Still do they stand as then they stood,

      Hovering like spirits fair and frail

      Against the dazzle of the sail;

      The red lips part, the faces glow,

      As long ago, so long ago!

      A BIRTHDAY

      WHAT shall I do to keep your day,

      My darling, dead for many a year?

      I could not, if I would, forget

      It is your day; and yet, and yet —

      It is so hard to find