LEGENDS AND LYRICS—FIRST SERIES
by Adelaide Ann Procter

Contents:

Dedication
An Introduction by Charles Dickens
The Angel’s Story
Echoes
A False Genius
My Picture
Judge Not
Friend Sorrow
One by One
True Honours
A Woman’s Question
The Three Rulers
A Dead Past
A Doubting Heart
A Student
A Knight Errant
Linger, oh, gentle Time
Homeward Bound
Life and Death
Now
Cleansing Fires
The Voice of the Wind
Treasures
Shining Stars
Waiting
The Cradle Song of the Poor
Be strong
God’s Gifts
A Tomb in Ghent
The Angel of Death
A Dream
The Present
Changes
Strive, Wait, and Pray
A Lament for the Summer
The Unknown Grave
Give me thy Heart
The Wayside Inn
Voices of the Past
The Dark Side
A First Sorrow
Murmurs
Give
My Journal
A Chain
The Pilgrims
Incompleteness
A Legend of Bregenz
A Farewell
Sowing and Reaping
The Storm
Words
A Love Token
A Tryst with Death
Fidelis
A Shadow
The Sailor Boy
A Crown of Sorrow
The Lesson of the War
The Two Spirits
A Little Longer
Grief
The Triumph of Time
A Parting
The Golden Gate
Phantoms
Thankfulness
Home-sickness
Wishes
The Peace of God
Life in Death and Death in Life
Recollections
Illusion
A Vision
Pictures in the Fire
The Settlers
Hush!
Hours
The Two Interpreters
Comfort
Home at last
Unexpressed
Because
Rest at Evening
A Retrospect
True or False
Golden Words

To Matilda M. Hays.

“Our tokens of love are mostly pretty rough. Cold and lifeless since they don’t truly represent our lives. The only real gift is a piece of yourself. So let the farmer give his corn; the miner, a gem; the sailor, coral and shells; the painter, his artwork; and the poet, his poem.” —Emerson’s Essays.

A. A. P.

May 1858

In the spring of 1853, I noticed, as the editor of the weekly journal Household Words, a short poem among the submissions that was quite different from the usual flood of verses that came through the office of such a publication and had much more value. The author was completely unknown to me: a Miss Mary Berwick, whose name I had never come across before. If she was to be contacted, it would be through a letter sent to a circulating library in the western part of London. Through this method, Miss Berwick learned that her poem was accepted and was invited to send another. She agreed and soon became a regular contributor. Many letters exchanged between the journal and Miss Berwick, but she was never seen in person.

How we gradually came to believe, at the office of Household Words, that we knew everything about Miss Berwick, I’ve never figured out. But we somehow agreed, to our complete satisfaction, that she was a governess for a family, that she went to Italy in that role and came back, and that she had been with the same family for a long time. We really didn’t know anything about her, except that she was very business-like, punctual, self-reliant, and dependable: so I guess we just unconsciously made up the rest. Personally, I found Miss Berwick the governess to be just as real to me as my own mother.

This continued until December 1854, when the Christmas edition, titled The Seven Poor Travellers, went to press. On that day, I happened to be having dinner with an old and dear friend, the well-known literary figure Barry Cornwall. I took an early proof of that edition with me and mentioned, as I placed it on the drawing-room table, that it featured a lovely poem by a Miss Berwick. The next day, I found out that I had mentioned the poem in the presence of its author’s mother and its author; that there was no one named Miss Berwick who existed; and that the name had been created by Barry Cornwall's eldest daughter, Miss Adelaide Anne Procter.

The story I've written down not only explains why the parents of the late Miss Procter have asked me for these few words to remember their beloved child, but it also highlights the honesty, independence, and quiet dignity of her character. I had known her when she was very young; I was honored to have her father's friendship when I was a young aspiring writer. She had said at home, “If I send him verses in my own name that he doesn’t genuinely like, either it will be really painful for him to return them, or he’ll publish them just because of my dad, not because they deserve it. So, I’ve decided to take my chances with the unknown submitters.”

Perhaps it takes an editor’s experience with the completely unreasonable reasons they are often pressured to accept inappropriate articles—like having gone to school with the writer’s husband’s brother-in-law or having lent a hiking pole in Switzerland to the writer’s wife’s nephew when that intriguing stranger had broken his own—to truly appreciate the sensitivity and self-respect of this decision.

Some of Miss Procter's poems were published in the Book of Beauty ten years before she became Miss Berwick. Aside from two poems in the Cornhill Magazine, two in Good Words, and others in a small book titled A Chaplet of Verses (published in 1862 for the benefit of a Night Refuge), her published works first appeared in Household Words or All the Year Round. This current edition includes all of her Legends and Lyrics and comes from the significant appreciation they've received from the public.

Miss Procter was born in Bedford Square, London, on October 30, 1825. Her love of poetry was so evident at a young age that I have a small album made of note-paper in front of me, where her mother copied her favorite passages before she could write. It seems she carried it around like another little girl might carry a doll. She quickly showed an impressive memory and a sharp understanding. When she was just a small child, she easily learned several of Euclid's problems. As she grew older, she picked up French, Italian, and German, became a skilled piano player, and demonstrated a genuine taste and skill in drawing. However, once she completely mastered any subject, she would typically lose interest and move on to something else. While her mental abilities were being developed, her family had no idea that she had any talent for writing or any desire to be a writer. Her father had no clue that she had ever tried to write a poem until her first little poem was published.

When she became an adult, she had read an incredible number of books, and throughout her life, she continuously added to that collection. In 1853, she traveled to Turin and its surroundings to visit her aunt, who was a Roman Catholic woman. Since Miss Procter had converted to Roman Catholicism herself two years earlier, she approached the study of the Piedmontese dialect and the observation of local customs and lifestyles with even greater enthusiasm. She quickly became skilled in the dialect. As for the latter, I’ll share two delightful descriptions from her personal letters written back home to England during that time.

“We attended a ball that I have to tell you about. Last Tuesday, we had just finished dinner around seven and stepped out onto the balcony to check out the sunset behind the mountains when we distinctly heard a band playing, which surprised me since the most music we usually hear around here is a lone organ. I stepped out of the room for a few minutes, and when I came back, Emily said, ‘Oh! That band is playing at the farmer’s place nearby. The daughter is engaged today, and they are having a ball.’ I said, ‘I wish I could go!’ ‘Well,’ she replied, ‘the farmer’s wife did come by to invite us.’ ‘Then I’m definitely going,’ I exclaimed. I spoke to Madame B., who said she would love to go, and that we should take the kids too. Some of the staff had already left. We hurried to grab some shawls and removed any black we were wearing because the locals would have been quite displeased to see us in black on such an occasion, and we headed out. When we reached the farmer’s, which is just a stone's throw from our house, we were welcomed with great enthusiasm; the only downside was that no one spoke French, and we still didn’t speak Piedmontese. We were seated on a bench against the wall while everyone continued dancing. The venue was a large whitewashed kitchen, I think, with several big pictures in black frames, and it was very smoky. I recognized the Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, and the others seemed equally lively and fitting subjects. I couldn’t figure out if they were Old Masters or who painted them. The band was seated across from us—five men with wind instruments, part of the National Guard band, which includes the farmer’s sons. They played wonderfully, and I started to worry that our dignity would stop me from getting a partner, so on Madame B.’s advice, I approached the bride and asked to dance with her. What a beautiful young woman! She looked like one of Uwins’s paintings. Very dark, with a lot of black hair, and quite large. The children and the maids were already dancing. After we finished our dance, which was a Polka-Mazourka, I noticed the bride trying to encourage her fiancé to ask me to dance, which he did after a bit of hesitation. He danced excellently, as did everyone else—keeping great time and with a bit more energy than you usually see at a ballroom. Honestly, they were just like regular partners, except they wore earrings and were in their shirt sleeves, and I have to admit they had a distinct garlic smell. Some of them had been smoking but tossed their cigars aside when we arrived. The only not-so-cheerful thing was that the room was lit by just a few oil lamps, and there didn’t seem to be any preparation for refreshments. Seeing this, Madame B. whispered to her maid, who broke away from her partner and ran back to the house; soon they returned with a large tray filled with all kinds of cakes (which we love and always keep stocked) and a big hamper full of bottles of wine, along with coffee and sugar. This was all very welcome. The fiancée was asked to hand out the treats, and once a bucket of water was brought for washing the glasses, the wine disappeared quickly—faster than they could open the bottles. But, I suppose fueled by this excitement, they sprinkled the floor with water, and the musicians began playing a Monferrino, which is a Piedmontese dance. Madame B. danced with the farmer’s son, and Emily partnered with another notable guest. It was quite tiring—similar to a Scottish reel. My partner was a short guy, like Perrot, and very proud of his dancing. He spun in the air and twisted around until I was breathless, while my attempts to keep up were weak at best. After seven or eight dances, I finally had to sit down. We stayed until nine, and I was so worn out from the heat that I could barely move around the house, and I was in agony from cramping since it’d been so long since I last danced.”

The farmer's daughter's wedding has happened. We had hoped it would be in the little chapel by our house, but it looks like some special permission was needed, and they applied for it too late. Everyone said, "This is the Constitution. There would have been no problem before!" The lower classes are making the poor Constitution the scapegoat for everything they dislike. So, since we couldn't climb up to the church where the wedding was happening, we settled for watching the procession pass by. It wasn't a very large group because it took some effort to get there, so all the old folks stayed home. It's not proper for the bride's mother to attend, and no unmarried woman can go to a wedding—I guess it's to avoid her being dissatisfied with her own situation. The procession stopped at our door for the bride to receive our congratulations. She wore a shimmering silk dress, a yellow handkerchief, and multiple large gold chains. Later in the afternoon, they sent a request for us to come. When we got there, we found them dancing outside, and it was a pretty sad scene. The bride’s sisters were barely recognizable from crying. The mother stayed inside and couldn't come out. And the bride was sobbing so much she could hardly stand! The saddest sight to me was that the groom was clearly tipsy. He seemed a bit upset by all the sadness. We danced a Monferrino; I danced with the groom while the bride cried the whole time. The guests tried to cheer her up by firing pistols, but it didn't work, and soon they started a series of yells that reminded me of a bunch of savages. But even this peculiar form of consolation didn't help, and soon the goodbyes began. It was such a dreary event that Madame B. shed some tears, and I almost did too, especially when the poor mother came out to say goodbye to her daughter, who was finally dragged away between her brother and uncle, with one last gunshot. Since the bride lives nearby, made a great match, and is one of nine kids, it really was a desirable marriage despite all the drama. Albert was so thrown off by it that he forgot to kiss the bride as he intended, so he visited her yesterday and found her smiling in her new home and made up for it. The cook came back from the wedding saying she no longer wants to marry—but I wouldn't advise any man to take that threat seriously and propose to her. A couple of days later, we received some of the bride's first baking, which they call Madonnas. It seems the musicians were in a similar state as the groom, because they all fell into the mud while escorting her home. My irritation with the groom has lessened a bit upon learning that it's considered bad luck if he doesn't get tipsy at his wedding.

Understood. Please provide the text for modernization.

Those readers of Miss Procter’s poems who think her tone suggests a gloomy or depressed mindset would be sadly mistaken. She had a great sense of humor and genuinely enjoyed it. Cheerfulness was a part of her everyday life; she was quick with a joke or a witty comeback, and her laugh (which I remember well) was full of energy, joy, and playfulness. She was completely natural and down-to-earth, just as modest about her works as she was generous regarding their financial success. She was a friend who inspired strong loyalty; she was a deeply empathetic woman with a big heart and a truly noble spirit. Thankfully, no one can claim she had any of the usual poetic traits. She never thought she was one of the greatest people; she didn’t believe there was a conspiracy against her; she didn’t see her closest friends as her worst enemies; she never indulged in the feeling of being misunderstood or unappreciated; she would have much preferred to pass away without ever seeing her writing in print than for me to go on about her here as “the Poet” or “the Poetess.”

With the memory of Miss Procter as both a child and a woman still vivid in my mind, it's only natural that I would hesitate to finish this brief account, putting off its conclusion. But just as her ending approached, so must mine here.

Always driven by a strong belief that her life shouldn’t be wasted and that her enjoyment of her favorite activities had to be balanced with action in the real world around her, she was tireless in her efforts to do good. Naturally enthusiastic and deeply aware of her Christian duty to help her neighbors, she committed herself to various charitable causes. One moment, she was focused on visiting the sick; the next, she was providing shelter for the homeless; then she was teaching the severely uneducated; after that, she was helping those who had lost their way; sometimes, she was working towards greater involvement of women in everyday life; and often, she was doing all these things at once. Completely selfless, quick to sympathize, and eager to help, she worked on these projects with a passionate intensity that ignored time, weather, day or night, food, and rest. Under such a whirlwind of emotions and constant activity, even the strongest constitution can break down. Hers, which was neither the strongest nor the weakest, began to falter under the pressure and started to deteriorate.

To have saved her life by acting on the warning that was clear in her eyes and evident in her voice would have been impossible without changing who she was. As long as she had the ability to move around in the old way, she had to use it, or she would be crushed by the restriction. Eventually, the time came when she could no longer move around and went to bed.

All her restlessness gone, and the gentle patience of her natural nature refined by her soul's acceptance, she lay on her bed through all the changes of the seasons. She lay on her bed for fifteen months. During that time, her old cheerfulness never left her. Throughout that time, not a single impatient or whiny moment can be recalled.

At last, at midnight on February 2, 1864, she folded down a page of the small book she was reading and closed it.

The hand that had written the verses into the small album was soon around her neck, and she quietly asked, as the clock struck one:

“Do you think I’m dying, Mom?”

“I think you are really, really sick tonight, my dear!”

