SHELLS

MILWAUKEE: HAUSER & STOREY. 1873.

Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1873 by
ELLA WHEELER,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress in Washington.

TO THE PEOPLE OF WISCONSIN,
From whom I have
Received so many words of praise and encouragement;
To whom I am
Indebted for so many expressions of appreciation,
Making my enjoyable work
Even more enjoyable,
My happy life happier,
This volume is gratefully dedicated
BY THE AUTHOR.

By the tides of thought, these "Shells" were brought to the shores of my imagination, and I picked them up in my free time. If they bring you a few hours of enjoyment, it will add to the pleasure I felt while creating this collection.
ELLA WHEELER.

Our Lives
The Messenger
Idle
Ye Agents
Warned
Life
Stars
Fading
Haunted
Ghosts
Tim's Story
Memory's Garden
Mysteries
What the Winds Told Me
Sometimes
Blind Sorrow
"Be Not Weary"
To Those Who Never Pray
Hung
Compassion
Fame
Her Mother's Beautiful Eyes
Old Times
This World
Going Away
Good-Bye
Jamie
A Mother's Reverie
The Two Glasses
Twilight Thoughts
Only a Kiss
When I Am Dead
Don't Talk When You've Nothing to Say
The Frost Fairy
Florabelle
The Doomed City's Prayer
One Woman's Plea
Decoration Poem
A Baby in the House
Poem
The People's Favorite
Dream Time
Lines Written on the Death of James Buell
Under the Willow
Doubting
At Sunset
A Twilight Thought
True Warriors
One of These
A Fancy
Tired
Never
True Love
His Song
When You Go Away
Bleak Weather
The Tale the Robin Told
A Memory
Waiting
Drifting Apart
Once More Together
Once in a While
Beauty
A Plea for Fame
Somewhere
Our Angel
A Summer Idyl
The Musicians
In Vain
Baby Eva
I Shall Not Forget
The Old and the New
Decoration Poem
At Set of Sun
Love Song
Display
At the Window
How
By and By
King and Siren
After?
If You Had Been True
Afloat
Roses and Lillies
In Heaven With You
Thou Dost Not Know
A Golden Year
Foreshadowed
Fortune's Wheel
Searching
Daft
Trust
The Common Link
Buried To-day
When I Die
The Unseen Thorn
Father and Child
Under the Moon
Singers
Take My Hand
Disinterred
A Lawyer's Romance
A Summer Day
Song and Maid
Asleep
Two Counts
The Watcher
Life and Death
An Autumn Reverie
Two Lives
In Memoriam
My Love
The Frost Fairy
The Summons
Three Years Old
The Difference
Love's Extravagance
You Will Forget Me

END.

Our lives are like songs. God writes the lyrics,
  And we create the music as we like;
And the song becomes joyful, sweet, or sorrowful,
  Depending on how we shape the tune.

We have to create the music, no matter the song,
  No matter its rhyme or rhythm;
And if it’s sad, we can turn it into something happy.
  Or if it’s sweet, we can make it even sweeter.

One has a song that feels free and powerful;
  But the music he creates is somber;
And the mournful, mournful tune is filled with sorrow,
  And the singer turns into a complainer.

And he thinks God gave him a mournful tune.
But he doesn’t realize the words are bright;
And the song feels lonely and serious—only
Because the music is heavy.

And the song of someone else carries, through the words
  An undertone of sadness;
But he turns it into music with bright chords,
  And transforms it into a celebration of joy.

So, whether our songs are happy or not,
  We can bring more joy to the world.
And improve ourselves by matching the words
  To a cheerful, uplifting rhythm.

She got up in the early morning,
  Dressed in white, and quietly moved
Around the house: Four men had left
  To fight for the land they cherished:
And she, the mother and the wife,
Was waiting for news from the conflict.
How quiet the house felt; and her steps
Sounded like the footsteps of the dead.

The long day went by. The dark night arrived.
She hadn’t seen another person.
A voice suddenly called out her name.
It echoed loudly in that place
Where, day after day, no sound was heard
Except for her own footsteps. “Is there news,”
She shouted, to someone she couldn’t see—
“News from the battlefield for me?”
A soldier walked in through the door,
And stood in the dim glow of the firelight.

