Maurine and Other Poems Part 23

Beholding men, they fear them. But at length Grown all too great and active for the heart That broods them with such tender mother art, Forgetting fear, and men, and all, that hour, Save the impelling consciousness of power That stirs within them--they shall soar away Up to the very portals of the Day.

Oh, what exultant rapture thrills me through When I contemplate all those thoughts may do; Like snow-white eagles penetrating s.p.a.ce, They may explore full many an unknown place, And build their nests on mountain heights unseen, Whereon doth lie that dreamed-of rest serene.

Stay thou a little longer in my breast, Till my fond heart shall push thee from the nest, Anxious to see thee soar to heights divine-- Oh, beautiful but half-fledged thoughts of mine.

LOVE'S SLEEP.

(Vers de Societe.)

We'll cover Love with roses, And sweet sleep he shall take.

None but a fool supposes Love always keeps awake.

I've known loves without number.

True loves were they, and tried; And just for want of slumber They pined away and died.

Our love was bright and cheerful A little while agone; Now he is pale and tearful, And--yes, I've seen him yawn.

So tired is he of kisses That he can only weep; The one dear thing he misses And longs for now is sleep.

We could not let him leave us One time, he was so dear, But now it would not grieve us If he slept half a year.

For he has had his season, Like the lily and the rose, And it but stands to reason That he should want repose.

We prized the smiling Cupid Who made our days so bright; But he has grown so stupid We gladly say good-night.

And if he wakens tender And fond, and fair as when He filled our lives with splendor, We'll take him back again.

And should he never waken, As that perchance may be, We will not weep forsaken, But sing, "Love, tra-la-lee!"

TRUE CULTURE.

The highest culture is to speak no ill; The best reformer is the man whose eyes Are quick to see all beauty and all worth; And by his own discreet, well-ordered life, Alone reproves the erring.

When they gaze Turns it on thine own soul, be most severe.

But when it falls upon a fellow-man Let kindliness control it; and refrain From that belittling censure that springs forth From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.

THE VOLUPTUARY.

Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated, Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified.

Life holds no thing to be antic.i.p.ated, And I am sad from being satisfied.

The eager joy felt climbing up the mountain Has left me now the highest point is gained.

The crystal spray that fell from Fame's fair fountain Was sweeter than the waters were when drained.

The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure, And which I purchased with my youth and strength, Pleased me a moment. But the empty treasure Lost all its l.u.s.tre, and grew dim at length.

And love, all glowing with a golden glory, Delighted me a season with its tale.

It pleased the longest, but at last the story So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale.

I lived for self, and all I asked was given, I have had all, and now am sick of bliss, No other punishment designed by Heaven Could strike me half so forcibly as this.

I feel no sense of aught but enervation In all the joys my selfish aims have brought, And know no wish but for annihilation, Since that would give me freedom from the thought.

Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated; Some mighty loss to balance all his gain.

For him there is a hope not yet completed; For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain.

But cursed is he who has no balked ambition, No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair, But sick and sated with complete fruition, Keeps not the pleasure even of despair.

THE YEAR.

What can be said in New Year rhymes, That's not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go, We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light, We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings, We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed, We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear, And that's the burden of the year.

THE UNATTAINED.

A vision beauteous as the morn, With heavenly eyes and tresses streaming, Slow glided o'er a field late shorn Where walked a poet idly dreaming.

He saw her, and joy lit his face, "Oh, vanish not at human speaking,"

He cried, "thou form of magic grace, Thou art the poem I am seeking.

"I've sought thee long! I claim thee now-- My thought embodied, living, real."

She shook the tresses from her brow.

"Nay, nay!" she said, "I am ideal.

I am the phantom of desire-- The spirit of all great endeavor, I am the voice that says, 'Come higher,'

That calls men up and up forever.

"'Tis not alone thy thought supreme That here upon thy path has risen; I am the artist's highest dream, The ray of light he cannot prison.

I am the sweet ecstatic note Than all glad music gladder, clearer, That trembles in the singer's throat, And dies without a human hearer.

"I am the greater, better yield, That leads and cheers thy farmer neighbor, For me he bravely tills the field And whistles gayly at his labor.

Not thou alone, O poet soul, Dost seek me through an endless morrow, But to the toiling, hoping whole I am at once the hope and sorrow.