“Call for my sister. My feet are freezing. Can you help me up?”

Her sister walked in as they raised her, and she said, “It’s finally here!” Then, with a bright and happy smile, she looked up and left.

She had written well:

Why should you be afraid of the beautiful angel, Death,
Who stands at the gates of the heavens,
Ready to ease your troubled breath,
And gently close your eyes?

What would life be like if it were everything? Your eyes
Are clouded by tears, or you would see
The treasures waiting for you in the far-off skies,
And Death, your friend, will bring them all to you.

Through the blue and frosty sky
Christmas stars were shining bright;
Glistening lights throughout the City
Almost matched their glowing light;
While the winter snow was resting,
And the winter winds were whispering,
Long ago, one Christmas night.

While, from every tower and steeple,
Ringing bells were sounding loud and clear,
(Never with such joyful tones,
Except when Christmas time is near,)
Many people that night were happy
Who had worked hard all year.

That night, old grievances were settled,
Friends, who had been apart, made up;
Voices that hadn't laughed in ages,
Sorrowful eyes that seldom smiled,
Nervous hearts worried about the future,
Free from their anxious thoughts.

Rich and poor experienced love and joy
From the kind season's arrival;
Happiness and abundance in the small home,
Harmony and celebration in the great hall;
And the sounds of the kids
Echoing joyfully above it all!

Yet one house was dim and dark;
Gloom, sickness, and despair,
Living in the gold-filled rooms.
Creeping up the marble stairs,
Even silenced the voice of mourning—
For a child was dying there.

Silky curtains draped around him,
Soft carpets muted the steps.
Lots of expensive toys were scattered,
All ignored, by his bed;
And his messy golden curls
Were on fluffy pillows laid.

The power of that great city
To save one small life was pointless;
One tiny thread from breaking,
One deadly word from being said;
No, even his mother's suffering,
And the immense love inside her,
Could bring him back to health again.

So she knelt there next to him,
She alone with the strength to smile,
Promising that he wouldn't suffer
For much longer,
Murmuring sweet songs and stories
To pass the weary hours.

Suddenly, an unseen presence
Stopped those constant, moaning cries,
Calmed the little heart’s quick fluttering,
Lifted those blue and curious eyes,
Focused on some mysterious vision,
With a surprised, sweet delight.

For a shining angel hovered,
Smiling over the little bed;
Dressed in white, with shoulders bare,
Snowy dove-like wings outspread,
And a star-like light was shining
In a glow around his head.

While, with tender love, the angel,
Leaning over the little nest,
Holding the sick child in his arms,
Laid him gently on his chest,
Sobs and wails signaled to the mother
That her darling was at rest.

So the angel gently rose,
Spread his wings; and, through the air,
Carried the child, and while he held him
To his heart with loving care,
Placed a branch of red roses
Tenderly beside him there.

While the child, still holding on, floated
Towards the homes of the Blessed,
Staring from his shining guardian
At the flowers on his chest,
The angel spoke, still smiling
At the little heavenly guest:

“Know, dear little one, that Heaven
Doesn't look down on anything earthly,
Human joys find their reflection there
Just as certainly as their pain;
Love, so weakly trying on earth,
Lives on in a divine way in Heaven again!

“Once in that big town below us,
In a cramped and rundown street,
Lived a small, sickly orphan;
Kind help, or sweet compassion,
Never in life's rough journey
Guided his fragile, unsteady feet.

“All the struggling and worrying
That should only come with age,
Weighed on his young spirit,
Soon showed him life’s toughest lesson;
Grim Want was his caregiver, and Sorrow
Was his only inheritance.

“All too weak for childish games,
Sadly, the hours went by;
On his small and trembling hands
Rested his poor aching head,
Or, through dark and painful nights,
Lying awake in his bed.

“Dreaming of odd and wistful thoughts
About cool forests far off;
And of cheerful, happy kids,
Laughing joyfully at play,
Coming home through green paths, carrying
Trailing branches of blooming May.

“Not much of the blue sky
Showed above that narrow street,
And the humid air of summer
(That you call so warm and sweet)
Made the poor orphan, living
In the packed alley’s heat.

“One bright day, with weak steps
He tried to slowly crawl out,
Through the busy city streets,
Until he got to a garden wall;
Where among grand halls and mansions
Stood the most impressive of all.

“There were trees with huge branches,
Soft clearings where shadows hide;
There were sparkling fountains shimmering,
Flowers that proudly displayed their bloom
And even sent sweet scents
To the child who stood outside.

“He stood against the iron gate
Pressed his pale and longing face,
Gazing with an amazed delight
At the beauty of the place;
Never had his best daydream
Sparkled with such stunning grace.

“You were playing in that garden,
Throwing flowers in the air,
Laughing as the petals drifted
Down onto your golden hair;
And the loving eyes watching over you,
And the beauty surrounding you,
Said a family’s hope was there.

“When your servants, tired of seeing
Such a look of need and sorrow,
Turning to the ragged Orphan,
Gave him money and told him to go,
Down his cheeks so thin and wasted,
Bitter tears started to fall.

“But that look of childish sorrow
On your tender child-heart fell,
And you picked the reddest roses
From the tree you loved so much,
Passed them through the hard cold grating,
Gently saying ‘Goodbye!’”

“Dazzled by the fragrant treasure
And the gentle voice he heard,
In the poor forlorn boy’s spirit,
Joy, the sleeping Seraph, stirred;
In his hand he took the flowers,
In his heart the loving word.”

“So he snuck up to his shabby attic;
Shabby no more, but vibrant and bright,
For the cherished dreams of childhood—
Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light—
Swirled around the Orphan’s pillow
Through the starry summer night.

“Morning came, but the visions stayed;
Too weak to get up, he lay;
Did he dream that no one spoke harshly—
Everyone was strangely nice that day?
Surely then his beloved roses
Must have chased all troubles away.

“And he smiled, even though they were fading;
One by one, their leaves fell;
‘Such bright things could never die,
They would bloom again,’ he said.
When the sun rose the next day,
Both the child and the flowers were dead."

“Know, dear little one! Our Father
Will not reject any kind deed;
Love that begins on this cold earth
Lives on in Heaven once more,
While the angelic hearts that beat there
Still hold onto all tender thoughts.”

So the angel stopped, and gently
Leant over his little burden;
While the child looked up from the shining,
Loving eyes that looked down on him,
At the blooming roses nearby,
Wondering what that mystery meant.

Thus the radiant angel answered,
And smiled with a gentle meaning:
“Before your childlike, loving spirit,
Sin and the harsh world tainted it,
God has allowed me to find you—
I was once that little child!”

Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

In the cemetery of that city
Stood a tomb of rare marble,
Adorned, as soon as Spring arrived,
With her beautiful buds and blossoms—
And a simple grave next to it—
No one knew who lay there.

Still the angel stars are shining,
Still the flowing waters ripple,
But the angel's voice is silent
That I heard such a long time ago.
Listen! the echoes softly murmur,
Long ago!

Still the woods are dark and lonely,
Still the splashing fountains flow,
But the past and all its beauty,
Where has it gone, no one knows?
Listen! The sorrowful echoes say,
Gone away!

Still the night bird complains,
(Now, truly, her song is pain.)
I call out for visions of my happy hours,
But do I call in vain?
Listen! The echoes cry again,
All in vain!

Stop, oh echoes, sorrowful echoes!
Once I loved your voices very much;
Now my heart is tired and worn out—
Days gone by, a long goodbye!
Listen! the echoes are sad and gloomy
Saying goodbye, goodbye!

I see a Spirit by your side,
Purple-winged and eagle-eyed,
Looking like a Heavenly guide.

Though he seems so bright and fair,
Before you trust his offered care,
Pause a moment, and beware!

If he asked you to stay away,
Nurturing some perfect pain
In a weak and fearful heart;

In self-worship, all alone,
Thinking your pain has grown
More than what others have known;

Living in a cloudy realm,
Even though God's work is here,
And God is graciously near;

If his torch's red light
Shows you evil all around,
Spoiling all the clean air;

While you make strange and distorted choices,
Still refusing to celebrate,
You will hear a wailing voice;

If a simple, humble heart,
Seems to you a lesser part,
Than your highest goals and skill;

If he asked you to bow before
Crowned Mind and nothing else,
The great idol that people worship;

And with a starry veil wrapped around
Sin, the old trailing serpent,
Until his scales shine like gold;

Though his words sound true and wise,
Soul, I tell you—Get up.
He is a Demon in disguise!

Stand this way—closer to the window—
By my desk—you can see the light
Falling on my picture more clearly—
This way I can see it while I write!

Who the head might be, I’m not sure,
But it gives off a student vibe;
With a gaze that’s half sad, half dignified,
Serious, kind eyes and long hair.

Little do I care who the painter is,
How obscure his name might be;
And when some mention Velasquez,
It doesn’t matter to me any more.

As it is, I wouldn’t trade it
For the most unique piece of art;
It has stayed with me and listened
To the secrets of my heart.

Many times, when I returned to my attic,
Tired, at night,
It seemed to greet me with a welcome
That brightened my little room.

Many times, when I've been sick and unable to sleep,
I've watched the flickering light
Of my lamp on that picture,
Until it disappeared in my dream.

When tough times hit and friendship
Felt worthless, and life seemed pointless,
That warm, friendly smile has encouraged me
To dive back into my work with confidence.

Sometimes when I've faced a tough situation
That forces me to submit where I feel disdain,
I've found harsh advice in the
Sorrowful, accusing gaze.

Nothing my mind envisioned,
Or my tired hand created,
But it saw the faint Idea
Come to life as strong Thought.

It has cheered for my successes,
Lifted me up when I was down,
And at different times has gazed at me
With all the caring eyes I know.

Do you find it surprising that my picture
Looks so much like a friend?—
It has witnessed the start of my life,
And it will be here to brighten the end!

Don't judge; you can't see the workings of his mind
And the feelings in his heart;
What appears to your limited view as a flaw,
In God’s clear light may just be
A scar from a hard-fought battle,
Where you would only fade and give up.

The look, the vibe, that disturbs your view,
Could be a sign that deep inside
The soul is locked in a deadly struggle
With some hellish, fiery enemy,
Whose stare would burn your cheerful charm,
And leave you trembling on the ground!

The fall you dare to look down on—
Could be the angel’s relaxed grip
Has allowed it, so he can rise
And take a stronger, steadier stance;
Or, relying less on worldly things,
May from now on learn to use his wings.

And don’t assume anyone is lost; just wait and see,
With hopeful compassion, not contempt;
The depth of the abyss might be
The measure of the height of pain
And love and glory that could lift
This soul to God in the future!

Do not deceive your Heart and say to her,
“Grief will fade away,
Hope for better days ahead,
And forget today.”—
Tell her, if you must, that sorrow
Doesn't have to be in vain;
Tell her that the lesson learned
Is worth much more than the pain.

Cheat her not with the old comfort,
“Soon she will forget”—
Bitter truth, alas—but rather
Matter for regret;
Don’t tell her to “Seek other pleasures,
Turn to other things:”—
Rather nurture her caged sorrow
’Till the captive sings.

Rather encourage her to go forth with courage.
And let the stranger welcome her;
Not as an enemy, with weapon and shield,
But like close friends meet;
Urge her to embrace him tightly,
By her dark wings—
Listening for the whispered blessing
That sorrow always brings.

One by one, the sands are slipping away,
One by one, the moments pass;
Some are arriving, some are departing;
Don’t try to hold onto them all.

One by one, your duties await you,
Give all your strength to each,
Don’t let future dreams excite you,
First learn what they can teach.

One by one (bright gifts from Heaven)
Joys are sent to you down here;
Accept them gladly when offered,
And be ready to let them go.

One by one, your sorrows will find you,
Don't be afraid of a hostile group;
One will disappear as others come to you;
Shadows moving across the land.

Don't dwell on life's long sadness;
Notice how brief each moment's pain;
God will help you for tomorrow,
So start fresh each day again.

Every hour that drags on
Has its own task to complete;
Shining is the crown, and sacred,
When every gem is placed with care.

Do not dwell on regret,
Or feel down about the hours gone by;
Nor forget the daily grind,
By looking too eagerly to the future.

Hours are precious connections, a gift from God,
Leading to Heaven; but one by one
Embrace them, so the chain isn’t broken
Before the journey is complete.

Is my darling already tired,
Tired from her day of play?
Come sit on this little stool next to me,
Let me smooth out this tangled hair.
Can she stack the logs together,
So they make a cheerful fire?
Shall her blind old uncle tell her
Some stories from his younger days?

Listen! The wind in the cedars
Waves their white limbs back and forth;
I remember watching them
Sixty Christmas Days ago:
Back then, I dreamed a glorious vision
Of great achievements to celebrate each year—
Sixty Christmas Days have seen me
Useless, helpless, blind—and here!

Yes, I feel my sweetheart slipping
Her warm, soft fingers into mine—
Should I tell her what I imagined
In that weird old dream of mine?
I was kneeling by the window,
Reading about a brave group,
With the red cross on their chest plates,
Who went to conquer the Holy Land.

While with eager eyes of wonder
I leaned over the dark page,
Slowly, twilight shadows filled the room
As the letters appeared and disappeared;
Gradually, until night surrounded me;
Then my heart raced loudly and quickly,
Because I sensed before I saw it
That a spirit passed near me.

Then I looked up, and shining
Where the moon’s first light was bright
Stood a winged Angel-warrior
Dressed and equipped in light:
So, with Heaven’s love upon him,
Stern in calm and determined will,
Looked St. Michael—does the picture
Still hang in the old cloister?