"I have news about the four"
He said, "Who left you for the battle."
"God bless you, friend!" she exclaimed, "keep talking!"
"I can handle it. Is one gone?"
"Yes! one is gone!" he replied, "Which one?"
"Dear lady--he, your oldest son."

A deathly pallor spread across
  her withered face: she didn’t cry.
She said, "It’s a terrible loss,
  But God gives his loved ones rest.
What about the living—about the three,
And when can they return to me?"
The soldier turned his head away,
"Lady, your husband is also dead."

She placed her hand on her forehead.
A sudden, intense pain shot through her eyes,
"My husband? Oh God, help me now."
The soldier tensed at her sighs.
The task was more difficult than he expected.
"Your youngest son, dear madam, fought
Right by his father's side: both fell
Dead from the explosion of a shell."

She moved her lips and seemed to moan.
Her face had turned ashen grey--
"Then there's just one left for me--one only,"
She said, "out of the four who went away.
Oh, All-powerful, All-knowing God,
How can I bear to go through this!"
The soldier walked across the room.
Paused at the window, at the door--

Wiped the cold dew drops from his cheek
  And went back to the mourner's side.
"Once more, dear lady, I need to speak.
  Your last remaining son was killed
Right at the end of the battle,
It was him who sent me here tonight."
"God knows," the man said afterward,
"The battle itself wasn't as tough."

1871

I sit in the dim twilight,
  At the end of a lazy day,
And listen to the sweet, soft hymn
  That rises from far away
    And fades into the evening air.
  Oh, all day long they sing their song
    Who work in the valley there.

But I never sing a song,
  Sitting with my hands folded.
The hours just slip away,
  Dropping their golden sands.
    And I listen from day to day
  To the tick, tick, tock of the old brown clock
    Ticking my life away.

And I watch the sunlight disappear,
  And I see the night arrive;
And then, in the darkness and shadows,
  I cry for the day that's passed.
    Cry, and mourn, in sorrow,
  For the wasted day that has slipped away
    And won't return.

Another morning shines,
  But I forget the last,
And sit in my idle thoughts
  Till the day is done.
    Oh, the worker's heart is happy
  When the day is over and night arrives,
    But mine is heavy and sad.

For I don’t dare look back:
  No shining, golden harvests
Can I ever hope to find—
  Nothing but dried-up leaves.
    Ah! dreams are really sweet!
  But will it matter if these
    Are all I lay at the Master’s feet?

And what will the Master say,
  To dreams and nothing more?
Oh, you who waste all day!
  Think, before your life is done!
    And when the day gets late,
  Oh, soul of sin, will He let you in
    There at the pearly gate?

Oh, lazy heart, be cautious!
  On, to the battlefield!
On to that valley,
  And live a meaningful life.
    Come on! Don't wait another day,
  For the old brown clock, with its tick, tick, tock,
    Is counting down your life.

1869

These agents! These agents!
We hear that dreaded step again,
We see a stranger at the door;
And prepare ourselves for battle once more.
He bows and smiles. "Come in," we say,

He smiles again. "I'm here today.
Dear Madam, I have an amazing invention;
And Sir, please give me your attention;
Now look, you see, this is something new.
And just the thing, my friends, for you."

In vain we interrupt and say:
"We won't buy from you today."
"But, ma'am, sir, you haven't seen
The wonders of this new machine;
When set up like this, your old one,
'S obviously nowhere to be done."
"No doubt," I say; "It's really great,
And definitely better than my state."
This gives him confidence. Off he goes,
And every line just smoothly flows,
Until his pitch is repeated
To "guaranteed if properly treated."

"Yes, it’s new, nice, and impressive," we say,
"But we’re not buying today."
"But, ma'am, sir, please listen to reason,
It'll sell itself in no time;
You know it’s sure to go."
"Oh, of course, we see, we understand.
But still, we don’t want to buy."
He turns and leaves with a sigh.
And while we rush to our work
He moves on to bother our neighbor.