Threefold were the dreams of honor
That filled my heart and mind;
Threefold crowns the Angel promised,
Each one to be earned through pain:
As he spoke, a threefold blessing
Fell upon my soul like rain.
HELPER OF THE POOR AND SUFFERING;
VICTOR IN A GLORIOUS STRUGGLE;
SINGER OF A NOBLE POEM:
Such are the honors of my life.

Ah, that dream! Long years that gave me
Joy and sorrow as real things
Never erased the tender memory
Sweet and serious that it brings—
Never really faded the feeling
Of those white and shadowy wings.

Do those blue eyes widen?
Does my faith seem too naive?
Yes, my love, years have shown me
It was nothing but a dream.
Soon, too soon, the harsh realization
Of a daunting challenge came up,
Came to shatter my heart, and firmly
Told my youthful ambition to stop.

More and more my eyes became clouded,
Until finally God’s glorious light
Faded away from me forever,
And I lived and continue to live in darkness.
Dear, I don’t want to spoil your joy,
Christmas should be purely happy—
In my darkness the stars have appeared,
And I wait for the dawn of day.

In spite of everything, I could be happy;
Because of my brothers' caring nature
In their playful moments always
Made me feel included.
Philip, even then so considerate,
Max so noble, brave, and tall,
And your father, little Godfrey,
The most loving of them all.

Philip helped me think through my sadness,
Max would joke to lighten my mood,
Godfrey’s little arms around me,
Got me through my toughest day;
While the promise of my Angel,
Like a star, sometimes bright, sometimes dim,
Hung in the darkest night above me,
And I felt it wouldn't let me down.

Years went by, and my brothers left me,
Each went off to claim his part
In the fight of life; my share
Was a modest one—to carry.
Here I stayed, and learned to roam
Through the woods and fields by myself,
Every cottage in the village
Had a spot that felt like home.

Old and young, everyone brought their troubles,
Big or small, for me to listen to;
I have often appreciated my sorrow
For bringing others' grief so close.
Ah, the people needed help—
Needed love—(because Love and Heaven
Are the only gifts not traded,
They alone are given freely)—

And I gave it. Philip’s reward,
(We were orphans, dear,) made work
Flourish, and need never clung
To the people of the land.
Philip’s name (Oh, how I took pride,
He so young, to see it grow!)
Quickly became well-known among politicians
As a true and wise patriot.

And everyone felt honored
To be led by such a name;
I was proud too that they loved me;
Through their pride in him, I felt the same.
He achieved what I had longed for,
And I grew happy and bright,
Among his people, serving
Him and them, in my own small way.

How his sincere and passionate speeches,
With relentless enthusiasm came;
HELPER OF THE POOR AND SUFFERING;
He truly deserved the title!
Had my Angel's promise let me down?
Had that word of hope faded?
No, my Philip had kept it,
And I loved that most in him!

Max meanwhile—oh, you, my love,
Can his sweet words bring back—
Among the strongest and the finest,
Stronger, finer, than all of them.
How I loved him! how my heart raced
When his sword rattled by his side.
When I felt his golden embroidery,
I almost saw him in his glory!

So we went our separate ways; he was so eager
To honor the name he carried,
Leaving in my care—he loved me—
Someone he loved even more:
I must take care of this delicate flower,
I must talk to her about him,
Because he was afraid—Love still makes us anxious—
That his memory might fade.

I have to protect her from all sadness,
I have to act like a brother,
Keep all pain and struggles away from her,
Even if it means sacrificing my heart.
Years went by, and his name became famous;
We felt proud, both her and me;
And we thrived on his letters,
As the slow days drifted by.

Then at last—you know the story,
How a scary rumor spread,
Till all hope had slowly vanished,
And we heard that he was dead.
Dead! Oh, those were tough hours;
Yet deep inside me, there was
A warning, and while others mourned him,
I felt something like hope.

His life was nothing like mine, weak and uncertain,
But full and strong—
No, I couldn’t believe he died
Without a name, among the defeated crowd.
How she sank! Years went by; no news
Came, and yet that small flame
Of weird hope inside me
Still burned on, unchanged.

Ah! my child, our hearts will break,
When they seem strongest to us;
I can remember those moments
As a scary, bad dream.
She had long given up hope; what a surprise
That her heart became attached to mine?
Earthly loves are deep and sweet,
Not forever and divine!

Can I express how bright a future
Appeared to my soul that day?
Oh, so strange, so sweet, so gentle—
And I had to look away.
It was a tough and painful fight,
For the hurt wasn’t mine alone;
I summoned my Brother’s spirit,
And I told him to reclaim his own.

Told her—now I finally had the courage—
That I believed the day would come
When he would come back to make
My fragile heart and her bright eyes happy.
And I begged—begged seriously—
In his name, and for his sake:
Now, I can talk about it calmly,
Back then, I thought my heart would shatter.

Soon—ah, Love had not let me down,
(Love's true instincts never miss,)
Wounded, weak, escaped from captivity,
He came back to me; to her.
I could thank God that bright morning,
When I felt my Brother's gaze,
That my heart was genuine and loyal,
Just like in our old childhood days.

Bought by wounds and acts of bravery,
Honors he had taken home;
Glory crowned his name—my Brother’s;
Mine too!—we were one that day.
Since the crown had been placed on him,
“VICTOR IN A NOBLE STRUGGLE,”
I could live and die contentedly
With my humble, lowly life.

Well, my love, are you almost tired
Of my story? Just hang on;
Because the rest is all happy;
I can share it with a smile.
One bright promise still remained with me,
Woven so tightly around my soul,
That, as one by one they had let me down,
This dream now took over everything.

“SINGER OF A NOBLE POEM,”—
Ah, my love, few and far between
Shine the glorious names of Poets,
Like stars in the purple sky.
That too, and I take pride in it,
That great gift my Godfrey earned;
I have my cherished part of the glory,
Gained through that beloved one.

One day my darling will read it;
Right now she can’t understand
All the noble ideas that shine
Through the brilliance of our land.
I’m proud to be his brother,
Proud to believe that hope was real;
Even though I longed and tried so hard,
What I couldn’t achieve, he could.

I took a while to realize it,
Even longer to feel it;
Then I put my poems together
Just for the poor and low.
And it makes me happy to know,
(Because I really care for them,)
They appreciate my simple verses,
Made for their simple needs.

And it makes me happy to share this,
Where distant settlers wander,
My simple words are sung and loved,
Just because they talk about Home.
And the little kids sing them,
(That, I think, brings me the most joy,)
Often, too, those who are dying love them,
Because they speak of Heaven and peace.

So my last empty dream has faded;
(As if I ever thought about fame!)
But I won’t say it let me down,
Because it honored my Godfrey’s name.
No; my Angel didn’t deceive me,
Because my long life has been blessed;
He gave me Love and Sorrow,
He will lead me to Light and Rest.

Before I trust my fate to you,
Or place my hand in yours,
Before I let your future shape
The color and form of mine,
Before I risk everything for you, ask your soul tonight for me.

I break all minor ties, not feeling
A hint of regret:
Is there any connection from the Past,
That still binds your spirit?
Or is your Faith as clear and free as the one I can promise to you?

Does there in your faintest dreams
A possible future shine,
Where your life could from now on breathe,
Untouched, unshared by mine?
If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before everything is lost.

Look deeper still. If you can feel
Within your innermost soul,
That you’ve held something back,
While I have risked everything;
Let no false pity hold back the truth, but in true mercy tell me so.

Is there in your heart a need
That I can’t fulfill?
One note that anyone else
Could better play or silence?
Speak now—before my entire life withers and fades at some point in the future.

Lives there within your nature a
Demon-spirit called Change,
Shedding a fleeting glory still
On everything new and strange?—
It may not be solely your fault—but guard my heart against your
own.

Could you take your hand away one day
And respond to my claim,
That Fate, and today’s mistake,
Not you—were to blame?
Some ease their conscience this way: but you, will surely warn and save
me now.

No, don't answer—I can't bear to hear,
The words would be too late;
But I want to save you from any regret,
So, ease your mind, my Fate—
Whatever weighs on my heart—just know I would risk it all!

I saw a ruler take his place
And stomp on a powerful land;
The people bowed before his call,
His iron heel pressed on them all,
His name lit up through blood and pain,
His sword reflected their praise again.

I saw another leader rise—
His words were noble, good, and wise;
With the steady power of his pen
He influenced the minds and thoughts of men;
Some mocked, some praised—while many listened,
Only a few followed his word.

Another ruler I saw—
Love and compassion were his laws:
The greatest and the least had a role
(Yet mostly the unhappy) in his soul—
The people, in a powerful group,
Rose up and drove him from the land!

Spare her at least: look, you’ve taken from me
The present, and I don’t complain or moan;
The future too, with all its glorious promise;
But please don’t leave me completely alone.

Spare me the past—for, look, she can't hurt you,
She lies so pale and cold, wrapped in her shroud;
All, all mine! and believe me, I will keep her
Deep inside my soul, without saying her name.

I folded her gentle hands over her chest,
And scattered my flowers on her—they're still alive—
Sometimes I like to kiss her shut white eyelids,
And remember all the happiness she brought.

Cruel it would be to take her away from me;
She sleeps, and she won’t wake—no fear—again:
So I placed her, such a gentle weight,
Quietly on my heart to ease its pain.

I don’t believe that any cheerful Present,
Any uncertain Future, despite all its allure,
Could ever match her. You know you placed her,
Many years ago, when she was alive, in my arms.

Leave her at least—while my tears fall on her,
I dream she smiles, just like she did before;
As dear as ever to me—no, it might be,
Even dearer still—since I have nothing left.

Where have the swallows gone?
Chilled and lifeless,
Maybe resting on a harsh, stormy coast.
Oh, uncertain heart!
Way over the purple seas,
They’re waiting, enjoying the sun,
The gentle southern breeze,
To take them back to their northern homes again.

Why do the flowers have to die?
They’re trapped
In the cold ground, not aware of tears or rain.
Oh, questioning heart!
They’re just resting below
The soft white snow,
While winter winds blow,
To come back and smile at you again soon.

The sun has hidden its rays
For so many days;
Will these gloomy hours never leave the earth?
Oh, uncertain heart!
The stormy clouds above
Cover the same sunny sky,
That soon (because spring is close)
Will bring summer into joyful brightness.

Fair hope is dead, and light
Is extinguished in darkness.
What sound can shatter the silence of despair?
Oh, uncertain heart!
Your sky is overcast,
Yet stars will rise eventually,
Brighter for the darkness that has passed,
And angels’ silver voices will fill the air.

Over an old scroll I leaned,
Soaking my soul in wise satisfaction,
And didn’t pause for a second, except to scold
A quiet voice whispering next to me.

I walked under the pale glow of the stars
A dream, part human, part divine;
And shook off (not wanting to break the spell)
A small hand resting on my arm.

I read until my heart shone
With the great deeds of the past;
Nor did I hear, while with those mighty souls,
A hesitant step passing by.

On the old theme I thought for a long time—
The battle between right and wrong;
I couldn’t ignore such lofty visions,
To calm a small trembling sigh.

I tried to figure out the problem—Life;
Dreaming about that mysterious struggle,
How could I ignore such wise reasoning,
To respond to two blue, pleading eyes?

I tried to figure out the best way to give and when,
My blood to save my fellow people—
How could I just look away,
At snowdrops resting on my book?

Now time has flown by—the world feels weird,
There's something in the air that brings pain and change;
My books sit unopened on the shelf;
I miss the old heart that used to be in me.

I miss the sunlight in my room—
It wasn’t always covered in darkness:
I miss my dreams—they disappear so quickly,
Or slip away into some unimportant past.

The big flow of the world keeps moving;
No one cares, pays attention, or asks why
I, the solitary student, can’t speak up
Or lift my hand like I used to.

No echo seems to bring my heart back
To anything except pain,
Except when a dream of twilight brings
The fluttering of an angel's wings!

Though he lived and died among us,
His name can be listed
With the knights whose brave actions
Old stories have told.

Still a young man, he faced
Poverty, and fought hard,
Drawing strength from every effort,
Until he realized his arm was strong.

Then he offered his heart and life
To his shining mistress—Truth;
Never a thought, dream, or hesitation,
Spoiled the promise of his youth.

So he set out to protect her,
And to declare her unmatched value;
Challenging every cowardly skeptic
Who slandered her pure name.

First on his path stood Ignorance,
Repulsive in its brutal strength;
The blows were tough and the fight was long
Before the monster took to flight.

Then, with a lively and fearless spirit,
He boldly faced prejudice;
Chasing back the deceitful coward
To her dark, sulfurous cave.

Followed by his obedient followers,
Tradition, the old Giant, rose;
Yet he, too, was eventually defeated
By the good Knight’s powerful strikes.

Then he turned, feeling triumphant
And struck the gleaming shield
Of the world's powerful king, Opinion
And challenged him to a duel.

Once again he stood victorious,
And, even though injured in the battle,
With a fading smile of victory
Saw that Truth had won her place.

On his fading hearing, the shouts around her throne echoed back to him; He didn't care at all that no future would connect his name with hers.

Spent with many tough battles,
Slowly his life faded away,
And the crowd that gathered to greet her
Trampled on him where he lay.

Gathering all his strength, he saw her
Crowned and ruling in her pride!
Took one last look at her beauty,
Lifted his eyes to God, and died.

Linger, oh, gentle Time,
Linger, oh, radiant grace of bright Today!
Let not the hours’ chime
Call you away,
But linger near me still with fond delay.

Linger, for you are mine!
What greater treasures can the future bring?
What sweeter flowers than yours
Can she reveal?
What secrets has my heart not shared with you?

Oh, stay a little longer!
For shadows are closing in, and if we separate,
A gloomy, starless night
Might fill my heart,—
So pause and stay a bit longer before you go.

Linger, I ask no more,—
You are enough forever—you alone;
What future can bring back,
When you are gone,
All that I hold from you and call my own?

I have experienced a stronger storm,
Heard a louder wind howl;
I was shipwrecked off red Algiers,
Thirty-six years ago.
I was young, but even old sailors
Weren't as tough or steady as I;
While life had such riches for me,
I was convinced I couldn't die.

Life I fought for—and managed to keep it;
Life by itself—and nothing else;
Hurt, nearly done for, alone and powerless,
I was thrown onto the shore.
I dreaded the unforgiving rocks of the Ocean;
Then the vast sea surged—and then
Threw me from her welcoming embrace,
Onto the unfeeling hearts of people.

Gaunt and bleak ran the mountains,
With dark valleys, through the land;
Up to where the lonely Desert
Spreads her scorching, dreary sand:
In the valleys of the mountains,
On the plain beside the sea,
Lived my harsh and cruel masters,
The black Moors of Barbary.

Ten long years I worked with them,
Feeling hopeless—as I used to say;
Now I realize Hope burned inside me
Fiercer, stronger, day by day:
Those dull years of hard work and sadness
Seem like one long dark dream;
One endless day of tired waiting—
During which each day felt like a year.

How I cursed the land—my prison;
How I cursed the treacherous sea—
And the cruel Fate that poured
All her misfortunes on me;
I was out of my mind, I think—God forgive
Words so terrible and wild—
This trip would have been my last one,
Because I left a wife and child.

Never did one sweet vision
Fade away before my eyes,
Never once, through all my struggles,
Burning day or gloomy night;
In my soul it lived, and kept me,
Now I feel, from deep despair,
And my heart wasn't completely broken,
While they lived and blessed me there.

When my work was done at night,
I’d rush to the shore;
(All felt odd and unfamiliar inland,
Nothing I had ever known before;)
The rugged mountain paths looked strange,
The red glow and dark shadow felt strange,
And the Oleanders swayed
To the sound of the flowing fountains.

Then I looked at the vast ocean,
Until it felt like a friend again;
And since it knew old England,
I let go of all my pain:
So the blue sky above me,
With its fluffy white clouds,
And the sparkling stars, (even though they’re brighter,)
Felt like home and days gone by.

And a calm would wash over me,
Maybe tired from work and pain,
The wild, hungry longing faded away,
And I was myself once more:
Gazing at the shimmering waters,
Looking up at the distant sky,
Dreams of home and everything I left behind
Drifted sadly by.

A beautiful face, but pale with sadness,
With blue eyes, full of tears,
And a small red mouth, trembling
With a smile, trying to mask its fears;
Holding out her baby to me,
From the sky she gazed at me;
That was the last time I saw her,
As the ship sailed away.

Sometimes, (and a sharp feeling would hit me
That the years were slipping away,)
I would try to capture her in a painting, changed,
And the small baby vanished:
She wasn't young and carefree anymore,
The child, standing by her side,
And her face, more pale and sorrowful
With the fatigue from caring for me.

Then I saw, as night got darker.
How she taught my child to pray,
Holding its small hands together,
For its father, far away;
And I felt her sorrow, weighing
Heavier on me than my own;
Pitying her lost springtime,
And her joy that left too soon.

Till my hands (now toughened
From the rough, hard work of years)
Bitter drops of pain falling,
Woke me from my dream, to tears;
Woke me like a slave, an outcast.
Miles from home, across the sea;
So—though you may call it childish—
So I cried myself to sleep.

Well, the years flew by—my sorrow,
Calmer, and yet stronger,
Was my protection against all pain,
Weaker, poorer, than her own.
So my cruel master’s harshness
Hit me for nothing,
Yet the story of what we endured
Reverberated from coast to coast.

You’ve heard in a distant land
Of a dedicated group,
Committed to rescuing Christian captives
Longing in a foreign place.
And these kind-hearted strangers
Year after year leave Rome,
Carrying the hard-earned ransom,
To bring some exiles back home.

I was set free: they brought me the news
Softly: but really
As the hours passed, I didn’t know
What those words meant—I was free!
Maybe it’s for the best; while sorrow
(More like earthly matters)
Only stretches the sad heart’s strings—
Joy, a bright stranger, snaps the strings.

Yet finally, it hit me,
And my heart raced fast and full;
What was all my waiting for,
What did the dull past mean?
Nothing—to the restless beating
I have to endure across the sea:
Nothing—to the endless hours
Still between my home and me!

How the journey went, I can't say;
It felt odd to once again be
With my fellow countrymen around me,
And to shake an English hand.
But all the while, my heart was dreaming
Of the first words I would hear,
In that gentle voice that resonated,
As fresh as ever, in my ear.

Should I see her begin to wonder,
And the sudden truth appear,
Coloring her whole face and brightening
The dim glow of her eyes?
Oh! to witness the fear and doubt
Stirring the quiet depths of pain,
And the wave of joy—then melting
Into perfect peace once more.

And the child!—but why think back
On silly daydreams I once had?
Every tree and every hedge
From my familiar past I recalled:
I would imagine my sweet cottage,
See the crackling wood-fire glow,
And the two sitting by it,
Watching, waiting for me to come home.

So, we finally made it to the harbor.
I don’t remember anything else
Until I was standing, my heart racing,
With my hand on the door.
I paused there—I heard her talking;
Soft, gentle words she whispered;
That’s when I really felt the silent fear
I had held, worrying that she might be gone.

It was evening in late autumn,
And the chilly wind was blowing hard;
Autumn leaves were falling around me,
And the red sun was shining on the hill.
Twenty-six years have gone by
Since then—I am old and grey,
But I've never told anyone
What I saw, until today.

She sat by the fire,
Holding a child in her arms,
Whispering soft baby words,
And then, looking up, she smiled:
Smiled at the one standing next to her—
Oh! the harsh truth was revealed,
In her gaze of trusting affection—
I had seen that look before!

But she got up and faced me
(I waited there, cold and silent)
With a scream of fear and panic,
And a pale face filled with dread.
He had been an old friend—
Not a single word passed between us,
As we looked at each other,
He alive: I dead!

I moved closer to her,
And I took her trembling hand,
Looking at her pale face, hoping
That her heart would understand
All the love and all the sorrow
That my lips couldn’t express—
I thank God that no thought but sadness
Came up in our broken hearts that day.

Bitter tears during that heartbreaking moment,
Bitter, bitter tears we cried,
We three shattered hearts together,
While the baby smiled and slept.
Only tears—no words exchanged,
Until he—until her husband said
That my boy, (I had forgotten
The poor child,) that he was gone.

Then finally I got up, and turning,
I shook his hand, but didn’t say a word;
And I bent down and kissed her forehead
One more time, as if she were mine.
I said nothing to say goodbye,
Except in broken words to ask
That God would always protect and bless her—
Then I left in silence.

Over the vast, restless ocean
For twenty-six years I’ve been wandering;
All my friends, tired and old,
Have gone back to die at home.—
Home! Yes, I will find a safe place,
I, too, will come home and rest;
I will find her waiting for me
With our baby in her arms.

“What is Life, Dad?”
“A Battle, my child,
Where the strongest spear may fail,
Where the most cautious eyes can be deceived,
And the bravest heart might falter.
Where the enemies are all around,
And never take a break,
And the vulnerable little ones have to stand
In the middle of the struggle.”

“What is Death, Dad?”
“The end, my child,
When the struggle and hard work are done;
The Angel of God, who is gentle and kind,
Says we don’t have to fight anymore;
Who, pushing away the demonic crowd,
Tells the noise of the battle to stop;
Takes the banner and spear from our tired hands,
And announces eternal Peace.”

“Let me die, Dad! I shake and fear
To give in to that awful struggle!”

“The crown must be earned for Heaven, dear,
In the battlefield of life:
My child, even though your enemies are fierce and experienced,
He loves the weak and small;
The Angels of Heaven are on your side,
And God is above all!”

Get up! The day is moving on,
And you're just lying there dreaming;
Others have put on their armor,
And have gone out to battle:
A spot in the ranks is waiting for you,
Every person has a role to fill;
The Past and the Future mean nothing,
When faced with the serious Now.

Rise from your dreams of the future—
Of winning some hard-fought battle;
Of attacking some lofty fortress,
Or forcing some giant to submit;
Your future holds acts of glory,
Of honor (God willing it may!)
But your strength will never be greater,
Or the need as urgent as today.

Rise! If the past is holding you back,
Forget its sunshine and storms;
No chains are as unworthy to keep you
As those of a pointless regret:
Whether sad or bright, it’s always lifeless,
Throw off its ghostly grip,
And only look back to learn the lesson
Of a nobler struggle today.

Rise! The day is slipping away:
The sound you barely notice
Is the enemy marching to fight—
Get up! The foe is here!
Don't waste time sharpening your weapons,
Or the moment will come at last,
When, from dreams of an upcoming battle,
You might wake to find it’s over!

Let your gold be put in the furnace,
Your bright, precious red gold,
Don’t be afraid of the hungry fire,
With its caverns of burning light:
And your gold will come out more precious,
Free from every spot and stain;
For gold must be tested by fire,
Just as a heart must be tested by pain!

In the harsh blaze of Sorrow
Hold your heart, don’t break down or cry;
Keep your hand strong and steady,
Don’t let your spirit lose its drive:
But wait until the ordeal is done,
And reclaim your heart once more;
Just as gold is tested by fire,
A heart must be tested by pain!

I’ll know by the shine and sparkle
Of the gold chain you wear,
By your heart’s steady strength in love,
And by the fire they’ve had to endure.
Keep going, true heart, forever;
Shine bright, strong gold chain;
And bless the purifying fire,
And the furnace of real pain!

Let’s add more logs to the fire!
We need a warm, cheerful light,
And let’s gather close around the hearth,
Because the wind has picked up tonight.
With its sad, wailing sound,
It’s dampened the kids' joy,
And it’s calling out more loudly
Than the noise of the sea.
Listen to the voice of the wind!

Let’s pay attention to what it’s saying,
Let’s listen to where it’s been;
For it tells, in its awful cries,
The scary things it has seen.
It bangs loudly at the windows,
Rushing all around the house,
And screams with even more rage,
When we say “The storm has passed!”
Listen to the voice of the wind!

It has been on the battlefield,
Where the dying and wounded lie;
And it carries the last groan they uttered,
And the hungry vulture’s cry.
It has been where the icebergs collide,
And closed with a terrifying crash;
On shores where no one has walked,
It has heard the waters rush.
Listen to the voice of the wind!

It has been on the empty ocean,
When the lightning hit the mast;
It has heard the cries of those drowning,
Who sank as it rushed by;
The words of hopelessness and pain,
That were heard by no living ear;
The gun that didn’t get a response:
It brings them all to us here.
Listen to the voice of the wind!

It has been on the lonely moor,
Where the dangerous snowdrift lies,
Where the traveler, tired and worn,
Gasped weaker and weaker cries;
It has heard the bay of the bloodhounds,
On the trail of the hunted slave,
The whip and the curse of the master,
And the groan that the captive gave.
Listen to the voice of the wind!

It has rushed through the dark forest,
Where the sled was pushed to go faster,
Where the howling wolves were chasing
The exhausted horse.
Where the pool was dark and lonely,
It picked up a splash and a scream—
Only the harsh sky heard it,
And the wind as it rushed past.
Listen to the voice of the wind!

Then throw more logs on the fire,
Since the air is bleak and cold,
And the kids are coming closer,
For the stories that the wind has told.
So gather closer and closer
Around the red and crackling light;
And let’s celebrate (while the wind is blowing)
We are safe and warm tonight.
Listen to the voice of the wind!

Let me count my treasures,
All the things my soul holds dear,
Given to me by dark spirits
That I used to fear.

Through long days of suffering,
And sad nights, Pain
Created my shield, Endurance,
Bright and clean!

Doubt, in foggy caves,
Amid dark fears searched,
Until my unmatched treasure,
Faith to me she delivered.

Sorrow, that I tired
Should last so long,
Wreathed my shining glory,
The bright Crown of Song.

Struggle, that tore at my soul,
Without hope or peace,
Left the blossoming flower,
Patience, on my chest.

Suffering, which I feared,
Unaware of her beauty,
Placed the lovely child, Pity,
Smiling, in my arms.

So I count my treasures,
Stored in days gone by—
And I thank the givers,
Whom I finally recognize!

Shine, you stars in the sky,
On a world of suffering!
Watch as Time takes away
All we've accumulated;
All our sweetest blooms,
Every grand monument,
All our hard-won pride,
Every cherished dream!

Shine, you stars in the sky,
Over the passing years!
Look how Time, comforting,
Dries the saddest tears,
Makes the darkest storm clouds
Fade into gentle rain;
While rising in glory,
Flowers and dreams return!

Shine, you stars in the sky,
On a world filled with fear!
Look how Time, seeking revenge,
Brings judgment here;
Weaving ill-gotten honors
Into a fiery crown;
Making hardened hearts perish;
Bringing proud hearts down.

Shine, you stars in the sky,
As the hours move slowly!
Look at how Time, rewarding,
Covers good deeds in light;
Rewards with a royal touch;
Brings life's greatest gifts;
Or, crowned with even brighter rays,
Calls forth the end!

“Why do you stay so sad and lonely,
By the empty sea shore,
With the gloomy waves
Pounding at your cottage door?

“You will live next to the castle
Shaded by our old trees;
And your life will flow smoothly,
Looked after, and in comfort and peace.”

“Lady, someone who loved me dearly
Sailed off to distant lands;
And I wait here for his return
Hopefully from day to day.

“To my door I bring my spinning,
Watching every ship I see;
Waiting, hoping, till the sunset
Fades into the western sea.