But look! another one comes along,
Before the last one is even gone.
One day a reaper, the next a mower,
And then a fanning mill, and sower;
Machines of all kinds under the sun,
Each one better than the last one;
A rocker for each dining chair,
A brace to hold the broom in the air,
A new book out, and you have to buy
Or give a good reason why not.

So, if we sometimes turn away
Suddenly, gentlemen, you need to remember,
That we’ve heard your story every day
From early Spring to late December.
Honestly! if we listened to all of you,
And paid you the attention you want,
I think before long each one would say,
The "county house" is the best idea.

1869

They stood at the garden gate.
By lifting a lid
She might have seen her future
in a small action he took.

He picked a beautiful flower,
  Pulled it away from its spot
On the side of the blooming garden,
  And held it up to his face.

Drank in its beauty and bloom,
  In the midst of his idle chatter;
Then tossed it down to the gloom
  And dust of the garden path.

Yeah, he stepped on it,
  As it was lying in his way;
Then kicked it aside with his boot,
  Because it had lost its beauty.

Ah! the young woman might have read
  The fate of her young life then;
But she looked into his eyes instead,
  And thought of him as the greatest man.

She looked into his eyes and blushed,
She tucked herself into the embrace of his strong arms;
And the story of the flower, crushed
And rejected, was told once again.

A baby crying out in unknown fear;
  A shadow, maybe, in the still room,
Or the buzz of an insect buzzing close,
  Or the owl's screech, in the dark outside.

A little kid on the sunlit floor,
  A broken toy, and a tear-streaked face,
A young life troubled, a young heart aching;
  And the big clock, time, keeps ticking away.

A girl crying in deep pain,
  Two pale hands pressed against a hurting forehead.
A ruined faith and a cherished hope lost,
  A shattered trust and a broken promise.

A woman holding a baby's shoe,
  The warm tears accumulate and fall freely
On the twisted ribbon of white and blue,
  For the foot that once wore it is cold and still.

An old woman on her bed,
  Tired, worn out, and broke,
Hoping to find peace with the happy dead.
  And that’s how the story of life unfolds.

Where is the time of carefree joy?
  Where is the moment that feels pain-free?
Life comes with its burdens from childhood
  All the way to the grave; and its dreams are futile.

1870

Astronomers might look up at the sky,
  Finding amazing things, maybe even real!
That stars are planets, and filled with life like ours,
  But I won't ever believe what these guys believe.

I will believe those little shining things,
  Made from heavenly metal, and filled with light.
And to the sky above, so beautifully blue,
  An angel comes and nails them up every night.

And I've seen him. You'd probably think
  A white cloud drifting across the blue sky.
But as I watched that fluffy thing, it was
  An angel putting up the stars I recognized.

And all night long they shine for us down here;
Shine with a soft glow until the powerful sun
Rises again. And then the angel arrives,
And collects his treasures, one by one.

How wonderful the task! Oh, when this life is over,
  And I have joined the group of angels above,
Of all that crowd, oh may it be my fate.
  To hang the stars in the evening sky.

1868

She sits by the window. Everyone who passes
  Turns to take another look at her lovely face.
She's so beautiful; but soon, all too soon, sadly,
  She'll lie down in her final resting place.

No gems shine brighter than her sparkling eyes.
Her forehead like polished marble, fair and smooth—
Her cheeks as radiant as the sunset skies—
You would never guess that death was waiting there.

But, oh! he stays right by her side.
  And when the forest wears its Autumn colors,
We know that he will take her as his bride,
  And the world will have one less beautiful spirit.

She sees the meadow dressed in lush green--
  The sparkling stream--the willows bending over.
With tear-filled eyes she takes in each wooded view,
  And thinks the earth has never been this beautiful before.

We don't long for Heaven until we've experienced,
  Some sorrow, some grief and heartache,
And her life has passed like a summer day.
  So, can we be surprised that she hesitates to leave?

She has no friends in Heaven: they’re all here.
No one she’s lost is waiting for her in that unknown place,
And life becomes even sweeter and more precious,
As each day she gets closer to that mystical shore.

We love her and we're sad to see her go.
But it's Christ who invites her to His embrace,
And He will welcome her, and she will soon realize
the joys of souls that live among the blessed.