“After sunset, at my window,
I still put out a signal light;
He'll recognize its familiar glow
If his ship comes back at night.

“Lady, look at your baby smiling,
With its golden curly hair—
I remember when your mother
Was a baby just as beautiful.

“I was watching then, and hoping:
Years have brought great change to everyone;
To my neighbors in their cottage,
To you nobles at the hall.

“Not to me—for I am waiting,
And the years have gone by so quickly,
I have to look at you to remind me
That a long, tiring time has passed!”

“When I hear a footstep approaching
On the gravel—years have passed—
Yet among a thousand others,
I will recognize his quick, light step.

“When I hear (tonight it might be)
Someone pausing at my door,
I’ll recognize the cheerful soft tones,
Heard and welcomed many times before!

“So each day I feel more hopeful,
He might arrive before nightfall:
Every sunset I feel more certain
He has to come by morning light.

“Thank you, noble lady,
But I can’t do what you want:
Where he left me, he must find me.
Waiting, watching, hoping, still!”

Hush! I can't stand to see you
Reaching your tiny hands in vain;
Dear, I have no bread to give you,
Nothing, child, to ease your pain!
When God sent you here to bless me,
I was proud and thankful too;
Now, my darling, I, your mother,
Almost long to see you go.
Sleep, my darling, you are tired;
God is good, but life is tough.

I have seen your beauty fading,
And your strength diminishing day by day;
Soon, I know, Want and Fever
Will take your little life away.
Hunger makes your father reckless,
Hope has left both him and me;
We could endure anything, my baby,
If we only had a crust for you.
Sleep, my darling, you are tired;
God is good, but life is bleak.

It's better for you to fade away early,
Starve quickly, my sweet one,
Than to live in helpless sin and sorrow
Pointlessly, like I have.
Better for your angelic spirit
To leave with my joy, my peace,
Than for your heart to grow cold and careless,
Reckless, hopeless, like mine.
Sleep, my darling, you are tired;
God is good, but life is dull.

I’m exhausted, my dear, from hunger,
And my mind feels so heavy,
I barely have the strength to hold you,
Weak and frail, close to my heart.
Hang in there, baby, God will help us,
Death will come for both of us,
He will lead us to His Heaven,
Where there’s no need or suffering.
Sleep, my darling, you’re tired;
God is good, but life is tough.

Such is the sadness that, morning and night,
If we pay attention, we might hear
Right next to us—but the roar
Of the city muffles our hearing.
Every heart, like God’s shining Angel,
Can make that kind of sorrow stop;
God is glorified when his children
Bring joy and peace to those in need!
Listen closer while she sings
You can hear the fluttering of wings!

Be strong to hope, oh Heart!
Even though the day is bright,
The stars can only shine
In the dark of night.
Be strong, oh Heart of mine,
Look toward the light!

Be strong to endure, oh Heart!
Nothing is in vain:
Don’t struggle, because life is tough,
And God brings pain,
Heaven is above, and there
Rest will remain!

Be strong to love, oh Heart!
Love doesn't know wrong,
If you loved—even the creatures,
Life wouldn't be long;
If you loved God in Heaven,
You would be strong!

God gave a gift to Earth: a child,
Weak, innocent, and pure,
Opened its unaware eyes and smiled.

It lay there so helpless, so abandoned,
The earth accepted it harshly and with contempt,
Cursing the day it came into the world.

She first gave it a tarnished name,
For heritage, a damaged reputation,
Then wrapped it in longing and shame.

All influence of good or right,
All ray of God’s most holy light,
She blocked from view, keeping it tight.

Then she turned her heart and her eyes away,
Ready to look again when the day
Started to wander off.

In places filled with guilt, the baby played,
Where only sin was created
As the law everyone around followed.

With eager and willing attention,
He learned the tasks they showed him there;
Dark sin for lesson—curses for prayer.

Then Earth came up, and, in her strength,
To defend her wounded rights,
Pushed him into even deeper darkness.

Branding him with a heavier mark
Of shame, he couldn’t grasp,
The criminal outcast of the land.

Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

God gave a gift to Earth: a child,
Weak, innocent, and pure,
Opened its unaware eyes and smiled.

And Earth accepted the gift and celebrated
Her joy and triumph everywhere,
Until the echo responded to her pride.

She blessed the moment he first arrived
To claim the crown of pride and fame,
Built up through long ages for his name.

Then used all her talent and skill
To shape the flexible mind and will,
And protect it from any harmful influence.

She scattered flowers along his morning path,
And Love, in gentle, falling showers,
Nurtured the bright and early hours.

She brought forth, in vibrant colors of light,
A glow around what’s Good and Right,
To attract and captivate the baby’s gaze.

And every step, whether working or having fun,
Was lit by some kind of dazzling light,
Until the morning brightened into day.

And then the World stood up and said—
Let more honors be given now
To such a noble heart and mind!

O World, both gifts were pure and bright,
Holy and sacred in God’s sight:-
God will judge them and you rightly!

She had a bright smile and a slim figure,
With a cheerful demeanor and a quick, light step;
The girl had a strange, exotic look,
Which matched the unique Belgian dress she wore.
Yet the fearless blue eyes in her pretty face,
And her gentle voice revealed her English heritage;
And as she moved around,
She sang softly, almost like she didn’t realize
That she was singing, but rather let the happy weight
Of dreams and thoughts spill out from her heart:
And while she went about her daily tasks,
The air carried snippets of her song;
Not the kind village girls typically sing, and few
Knew the sources of her ever-changing melodies;
Chants like those first heard by heaven and earth
When the master Palestrina wrote them down.
But I often turned the pages with awe,
Pages yellowed with age and half-worn away,
Listening with an ear not entirely untrained,
As my heart and soul responded to the grand echoes;
And I marveled, as her tone shifted
From the Laudate, which I knew so well,
Into Scarlatti’s minor fugue, how she
Had absorbed such deep and solemn harmonies.
But what she expressed, I captured in rhyme, to reflect
The influence, soft and sweet,
Under which her young and innocent life had blossomed:
If only my words were as simple as hers.

Many years ago, an English worker traveled
Across the sea to find a home in Ghent,
Where English skills were valued; he didn’t work in vain;
His hard-earned daily pay was small, but enough.
He lived alone—in sorrow or in pride.
He didn’t mingle with the workers around him;
He seemed to care only for one present joy—
To care for, watch over, and teach his sickly boy.
Harsh to everyone else, yet for the child
He softened his rough words to gentle ones;
For him, he smiled; with him, he walked each day
Through the dark, gloomy streets; to him, he talked
Of home, of England, and told strange stories
Of English heroes from days gone by;
And, (when the sunset lit up roof and spire)
The amazing tale that never got old:
How the golden dragon, staring fiercely down
From the great belfry, watched over the town,
Was brought as a trophy from the divine wars,
By a Crusader from distant Palestine,
And given to Bruges; and how Ghent rose,
And how they fought long as bitter enemies,
Until Ghent, one night, through a brave soldier’s skill,
Stole the great dragon; and she still keeps it.
One day, the dragon—so it’s said—will rise,
Spread its bright wings, and shine in the skies.
And over desert lands and blue seas,
Will search for its home among palm and cedar trees.
So, as he passed the belfry each day,
The boy would check to see if it had flown away;
Each day surprised to find it watching there,
Above him as he crossed the old square,
To reach the grand cathedral, which had become
A home for him—mysterious and his own.

Dim with dark shadows of ages past,
St. Bavon stands, solemn, rich, and vast;
The slender pillars stretch out in long rows,
Like forest arches meeting and closing overhead;
So high that, like a weak and uncertain prayer,
Before it can drift to the carved angels there,
The silver-clouded incense fades in the air:
Only the organ’s voice, with peal after peal,
Can rise to where those distant angels kneel.
Here, the pale boy, beneath a low side-arch,
Would listen to its solemn chant or march;
Folding his little hands, his simple prayer
Melted into childish dreams, both floating in the air:
While the grand organ rolled over all,
Speaking strange secrets to his innocent soul,
Carrying on eagle-wings the great desire
Of all the kneeling crowd, piercing higher
Than anything but love and prayer can reach, until
Only the silence seemed to listen still;
Or gathering like a sea, ever more and more,
Breaking in melodious waves at heaven's door,
And then falling, slow and soft, in gentle rain,
Upon the pleading, longing hearts again.

Then he would watch the rosy sunlight glow,
That crept along the marble floor below,
Passing, just like life, with the passing hours,
Now by a shrine adorned with gems and flowers,
Now on the shiny letters of a tomb,
Then, leaving it again for shade and gloom,
And creeping on, to show, distinct and quaint,
The kneeling figure of some marble saint:
Or lighting up the carvings strange and rare,
That told of patient work and tender care;
Ivy that trembled on the spray, and ears,
Of heavy corn, and slender bulrush spears,
And all the thousand tangled weeds that grow
In summer, where the silver rivers flow;
And demon-heads grotesque, that seemed to glare
In powerless rage at all the beauty there:
Then the golden rays up the pillared shaft would climb,
And be drawn to heaven, at evening time.
And deeper silence, darker shadows flowed
On all around, only the windows glowed
With blazoned glory, like the shields of light
Archangels bear, who, armed with love and might,
Watch over heaven’s battlements at night.
Then all was shade; the silver lamps that gleamed,
Lost in the daylight, in the darkness seemed
Like sparks of fire in the dim aisles to shine,
Or trembling stars before each separate shrine.
Feeling half afraid, the child would leave them there,
And come out, blinded by the noisy glare
That burst upon him from the busy square.

The church was his home for resting or playing,
And as he came and went each day,
The familiar faces he knew so well,
Seemed to smile at him, both welcoming and bidding farewell.
But holier, and much dearer than all,
There was one special place he loved to call his own;
Except at midday, half-hidden in the shadows;
The people called it The White Maiden’s Tomb:
There she stands; her hands are pressed
Together, softly resting on her chest,
As if she was waiting just for a word to rise
From the dull earth, and ascend to the blue skies;
Her lips expectantly part, she holds her breath,
As if listening for the angel's voice of death.
No one knows how many years she has been like this,
Or the name of the one who sleeps below.
And here the child would come, trying to trace,
Through the dim twilight, the pure, gentle face
He loved so much, and here he often brought
Some violet blossom from early spring;
And softly climbing up to the intricate stand,
To not disturb her, he would lay it in her hand;
Or, whispering a sweet, loving message,
Would stoop down to kiss the little marble feet.
So, when the organ's powerful music rang,
He thought in the gloom that the Maiden sang;
With simple, reverent faith, he knelt by her,
Imagining what she thought and how she felt.
“Glory to God,” echoed from her voice,
And then his little spirit would rejoice;
Or when the Requiem sighed through the air,
His baby tears fell with her mournful prayer.

So years went by, as childish dreams faded away,
The innocent love and simple faith still remained.
The artist within him awoke, and the spark
Of genius, like a ray of light from Heaven, struck
His mind, and (as it does when it’s real)
It reached his heart and inspired his soul, too.
His father noticed and, filled with pride,
Allowed him to leave behind the hard work where he had spent
His early years, and on one joyful day
Of pride, before the old man passed away,
He stood with trembling lips and big tears
Streaming down his cheeks, and heard the dream of years
Come alive and speak directly to his heart—
The soft, hushed whispers of the remarkable talent
Of him, who with young, unsteady fingers made
The great church organ respond as he played;
And, as the uncertain sound grew rich and powerful,
It soared with harmonious spirit-wings,
Thrilling the breathless crowd with its masterful force.

The old man passed away, and years went by, yet still
The young musician devoted his heart and will
To his beloved craft. St. Bavon had now become
Even more precious to him, and even more his own;
And every night as he left, he prayed
For a moment by the archway in the shade,
Kneeling once again in the sacred gloom
Where the White Maiden watched over her tomb.
His dreams of travel and worldwide fame,
Cold Time had sobered, along with his fragile frame;
Finally content only to wander in dreams,
Far from the calmness of home;
Happy that the poor people beside him
Saw him as just a gentle friend and guide,
The patient counselor in their struggles
And the little details of their everyday lives,
Who comforted wherever sorrow and grief might fall,
And never dismissed any pain or need as small,
But whose great heart embraced and cared for all.

Still, he became famous—many came to be
His students in the art of harmony.
One day, a voice floated so pure and free
Above his music that he turned to see
What angel was singing, and in front of him stood,
What made his heart leap with a strange surprise, His own White Maiden, calm, pure, and mild,
Just as in his childhood dreams, she sang and smiled;
Her eyes lifted to Heaven, her lips parted,
And music overflowing from her heart.
But the faint blush that touched her cheek revealed
No marble statue, but a living girl;
Perplexed and startled at his wondering gaze,
Her rustling sheet of Mozart’s Sanctus shook;
The uncertain notes, like birds caught in a snare,
Fluttered and faded in the trembling air.

Days went by; each morning, the young woman stood,
Her eyes looking down, her lesson in hand,
Eager to study, never tired, while
Rewarded by a kind word or smile
From her thoughtful teacher; days and months flew by;
One day, the student from the choir was gone;
Gone to bring light, joy, and youth once more,
Into the humble home of the poor musician;
And to repay, with gentle happy skill,
The debt so many owed his generous spirit.
And now, indeed, was one who knew and felt
That a great gift of God lived within him;
One who could listen, who could understand,
Whose idle work fell from her relaxed hand,
While with teary eyes, mesmerized, she stood, unaware
How the musical hours flew by;
Who loved his art like no one had before,
Yet valued the noble, tender spirit even more.
While the grand organ drew from far and near
Lovers of music to praise and hear,
Unnoticed by anything except what filled every day,
Duty, and hard work, and rest, years slipped away:
And now, by the low archway in the shade
Next to her mother knelt a little girl,
Who learned to wander through the grand cathedral,
Climb to the choir, and bring her father home;
And stand, quiet and serious by his side,
Patient until the last echo softly faded;
Then place her small hand in his, and go
Down the dark winding stairs to where below
The mother knelt, in the gathering gloom
Waiting and praying by the Maiden’s Tomb.

So their life went on, until one winter’s day,
Father and child went there alone to pray—
The mother, a gentle soul, had passed away!
Their life had changed, and yet the child
Eventually forgot her intense grief and smiled,
Partly wondering why, when spring’s fresh breezes came,
Her father seemed not to be the same.
Partly sensing the shadow of his pain,
And then feeling content if he smiled again,
A sad cold smile, that faded into tears,
As she reassured herself and ran off to play.
And now each year that added beauty to beauty,
Fresh bloom and sunshine to the young girl’s face,
Brought a strange light to the musician’s eyes,
As if he saw some starry hope arise,
Breaking through the midnight of sad skies.
It might be so: weaker year by year,
The wanderer neared his resting place.
One day, he could play the Gloria no more,
It echoed with the grand rejoicing of the past;
His hands were clasped, his weary head rested,
On the tomb where the White Maiden prayed:
Where the child’s love first blossomed, his soul first spoke,
The old man’s heart there throbbed its last and broke.
The grand cathedral that had nurtured his youth,
Had fueled his dreams and taught him the truth,
Had witnessed his boyish grief and childhood tears,
And watched the sorrows and joys of the years,
Had illuminated his fame and hope with sacred rays,
And consecrated both sad and happy days—
Had blessed his happiness and soothed his pain,
Now took her faithful servant home again.

He rests in peace: some travelers mention yet
An organist whose name they all forget.
He has a holier and nobler fame
By the hearths of the poor, who love and bless the name
Of a kind friend; and in hushed tones today,
They speak fondly of him who passed away.
Too poor to help their friend's daughter,
They were saddened to see the meager support end;
To see her work hard with a cheerful heart,
To bear the lonely orphan’s struggling part;
They were sad to see her leave all alone
To English relatives she had never known:
And here she came; the foreign girl soon found
Welcome, love, and abundance all around,
And here she gives back with sincere intention,
By being a diligent housewife with precision;
Deep in her heart, she carries her father’s name,
And tenderly and proudly keeps his fame;
And while she works with careful Belgian care,
Past dreams of childhood drift upon the air;
Some strange old chant, or solemn Latin hymn,
That echoed through the dim old cathedral,
When as a little child she went each day
To kneel and pray by an old tomb in Ghent.

Why should you fear the beautiful angel, Death,
Who waits for you at the gates of the skies,
Ready to take away your struggling breath,
Ready with a gentle hand to close your eyes?

How many peaceful souls have moved on,
Eagerly escaping harsh pain and fading pleasures,
Into the everlasting brilliance of the day;
And many a restless heart still seeks him.

Spirits too gentle for the struggle here
Have turned away from life, its hopes, its fears, its charms;
And children, trembling at a world so bleak,
Have peacefully faded away into his arms.

The one you fear will, to ease their pain,
Lay their cold hand upon your aching heart:
Will calm the terrors of your troubled mind,
And make the shadow of earth’s grief go away.

He will return what neither time, nor strength,
Nor fervent prayer, nor deep hope can bring back.
(As dear as sight is to eyes that were once blind,)
He will bring back those who have passed on.

Oh, what would life be if life were everything? Your eyes
Are blinded by your tears, or you would see
Your treasures waiting for you in the distant skies,
And Death, your friend, will give them all to you.

All yesterday I was spinning,
Sitting alone in the sun;
And the dream I wove was so long,
It lasted until the day was done.

I ignored the clouds and shadows
That passed over the hill,
Or the buzzing bees, or the swallows,
Or the sound of the stream.

I gathered the threads for my spinning,
All of the blue summer air,
And a flickering ray of sunlight
Was woven in here and there.

The shadows got longer and longer,
The evening breeze blew by,
And the purple glow of sunset
Filled the western sky.

But I couldn't stop spinning,
Because my dream had become so beautiful.
I didn't notice, hour after hour,
How the quiet day had passed.

At last, the gray shadows surrounded me,
And the night came in dark and cold,
So I got up and hurried down the valley,
And left everything behind on the hill.

I went up the hill this morning
To the spot where my spinning was—
There was nothing but shining dewdrops
Left of my dream today.

Don't bow down today and worship
The old Past, whose life has gone,
Lower your voice to gentle respect;
Crowned he lies, but cold and gone:
For the Present is our ruler,
With an extra weight of hours;
Honor her, for she is powerful!
Honor her, for she is ours!

See the shadows of his heroes
Surrounding her cloudy throne;
Every day the ranks grow stronger
With brave hearts he doesn't know;
Noble things the great Past promised,
Holy dreams, both weird and new;
But the Present will make them real,
What he promised, she will do.

She gets all his treasures,
She takes on all his fame,
And the light that shines around her
Is the glow of his name;
She is wise with all his knowledge,
Standing on his grave she stands,
On her head she wears his laurels,
And his harvest in her hands.

Coward, can she rule and conquer
If we let her glory fade?
Let’s fight for her as bravely
As our fathers fought for him.
God, who crowns the fading ages,
Commands her to lead, and us to obey—
Commands us to give our lives for her,
Commands us to serve the great Today.

Mourn, O joyful heart!
The hours are passing by;
Each one takes a treasure,
Each one breaks a blossom,
And leaves it to fade;
The cold dark night is approaching,
Your sun will soon set,
And leave you longing;
So mourn, joyful heart,
The hours are passing by!

Rejoice, O grieving heart!
The hours pass quickly;
With each one, some sorrow fades,
With each one, some shadow disappears,
Until at last
The red dawn in the east
Sends the weary night away,
And pain is gone.
So rejoice, grieving heart,
The hours pass quickly!

Strive; but I can’t guarantee
The prize you’re dreaming of today
Won’t slip away when you try to grab it,
And vanish from your hand;
But another, more sacred treasure,
You might currently overlook,
Will arrive once your hard work is done,
And reward you for all your struggle.

Wait; but I won’t tell you
The hour you’re longing for now,
Won't arrive with its brightness faded,
And a shadow on its brow;
Yet far through the hazy future,
With a crown of starry light,
An hour of joy you don't know
Is quietly making its way.

Pray; even if the gift you ask for
May never ease your fears,
May never return what you plead for,
Still pray, and with hopeful tears;
An answer, not what you wish for,
But something greater, will come one day,
Your eyes are too dim to see it,
Yet keep striving, waiting, and praying.

Moan, oh you Autumn Winds!
Summer has gone,
The flowers have shut their delicate petals and are dying;
The Lily’s graceful head
Must now lie low,
Because the gentle Summer is gone.

Mourn, oh Autumn Winds!
Summer is fading;
The rose's fragile leaves will soon fall,
Because she who cherished them so,
Sadly, is gone!
And one by one her beloved children depart.

Wail, oh you Autumn Winds!
She is no longer here,
The gentle Summer, with her soothing breath,
Even sweeter than before
As she approached death,
And brighter every day was the smile she wore!

Mourn, mourn, oh Autumn Winds,
Lament and mourn;
How many half-bloomed buds must close and die;
Hopes born with Summer
All faded lie,
And leave us desolate and Earth alone!

No name to tell us who
Lies beneath,
No mention of death or birth,
Just the grass swaying,
Over a mound of dirt,
Over a nameless grave.

Did this poor wandering heart
Leave in pain?
Longing, but far too late,
For the peaceful home again,
Where patient watchers wait,
And will still wait in vain.

Did mourners come in contempt,
And feeling lost,
Leave him, with pain and shame.
To silence and decay,
And hide the tarnished name
Of the lifeless body?

It might be on his side
His loved ones have died,
And finally, with some close friends,
(Together again now,)
He was searching for his home, the place
Where they had gone before.

No matter—limes have created
A cool shade,
And soft breezes flow
As gently and slowly,
As if under the grass
A king is resting below.

No grief, no matter how loud and deep,
Could wake that sleep;
And earth and sky reveal
A rest that won’t end,
Where the cold world’s goodbye
Fades into infinite peace.

With echoing footsteps, the worshippers
Left one by one;
The organ’s powerful sound faded,
The evening hymn was over;
The shadows fell from the ceiling and arches,
The air was hazy from the incense,
One lamp alone with flickering light,
Signaled that the Presence was there!

In the dark church, she knelt alone;
Her tears fell rapidly;
“Help, Lord,” she cried, “the shadows of death
Are cast upon my soul!
Have I not avoided the path of sin,
And chosen the right path?”
What voice came through the holy air?—
“My child, give me your heart!”

“Have I not brought my wealth to your shrine, oh Lord?” she cried; “Have I kept any gems or gold to feed my pride? Have I not asked youth’s joys to step back and let go of vain delights?”—But her voice was sad and gentle—“My child, give me your heart!”

“Have I not, Lord, gone day by day
Where Your poor children live;
And brought help, and money, and food?
Oh Lord, You know it well!
From many a home, from many a soul,
My hand drives away worry:”—
More sad, more gentle, was the voice—
“My child, give me your Heart!”

“Have I not exhausted my strength
With fasting and painful penance?
Have I not kept watch and cried?” she exclaimed;
“Did Your beloved Saints do more?
Have I not earned Your grace, oh Lord,
And secured my place in Heaven?”—
It resonated deeper in her soul—
“My child, give me your Heart!”

“For I have loved you with a love
No human heart can show;
A love so deep, my Saints in heaven
Can never fully know:
When pierced and wounded on the Cross,
Man’s sin and fate were mine,
I loved you with undying love,
Immortal and divine!

“I loved you before the skies were formed;
My soul feels all your pain;
To win your love, my sacred heart
Remains in earthly places:
Your offerings are worthless, your sighs are pointless,
Without one divine gift,
Give it to me, my child, your heart,
And it will find rest in mine!”

In amazement, she listened, and the shadow
Faded from her soul;
With a soft and shaky voice, she cried—
“Lord, help me to follow!
Break the chains of this world, oh Lord,
That tie and hold my heart;
Let it be Yours, and Yours alone,
Let no one else share in it.

“Send down, oh Lord, Your sacred fire!
Burn away and purify the sin
That still remains within me:
Let divine love start.
That sacred flame Your Saints have felt,
Ignite, oh Lord, in me,
You above all else forever,
And all the rest in You.”

The blessing touched her soul;
Her angel stood beside her
Knowing that the moment of peace had arrived;
Her soul was cleansed:
The shadows dropped from the ceiling and arch,
The air was hazy with incense—
But Peace followed her as she departed
From that sacred Presence!

A little past the village
The inn stood, low and white;
Green shady trees behind it,
And an orchard on the right;
Where over the green fence
The red-cheeked apples hung,
As if to watch how tiredly
The signboard creaked and swung.

The heavy branches,
Hung low over the road,
Reflected fruit or flowers
From the side of the road below;
Where kids, getting water,
Looked up and stopped to see,
Amid the apple branches,
A purple Judas Tree.

The road wound on for many tired miles—
So dusty, sore-footed travelers
Would stop and take a break;
And panting horses paused,
And travelers enjoyed sharing stories
About the peaceful wayside inn,
The orchard, and the well.

Here Maurice lived; and often
The sunburnt boy would stand
Gazing into the distance,
And shading his eyes with his hand
While watching in vain
For travelers who might need
His help to loosen the bridle,
And take care of the tired horse.

And once (the boy remembered
That morning, many days ago—
The dew was on the hawthorn,
The bird sang on the branch)
A group of horsemen, grander
Than he had ever seen,
Rode in from the distance,
And stopped at the door.

Upon a pure white pony,
Perfect for a fairy queen,
Was the most beautiful little girl
His eyes had ever seen:
A servant was holding
The lead rope, to guide
The pony and its owner,
Who trotted alongside him.

Her bright curls all around her
Had formed a golden halo,
While her big hat was shading
Her serene blue eyes from the glow;
One hand held the soft reins
To keep her horse in line,
The other tugged his messy mane,
Or gently stroked his shiny neck.

And as the boy brought water,
And loosened the reins, he heard
The sweetest voice that thanked him
With a soft, gentle word;
She turned her blue eyes away from him,
Looked up, and smiled to see
The hanging purple blossoms
On the Judas Tree;

And showed it with a gesture,
Half begging, half ordering,
Until he broke the prettiest flower,
And placed it in her hand;
And she tied it to her saddle
With a ribbon from her hair,
While her joyful laugh echoed brightly,
Like silver in the air.

But the restless horses were rested—
The riders now urged them on,
And down the dusty road
They disappeared and were gone.
Years went by, and many a traveler
Stopped at the old inn door,
But the little white pony
And the child never returned.

Years went by, the apple branches
Cast a deeper shadow;
And many times the Judas Tree,
Blossom and leaf, lay lifeless;
When on the lazy western breeze
Came the joyful sound of bells,
And floral arches appeared, and flags
And banners waved around.

Maurice stood there waiting:
The bridal train would pause
For a moment at the inn-door,
The excited watchers say;
They’re coming—the cloud of dust approaches—
Amid all the ceremony and pride,
He only sees the golden hair
And blue eyes of the bride.

The same, but still even more beautiful;
He recognized the face again
That leaned over the pony's neck
Years ago at that inn entrance:
Her shy and smiling eyes looked around,
Unaware of the surroundings,
Unaware of the eager stare
He had fixed on her face.

He picked a flower from the tree—
The Judas Tree—and threw
Its purple scent towards the Bride,
A note from the Past.
The signal went off, the horses surged—
Once more she smiled all around:
The purple flower in the dirt
Lay crushed on the ground.