1869

"We walk along the beach, you and I,
  Just the two of us," you say. But there are three;
A tall and strong figure is walking nearby,
  And as I walk, he walks with me.

Your shadow? No, because shadows don’t talk,
  And he’s speaking, softly and gently,
Words that make me blush bright red,
  You can’t hear it, the sea is too loud.

But it’s weird you can’t see him there,
  My love with the wide and snowy forehead.
You’ve never seen a face so beautifully fair.
  I’ll step aside—can you see him now?

No! You're joking, or maybe your vision is fading;
  You know blue eyes aren't very strong;
This summer sun and wind are a bad mix,
  You shouldn't be walking here where the sea winds blow.

Ah, the one who walks next to me has eyes
That neither sun nor wind can dull their sharp gaze,
You've seen the thundercloud in turbulent skies--
Well, his eyes are like that, filled with purple light.

Dead! What a silly thing for you to say,
  When I can see him walking next to me;
Just like we walked a year ago today,
  When I first promised him I'd be his bride.

Go, leave us. We'd rather be alone.
Your words are chaotic today. Go, let me be
with him for a while. And when an hour has passed,
I'll catch up with you. But right now, he’s waiting for me.

There are ghosts in the room,
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners they
    Come out of the shadows
And they stand by my side, and they lean on my chair.

There's a flicker of hope
That brightened my days with a whimsical shine.
    In her hand is the rope
That took her life away. Hope was killed long ago.

But her ghost comes tonight,
With its bony face and blank eyes,
    And it stands in the light,
And mocks me, and jeers at me with sobs and sighs.

There's a ghost of joy,
A weak, delicate thing, and I valued it too highly,
    And the hands that ruin
Held it tight, and it faded under the withering touch.

There's a ghost of a love,
Born in joy, raised with hope, died in pain and turmoil,
    But he stands above
All the others—this ghost: still a ghost at best.

I am tired, and I would gladly
Forget all these dead: but the chattering crowd
    Makes the struggle pointless,
In every shadowy corner, there's a ghost lurking.

1869

I was out walking on a beautiful summer day,
When I ran into three close friends who were wandering,
And we happened to pass a pub on our way.

"Alright, guys," I said, stopping them all with a wink,
"If you head around the corner, I’ll buy you a drink;
What do you say, my friends? Now, what do you think?"

So, we barged into the bar in a hurry,
And I rushed up to the bartender:
"Four beers, and none of your cheap stuff,
But the best and foamiest money can buy,"
That was my order, with all the confidence of royalty;
And the bartender hurried off, like a bird in flight.

Just then, an old drunk stumbled in from the street,
A cheerful old guy, with a nose like a beet.
And he said, "Now, my friends, I’ll join in on that treat."

But I said to my friends, "Hey guys, look over there!
Do you think that kind of nose will be ours?"
The drunk guy said, "Keep drinking, guys, and you'll have
A nose like mine, unless I'm wrong."
"Well," said Ned, "it looks like a sign of trouble."
Tom said, "It's the same color as Sally Ann's dress."

Said Billy, "It looks like the sun's red bed,
And shines like the top of my grandpa's head."
Said I, "I think it's ready to be bled."

"Now thanks, my guys," said the old drunk with a bow,
"But drink up your beer, it’ll soon show you how
Red noses are made shiny and polished, I promise."

I turned to my friends: "Now, guys, check this out!
I wouldn't, I swear, for a hundred thousand a year,
Want my nose to look like that one over there!"

"Me neither, sir!" "Me neither, sir!" "Me neither!" shouted each friend;
Then I said, "Goodbye to all beer, ale, and rum,
And cheers for cold water! My guys, will you join me?"

"We're all set and ready to go," said Tom, Bill, and Ned.
"Let's make a pledge, guys, and sign it," I said—
And so at the next meeting, four names were read
In the Temperance column. And if you're in this area, and you spot a good-looking guy,
You might recognize him as one of my friends, or me.

Through lectures and sermons, some people are persuaded,
But as you can see, it's different for us: it was done
By the cheerful old drunk, with a nose like the sun!