Again the slow years passed by,
Their passage only noticed
By how tall the Passion-flower
Around the porch had grown;
And many a passing traveler
Paused at the old inn door,
But the bride, so beautiful and blooming,
The bride never returned.

One winter morning, Maurice,
Watching the bare branches,
Rustling and swaying faintly
In the gray and misty air,
Saw displayed on a carriage
Once again the familiar shield,
The stars and blue fleurs-de-lis
On a silver background.

He looked at that pale woman,
So serious, so tired, so sad,
The child who was once smiling,
The bride who was once bright and happy?
What sorrow had clouded that beauty,
And created that dark shadow
Over her bright blue eyes,
And made those trembling lips so pale?

What memory of past sorrow,
What stab of present pain,
Brought that deep look of anguish,
That watched the gloomy rain,
That watched (with the absent spirit
That looks, yet doesn’t see)
The dead and leafless branches
On the Judas Tree.

The long, dark months dragged on
In their icy path,
Until April came in with showers
And Spring smiled in May;
The sun shone brightly
On the apple blossoms again,
When slowly up the road
Moved a long funeral procession.

The bells rang slowly and sadly,
For a noble spirit had left;
Slowly, with ceremony and honor,
They carried the silent dead.
On a horse with black feathers,
One rode, holding a shield,
Where stars and blue lilies
Sparkled on a silver background.

’Mid all that homage given
To a fluttering heart at rest,
Perhaps a genuine sadness
Lived only in one person.
One by the inn-door standing
Watched with fast-dropping tears
The long procession passing,
And thought of past years,

The boyish, silent tribute
To the unknown child and bride,
The compassionate, tender sadness
He held in his heart alone,
Now placed upon the coffin
With a purple flower, could be
Shared with the cold, dead sleeper;
The others could only see
A fragrant purple bloom,
Picked from a Judas Tree.

You’re surprised that my tears fall
While listening to that simple tune;
That those clumsy notes can fill
My heart with joy and pain—
How can you know what feelings it awakens
Inside my heart again?

You wonder why that common phrase,
So meaningless to you,
Should stop me in my happiest moment,
And send a shiver through my soul to hear—
How can you know what old magic
Has made me cherish it?

You wonder why I look away
From all those beautiful, bright flowers,
And focus on this sad little herb, until tears
Well up and blur my vision—
You can’t understand how every leaf
Holds memories of past joy.

You smile to see me turn and talk
With someone whose conversation you hate;
You don't notice the old dreams
That come back with his voice—
How can you know what connections have made
Him special in my eyes?

Oh, these are Voices of the Past,
Links of a broken chain,
Wings that can take me back to Times
That can’t return—
Yet God forbid that I should lose
The echoes that remain!

You’ve done well, maybe,
To take off the bright disguise,
And show the bitter truth
Before our shrinking eyes;
When evil crawls beneath
What seems so pure and fair,
Your eyes are sharp and true
To find the serpent there:
And yet—I turn away;
Your task isn’t divine—
The evil angels look
On earth with eyes like yours.

You’ve done well, perhaps,
To show how closely intertwined
Dark threads of sin and self
Are with our best actions.
How great and noble hearts,
Striving for high ideals,
Still have some earthly tie
That a lesser spirit claims;
And yet—although your task
Is well and fairly done,
I think for those like you
There is a more sacred one.

Shadows exist, living
With us, but separate,
Unresponsive to God's call,
Or a caring human heart;
Voices from earth and heaven
Call out, but they ignore,
And Love, in such deep darkness,
Sees no chance for dawn;
And yet—our vision is weak,
While yours is much clearer—
So look until you can see
The faint glow of a star.

The dark stream flows by,
Whose waters we look down on—
Show us something of the sky
Reflected in your depths;
Under tangled thorns and briars,
(This is a job for you,)
Search for the hidden flowers,
We’re too blind to see them;
Then I will call your great gift
A crown and a blessing;
Angels look at humans this way,
And God sees good in everyone!

Arise! This day will shine,
Forevermore,
A divine star for you,
On Time’s dark shore.

Till now your soul has been
All happy and carefree:
Awaken it, and look
At sorrow today!

No shade has come between
You and the sun;
Like some long childish dream
Your life has run:

But now the stream has reached
A dark, deep sea,
And Sorrow, shadowy and crowned,
Is waiting for you.

Each of God's soldiers carries
A divine sword:
Reach out your trembling hands
Today for yours!

To every chosen Priest
God's call has come:
Oh, Soul, He speaks today
And calls your name.

Then, with a slow and respectful step,
And a pounding heart,
From your happy days,
You must leave.

And, leaving everything behind,
Come forward, alone,
To join the selected group
Around the throne.

Raise your eyes—be strong,
Don't throw away
The crown that God has given
Your soul today!

Why do you create beautiful music
only to express pain?
Why do you weave lovely flowers
into a tired chain?

Why turn each cool gray shadow
Into a world of fears?
Why say the winds are crying?
Why call the dewdrops tears?

The sounds of joyful nature,
And the bright light from above,
Challenge your troubled heart's fantasies,
Criticize your silly dreams.

Listen, and I’ll tell you
The song that Creation sings,
From the buzzing of bees in the heather,
To the fluttering of angels’ wings.

An echo lasts forever,
The sound never fades;
It tells God of glory,
It tells Earth of peace.

Not only did angels sing it
To the ears of the poor shepherds;
But the heavenly spheres chant it,
While the ages listen in.

Above your whiny crying
Rises that sacred song;
Above Earth’s silly noise,
Above the voice of injustice.

No creature of God’s is too insignificant
To whisper peace and praise:
When the starry nights go quiet,
Then the sunny days will speak.

So let go of your sick heart's thoughts,
And share your little voice
With the silver song of glory
That urges the world to rejoice.

See the rivers flowing
Down to the sea,
Pouring out their treasures
Abundant and free—
Yet to support their giving
Hidden springs emerge;
Or, if necessary, rain
Feeds them from the skies!

Watch the royal flowers
Their rich fragrance spreads,
Filling the air with scents,
From their beauty shed—
Yet their extravagant blooming
Keeps them from being in want,
With fresh life renewed
By their mother earth!

Give your heart's best treasures—
Learn from beautiful Nature;
Give your love—and don't ask,
Don't wait for a return!
And the more you spend
From your little store,
With a double blessing,
God will give you more.

It’s a gloomy evening;
The shadows move up and down:
With odd and eerie shifts,
They dance on the wall.

Make the burnt logs burn brighter;
I will show you, by their fire,
The partially forgotten memories
Of past times and days.

Bring here the old book;
The clasp is worn and faded,
The gold is dull and tarnished,
And the tattered pages are frayed.

The dust has collected on it—
There are so few who care
To read what Time has written
About joy and sorrow there.

Look at the first fair pages;
Yeah—I remember everything:
The joys now feel so minor,
The sorrows seem so weak and small.

Let’s read the dreams of greatness
That youthful imagination created;
Flip to the next few pages,
And see how quickly they disappear.

Here, still waiting and dreaming,
For some perfect life,
The young heart, completely unaware,
Had stepped into the struggle.

See how this page is stained:
What—could those tears be mine?
How easily I can read you,
Each smudged and shaky line.

Now I can think clearly,
And, looking back again,
I can see a greater purpose
Connecting each individual pain.

Here strong determination—how shattered;
Impulsive hope, and silly fear,
And prayers, which God in compassion
Chose not to grant or hear.

No—I will flip the pages
To where the story is told
Of how a dawn seer
Turned the dark clouds to gold.

And look, that light has enriched
The story—and it won't fade;
And, even though it's wrapped in mist and shadow,
You know I can still see it.

Here—well, it doesn't matter,
I promised to read everything;
I don't know why I'm hesitating,
Or why my tears are falling;

You see, every sorrow is recognized;
But it was for the best—
I can celebrate today—the hurt
Was gone long ago.

I read—my voice is fading,
But you can get
How the heartbeat that guided
This weak and shaking hand.

Pass over that long struggle,
Read where the comfort came,
Where it’s written for the first time
In the book with your name.

Again it comes, and more often,
Connected, as it now has to be,
With all the joy or sadness
That life might bring to me.

So everything else—you get it:
Now close the clasp again,
And set aside the record
Of past hours of pain.

The dust will settle on it,
I won't read it again:
Give me your hand—what were we
Talking about earlier?

I don’t know why—but tell me
About something cheerful and bright.
It’s odd—my heart feels heavy,
And my eyes are dull tonight.

The bond that connects our souls together;
Will it survive through tough times?
Will it fade and fall apart
As the long hours go by?
Will it hold if Fate separates us,
When dark and exhausting hours test us?
Oh, if it seems too weak and flimsy
Let's break the bonds tonight!

It wasn't made by human hands,
Or held together with gold bars and chains;
Except for yours and mine, no other eyes
Can see the delicate connection:
In the bright light, it looks like it disappears—
And it's concealed in the shadows;
While neither Heaven nor Earth has ever heard,
Any serious promises or pledged words.

Yet what no human hand could create,
No human power can ever destroy:
What words or promises could never achieve,
No words or promises can make false;
And if to other hearts unrecognized
The more precious and beloved ours become,
Because too sacred and divine
For any eyes, except yours and mine.

And look, even though it's thin, it's made
Of Love and Trust, and can they fade?
And if it seems too light to handle
The whispers of the summer breeze,
We know it could carry the load
Of a very heavy heart lately,
And as each day and hour passed
It grew stronger because of that weight.

And, we know and feel again
It has been blessed by pain,
For what God chooses to test with sorrow
He means not to wither tomorrow;
But through that intense trial last
When earthly ties and bonds are gone;
What lesser things can't withstand
Will make our Love stronger and purer.

Love will be made pure through Pain,
And Pain will be healed by Love again:
So let’s take heart and move on
Happily through joy and sorrow;
No change the summer sun can bring,
Or the unpredictable skies of spring,
Or the harsh winter’s stormy weather,
For we will face them, Love, together!

The road is long and dull,
The path is harsh and empty;
Our feet are tired and sore,
But we won’t lose hope.
Your burden was heavier,
Your path was more desolate;—
Oh Lamb of God who takes away
The sin of the world,
Have mercy on us.

The snow is piled up around us
In the dark and gloomy night;
And the storm howls above us,
And the stars have hidden their light;
But the darkness was even deeper
Around Calvary’s Cross that day;—
Oh Lamb of God who takes away
The sin of the world,
Have mercy on us.

Our hearts are weak with sadness,
Heavy and hard to carry;
For we fear the painful tomorrow,
But we won’t lose hope:
You know all our pain,
And You will make it stop,—
Oh Lamb of God who takes away
The sin of the world,
Grant us Your Peace!

Nothing that is entirely complete
Can have value or beauty: but alone
Because it points to and moves toward greater sweetness,
More complete, higher, deeper than itself.

Spring’s true beauty isn't in the significance,
As lovely as it is, of her blue hours;
But is found in her gentle inclination
Towards Summer’s abundant variety of flowers.

Dawn is beautiful, as the mists gradually fade
Into Day, which fills the world with light;
Twilight’s mystery is so sweet and sacred
Simply because it leads to starry Night.

Childhood’s smiles unknowingly take charm
From struggles that lie in a distant future;
And angelic looks (now covered by life’s sadness)
Pull our hearts toward some beloved eyes.

Life is only bright when it moves
Towards a truer, deeper life above;
Human love is sweetest when it leads
To a more divine and perfect love.

Learn the mystery of Progression properly:
Don't label every glorious change as Decay;
But realize we only genuinely possess our treasures,
When it appears they've slipped away.

Nor should we blame God's gifts for being incomplete;
In that lack, their beauty lies: they move
Towards some endless depth of love and sweetness,
Carrying forward man's hesitant soul.

Surrounded by rugged mountains
The beautiful Lake Constance lies;
In her blue heart reflected
The starry skies shine back;
And, watching each white cloudlet
Float gently and slowly,
You think a piece of Heaven
Is lying on our earth below!

Midnight is here: and Silence,
Seated in Heaven, gazes down
At her own still reflection,
At a sleeping town:
For Bregenz, that charming city
By the Tyrol shore,
Has overlooked Lake Constance,
For a thousand years and more.

Her fortifications and towers,
From their rocky heights,
Have cast their shaking shadow
For ages over the deep:
Mountain, and lake, and valley,
Have a sacred legend,
Of how the town was saved, one night,
Three hundred years ago.

Far away from her home and family,
A Tyrolean girl had escaped,
To work in the Swiss valleys,
And earn her daily bread;
And each year that passed by
So quietly and swiftly,
Seemed to take her further from
The memories of the past.

She had kind, gentle masters,
And never asked for a break or change;
Her friends felt just like old ones,
Their talk didn't seem strange;
And when she took her cattle
To graze every day,
She stopped looking and wondering
Which way Bregenz was.

She said nothing more about Bregenz,
With longing and with tears:
Her Tyrol home felt distant
In a deep fog of years;
She paid no attention to the rumors
Of Austrian wars and conflicts;
Each day she woke up happy,
To the peaceful routines of life.

Yet, when her master's children
Would gather around her,
She sang them old ballads
From her own homeland;
And when in the morning and evening
She knelt before God's throne,
The words of her childhood
Came to her lips alone.

And so she lived there: the valley
More peaceful with each passing year;
When suddenly, strange signs appeared,
Indicating that something significant was near.
The golden corn was swaying
On its delicate stalk,
While farmers, oblivious to their fields,
Walked back and forth, deep in conversation.

The men looked serious and changed,
Staring down at the ground;
With worried expressions, one by one,
The women gathered around;
Any talk of flax, or spinning,
Or work was set aside;
Even the children seemed scared
To go off alone to play.

One day, out in the meadow
With strangers from the town,
Some secret plan discussing,
The men walked back and forth.
Yet, every now and then, it seemed like they were watching,
A strange, uncertain gleam,
That looked like lances among the trees,
That stood below the stream.

At evening, they all gathered,
Then worries and doubts disappeared;
With cheerful laughter, they celebrated;
The table was generously set.
The village elder
Stood up, his glass raised,
And shouted, “We toast to the defeat
“Of a cursed land!

“The night is getting darker,
“Before one more day passes,
“Bregenz, the stronghold of our enemies,
“Bregenz will be ours!”
The women recoiled in fear,
(But Pride had her place, too,)
Yet one poor Tyrolean maiden
Felt death in her heart.

Before her stood beautiful Bregenz;
Once again her towers rose;
What were the friends by her side?
Only her country's enemies!
The faces of her relatives,
The days of childhood gone,
The echoes of her mountains,
Claimed her as their own!

Nothing she heard around her,
(Though shouts rang out again,)
Gone were the green Swiss valleys,
The meadow, and the plain;
Before her eyes one vision,
And in her heart one cry,
That said, “Go forth, save Bregenz,
And then, if necessary, die!”

With shaking urgency and no breath,
With silent steps she rushed;
Horses and tired cattle
Were waiting in the shed;
She released the powerful white horse,
That ate from her hand,
She got on, and she directed his head
Toward her homeland.

Out—out into the darkness—
Faster, and even faster;
The smooth grass rushes by her,
The chestnut grove is behind;
She looks up; the clouds are heavy:
Why is her horse so slow?—
Not even the wind beside them,
Can overtake them as they move.

“Faster!” she shouts, “Oh, go faster!”
Eleven church bells ring:
“Oh God,” she pleads, “help Bregenz,
And get me there on time!”
But louder than the bells ringing,
Or the mooing of the cows,
The rushing of the Rhine
Grows closer in the midnight.

Shall the roaring waters
Not stop their wild rush?
The horse pulls back in fear,
She leans on his neck
To gaze at the flowing darkness;
The bank is high and steep;
One pause—he falters forward,
And dives into the depths.

She works hard to break through the darkness,
And loosens the reins;
Her horse has to push through the waters
That splash over his mane.
How bravely, how heroically,
He fights his way through the foam,
And look—in the far distance,
The lights of home shine brightly!

Up the steep banks he carries her,
And now, they hurry again
Towards the heights of Bregenz,
That rise above the plain.
They arrive at the gate of Bregenz,
Just as midnight strikes,
And out come peasant and soldier
To hear the news she brings.

Bregenz is saved! Before dawn
Her walls are guarded;
Defiance faces the army
That approaches the land.
And if heroic actions
Deserve everlasting glory,
Bregenz is right to honor
The noble Tyrol woman.

Three hundred years have passed,
And still on the hill
An old stone gateway stands,
To honor her still.
And there, when the women of Bregenz
Sit spinning in the shade,
They see in vintage carvings
The Charger and the Maid.

And when, to protect old Bregenz,
By gateway, street, and tower,
The guard walks all night long,
And announces each passing hour;
“Nine,” “ten,” “eleven,” he shouts
Loudly,
And then (Oh crown of Fame!)
When midnight hangs in the sky,
He calls the maiden’s name!

Farewell, my dream!
I can’t stay;
The time has come, and time
Won’t wait:
You’re so pleasant and dear to me,
Will you stay;
No future moment
Brings you back again.

She stands, the Future unclear,
And pulls me forward,
And shows me better joys—
But you are gone!
She carries treasures and hopes more beautiful,
And yet I hesitate,
Oh dream, with you!

Other and better days,
Maybe she brings;
Deeper and more sacred songs,
Perhaps she sings;
But you and I, fair time,
We too must part—
Oh dream of mine,
Goodbye forever!

Sow with a generous hand;
Don't hold back for hard work or pain;
Don't tire out in the summer heat,
Don't tire out in the chilly spring rain;
Just wait until autumn arrives
For the harvest of golden grain.

Scatter the seeds, and don’t be afraid,
A table will be set;
What does it matter if you're too tired
To eat your well-earned bread:
Sow, while the ground is ready,
Because the hungry need to be fed.

Sow;—while the seeds are resting
In the warm earth’s embrace,
And your warm tears fall on it—
They will awaken from their peaceful sleep;
And the green blades will sprout faster,
Maybe because of the tears you shed.

Then sow;—for time is short,
And the seed must be sown today;
Don’t worry about who will reap it,
Or if you’ll be gone away
Before the swaying cornfields
Bring joy to the sunny day.

Sow; and look ahead, upward,
Where the starry light shines—
Where, despite the coward’s doubts,
Or your own heart’s shaking fears,
You will reap joy from the harvest
You’ve sown today in tears.

The storm is raging wildly,
The waves are shouting and crying out
Harsh replies to the furious sky,—
Have mercy, Lord.

Through the dark night and pouring rain,
A ship is struggling, all for nothing
To survive on the stormy sea;—
Have mercy, Lord.

The thunder rumbles, the lightning flashes,
It’s pointless now to struggle or take risks;
A cry rises up of deep despair,—
Have mercy, Lord.

The stormy voices of the main,
The moaning wind, and pouring rain
Pound on the nursery window pane:-
Miserere Domine.

Warm curtains framed the little bed,
Soft pillows cradled the little head;
“They said, ‘The storm will wake the child.’”
Have mercy, Lord.

Cowering among his white pillows
He prays, his blue eyes dull with fear,
“Father, save those at sea tonight!”
Miserere Domine.

The morning was bright and cheerful,
On a ship anchored in the bay,
And on a little child playing,—
Gloria tibi Domine!

Words are lighter than the foam
From the restless ocean spray;
More superficial than the fleeting shadow
That the next hour sweeps away.
With the drop of summer rain
The air is just as stirred;
And the rose petal we step on
Will outlast a word.

Yet, on the dull silence breaking
With a lightning flash, a Word,
Bearing endless desolation
On its blighting wings, I heard:
Earth can forge no sharper weapon,
Dealing certain death and pain,
And the cruel echo answered
Through long years again.

I have known one word that hangs like a star
Over a bleak stretch of years,
And it only shines brighter
When viewed through a haze of tears;
While a tired traveler collects
Hope and strength on Life’s dark path,
By its steady promise, shining
Brighter day by day.

I have known a spirit, calmer
Than the calmest lake, and clear
As the skies that looked down on it,
With no wave of hope or fear;
But a storm had passed through it,
And its deepest depths were shaken,
(Never, never more to rest,)
Only by a word.

I have known a word softer
Than the breath of summer air;
It found a home in a listening heart,
And it lived there forever.
Not the beating of its prison
Ever stirred it, night or day;
Only with the heart’s final pulse
Could it fade away.

Words are powerful, words are alive:
Like snakes with their poisonous bites,
Or shining angels surrounding us,
With heaven’s light on their wings:
Every word has its own spirit,
True or false, that never fades;
Every word that people have spoken
Echoes in God’s skies.

Do you not grieve that you have no expensive gift
To offer to the lady?
There is one, and gifts less valuable
Have been accepted even by queens.

Take a heart of pure silver,
Shape it with strong strikes,
Melt it in love's blazing furnace
When it shines brightest.

With Pain’s sharpest point, pierce it,
And then carve in pretty letters,
Gentle dreams and unique ideas,
Delightful thoughts and rare.

Set within it Hope’s blue sapphire,
Many-changing opal fears,
Blood-red ruby stones of daring,
Mixed with pearly tears.

And when you have worked hard
Until the gift is all ready,
You can humbly place your offering
At the Lady's feet.

Should her mood happen to be kind—
With a smug, condescending smile,
She will set it with the trinkets
Shining brightly by her side.

I am tired and very worn out,
But I'm on my way to meet a friend:
The journey is long and dull,
But I know it will soon come to an end.

He’s moving quickly like a whirlwind,
And even though I’m going slowly,
We’re getting closer, closer,
And the journey is almost over.

Through the heat of many summers,
Through many springtime rains,
Through long autumns and tiring winters,
I have hoped to meet him, but it’s all been in vain.

I trust that he won’t let me down,
So I listen for each hour’s ring,
Every beat of my own heart,
That marks the passage of Time.

On the day I was born, he promised me with his royal word:-
I've seen him in dreams so many times,
That I can picture what his smile must look like.

I have worked my way through the sunny woods,
Through fields that soaked up the sunlight;
And along the quiet trails in the forest
I moved in the dead of night.

I won’t be afraid when he arrives,
Even if I have to face him by myself;
He will gaze into my eyes kindly,
And hold my hand in his own.

Like a dream, all my hard work will disappear,
When I lay my head on his chest—
But the journey is so tiring,
And only he can give me peace!

You’ve retracted the promise
That you made so long ago;
Taken back the heart you gave me—
I have to let it go.
Where Love once lived, Pride dies:
So I fought, but it was useless,
First to keep the connections intact,
Then to fix the broken chain.

But it might not be—so openly
All your friendship I give back,
And the heart that I had taken
As my own forever.
No hint of blame shall affect you,
Fear no longer a demand from me—
But I won't let you believe
That I consider myself free.

I’m stuck by an old promise;
What can break that golden chain?
Not even the words you’ve said,
Or the intensity of my pain:
Do you think, just because you let me down
And pull back your hand today,
That from the heart I gave you
My deep love can just fade away?

It will endure. No eyes may see it;
In my soul, it will lie deep,
Hidden from everyone; but I will feel it
Often stirring in its sleep.
So remember, the friendship
That you now consider worthless and foolish,
Will survive in hope and patience,
Until you reach out for it again.

Maybe in some long, fading hour,
Like ones we've experienced before,
When memories start to surround you,
And your current friends feel distant,
You might reach out your hands to me,—
Ah! you will—I just don’t know when—
I will cherish my love and hold onto it
Loyalty, for you, until that time.

What do the valleys and mountains lack
That used to be green and cheerful?
What do the babbling fountains lack?
Their voice is sad today.
Only the sound of a voice,
Tender, sweet, and soft,
That made the earth rejoice,
A year ago!

What do the delicate flowers miss?
A shadow is cast on the sun:
What do the joyful hours lack,
That makes me wish they were over?
Just two smiling eyes,
That spoke of happiness and cheer:
They're shining up in the sky,
I mourn down here!

What does my heart need that makes it
So tired and full of hurt,
That even Hope, trembling, leaves it,
Never to return again?
Only another heart,
Tender and completely my own,
In the quiet grave it lies;
I weep alone!

My life, you ask about? Well, you know
It's not a long story;
There hasn’t been much joy or sorrow,
Since I’m only twelve years old.
I hope soon I’ll have gone
On my first adventure and seen amazing things.
Maybe I’ll help rescue a princess
From pirates on a distant ocean;
Or be stranded on a deserted island,
All alone, without friends or crew.

For the first time, I set out,
From our blue mountains up north.
My relative lived in the lodge that stood
Guarding the entrance by the woods,
Near the old, grey stone gateway,
With quirky designs carved around,
And broken shields, while fierce dragons
Gazed at the world outside;
And the long, trembling ivy branches
Partially hid the decay of centuries.
In grand solitude and silence,
The castle rose above the land:
The castle of the Earl, whose name
(Shrouded in bloody legends) came
Down through the ages when Truth and Right
Bowed down to armed Pride and Might.
He owned the land far and wide;
And for several weeks every year,
(When the brown leaves were falling fast
And the long, lingering autumn passed,)
He would come down to hunt the deer,
With hounds and horses in splendid glory.
The story lasts all year long,
Filling the peasant’s winter evenings,
When he is gone and they remain
In the quiet loneliness of their hills.

I also yearned for that joyful night,
When, with torches blazing bright,
The gathered villagers would stand,
A patient, eager waiting crowd,
Until the signal shot through the air—
“They're coming!” and, slowing down, they arrived.
Outriders first, in grand display,
Trotted on their horses through the gate;
Then came the four horses, as black as night,
All adorned with blue and white trappings,
Passing through the crowd that parted wide,
The Earl and Countess side by side.
The serious Earl, with a formal smile
And shining eyes and regal pride,
Could never distract my childlike gaze
From the lovely presence by his side.
The lady’s soft, sad glance, her eyes,
(Like stars that sparkled in summer skies,)
Her pure white face so peacefully bent,
Sending gentle greetings all around,
Her expression always seemed to look
Where the blue past had closed once more
Over some blissful shipwrecked days,
With all their mix of love and pain:
She didn't even seem to notice
The little lord upon her knee.
And yet he looked like a fair angel,
With rosy cheeks and golden hair,
That fell on shoulders white as snow:
But the blue eyes that shone below
His halo of auburn curls,
Were not his mother’s, but the Earl’s.

I was scared of the Earl, so cold and serious,
I never dared to let him see me.
When he rode through our gate,
My relative Walter told me to hide;
He said the Earl was so harsh.
So, when the hunt came through our area,
I always rushed to obey,
Until I heard the bugles sound
Their notes of return.
But her—my heart stirs
Every time I speak or think of her—
The entire world could never find
A noble lady like her,
So full of kindness and compassion.

Strange things about her were shared by our neighbors
On those long, cold winter evenings,
Around the fire. They would gather close
And speak in hushed tones, as if afraid;
As if they thought the Earl could hear
Their betrayal against his name.
They believed the tale that his pride
Had lowered itself to marry a woman of low status,
A blemish on his reputation.
Some said it was a lie; there couldn’t be
Such a stain on his nobility:
But others insisted they had heard
The exact story word for word,
From someone who knew my lady well,
And had said the story was true.