1870

Back on its shiny hinges
  The gate of Memory swings,
And my heart goes into the garden
  And strolls with the familiar things.
The old joys and pleasures,
  The loves it once knew,
It meets them there in the garden.
  And they wander to and fro.

It hears a burst of laughter,
  It sees a beautiful face.
It thrills with a wild, strange excitement
  At the gaze of a dark eye nearby;
It wanders under the sunset
  In the middle of a cheerful crowd,
And pulses in a rhythmic way,
  To the snippet of a drifting song.

It hears a melody
 Rise in the dreamy air,
A melody that’s never played,
 Except in that garden there.
It flows among the roses,
 And tingles at a long-lost kiss,
And shines at the touch of fingers,
 In a quiver of silly bliss.

But not everything is perfect in the garden,
  There’s a deep, painful sigh;
There are tear drops, bitter and burning,
  And the roses have been ravaged by the storm.
So I close the gate of the garden.
  And walk along the paths of today.
For its peaceful ways are better
  Than the hurt of those long-gone days!

In God's immense wisdom, infinite and grand--
  Too vast, too infinite, for a human mind--
There are some things I just can't understand.
  In all His paths, in all His ways, I find
Some subtle mysteries of life and death--
  Some wonders that I can't comprehend,
Nor can I hope to know them until the end,
  When everything will be made clear, above--beneath.

There are so many of His righteous deeds--
  So much is clear to me,
I don't have time to wonder--have no reason
  To question why or how. Overall
My mortal eyes see that His works are good.
  Whatever else seems strange, dark, or unclear,
I’m okay with leaving that to my faith in Him,
  And in His time, it will all make sense.

These complicated paths where so many people get lost--
  These waters, where some boats drift away from the shore,
But bring me closer to the Heavenly Host,
  But make me love and worship God even more.
There’s enough that I can see and know--
  There’s enough that I can understand,
And someday Christ will take me by the hand.
  Explaining all that seems so strange down here.

1870

The winds blow from the West,
  Soft and gentle,
"What news do you bring?"
  I asked in a daze.
They sang a sweet song,
  And replied cheerfully--
"Your loved one's journey is good!
  The sun is shining bright."

The winds blew in from the West,
 howling and moaning.
"What news do you bring, oh wind?"
 My heart cried, lamenting.
They replied, loud and fierce,
 "When danger is close—
And death is lurking nearby,
 Your loved one is walking."

The winds blew in from the West,
  Came crying and wailing.
"Oh, tell me, tell me, winds!"
  My heart pleaded, failing.
"Where no one is close to comfort,"
  They replied with a sigh,
"In loneliness and pain,
  Your love is fading!"

The winds blew in from the West!
  Came sadly crying.
And with a deep dread,
  My heart was racing.
I frantically asked them
  Through my tears,
"All calm and pale," they replied,
  "Your love is resting."

1870

Sometimes when I'm all alone,
  Far from noise and chaos,
The many faults and weaknesses,
  That dominate my daily life
Seem to fade away. And as I sit
  Away from the world,
All that is good and pure takes
  Control of my heart.

And then my soul looks up to heaven.
  And I connect with God.
I want to walk the narrow path
  That Christ walked before me.
I want to see his beautiful face—
  To go where angels go,
To leave behind the temporary, fading things
  That make up life down here.

My soul fills with joy,
  My heart becomes bold and strong,
To face whatever comes my way—
  To fight against the wrong.
No sadness can scare my soul,
  No worldly troubles, I fear,
While in that sacred moment I sit
  And sense that God is near.

And then I mix with the world,
  And stumble day by day.
Until finally, I walk in
  The old, sinful path.
Oh, will I ever grow in grace,
  Oh, will I ever be, Ready to face judgment day—
  Fit for eternity?

1869

One painful time of grief, I remember,
  When day and night, my sorrowful heart would complain,
I said my life felt like a cold, bleak December,
  And all its joys were just a disguise for pain.

Nothing could lift me from my deep sadness,
  Since you weren't around, I wouldn't smile.
And from a dozen joys, I refused to borrow
  Even a single ray of light to brighten the weary while.

But all the blessings God has given, ignoring,
I cried because we were so far apart,
And wasted my time in lazy, pointless mourning,
That only kept the pain alive in my heart--

God help me! I realize now we were closer.
  With all these miles in between—
That life was better, and the future more precious.
  Than when I met you today, in person!

God intended to break it to me softly—relieve my suffering,
  But I fought against it and complained about His plan.
Now, recognizing His vast wisdom, even though I suffer,
  In deep pain, I still trust His mercy.

Sometimes, when I'm worn out and tired,
  All exhausted from working hard and long,
And the world feels dark, with gloomy skies above,
  And my heart and soul are too sick to explain,
These words come to me, like gentle touches,
  Gently closing my spirit's eyelids in rest.
"Oh, let's not get tired of doing good,
  Because in time, we will definitely reap the rewards."

Oh, blessed promise! When I feel it,
  Whispered by angel voices in the air,
It brings new life and courage to my spirit,
  And gives me strength to endure and hold on.
And I can wait patiently for the harvest,
  And plant my seeds, never losing hope or crying,
If I know for sure that my efforts matter,
  And in God's time, I will finally reap.

When my mind and body feel completely worn out
  And I think all my efforts are useless,
These words come to me, so softly, sweetly,
  And bring me hope, pushing me to keep going.
And even though my work seems pointless,
  And all my struggles feel fruitless, the Lord
Keeps track of every little seed I sow,
  And someday, someday, I will reap the rewards.

1870

O! you who never kneel,
  And never raise your heart,
How do you get through the years,
  And living, play your role.

How do you get up in the morning,
  And go through the whole day,
Without the Savior by your side
  To guide and support you?

How do you deal with the everyday troubles
  That test your patience so!
That stress your heart and drain your spirit
  More than some greater sorrow.

How do you close your eyes and sleep,
  And how do you carry your burdens;
(Everyone has a burden, whether small or large)
  Without the support of prayer?

How do you face the massive sorrows,
That rush into your soul,
Drowning it in bitterness.
Like raging waters flow?

How do you even live at all, is one
  Deep mystery to me.
Oh, you who never lift your heart
  And never bend your knee.

1870

Nine o'clock, and the sun shines bright and warm,
As if it were a celebration. I wish it would storm:
    Hoping the thunder would roar,
    And the red lightning strike,
And wrap the dark clouds with its snake-like tongue—
The day is too calm for a man to be hanged.
    Hanged! Ugh, what a word!
The most cruel, and awful, sound anyone has ever heard.

He has killed, stolen, and robbed, so "they say,"
Been a menace to the country for a long time.
    He was reckless and untamed;
    Man, woman, or child
Showed no mercy, no compassion if they crossed his path.
He was worse than a wild animal in his fury.
    And yet—to be hanged,
    Oh, my God! to be swung
By the neck back and forth for the crowd to see—
    The thought makes me sick.

Thirty minutes after nine. How quickly time flies,
But there's still half an hour left; he'll be dead by ten.
    Dead? No! he'll be killed!
     Because God never meant
    For people to die like this.
"Vengeance is mine," He says, "I will take care of it."
    Yet what can be done,
    With this wild, lawless man!
No prison can contain him, and so—he has to be hanged,
    It's a terrible thing.

Outcast, Desperado, Fiend, Knave; all of these
And more. But call him whatever you want
    I can't forget,
    He's still a mortal man:
That he was once a baby, gently lulled to sleep,
And held, and cuddled, against a woman's warm chest.
    Was sung to, and rocked,
    And when he first walked
With his tiny little feet, he was doted on, and told
He was "mama's little treasure, worth his weight in gold."
     And this is the outcome
Of a God-given life. Just think about it, friend!

Listen! Do you hear that bell? It’s the clock striking ten.
The heavy weight falls down, making a sound like “amen.”
Does murder justify murder? Do two wrongs make a right?
    Oh, that horrible sight!
I’m locked in my room, hiding my face;
But the terrifying scene has followed me here.
    I see that strange thing,
    Like a clock pendulum swinging
Back and forth in the air, back and forth.
    Just a moment ago
It was a man, made in God’s image! Now, hide it, kind grave!
What a terrible end to the life that God gave.

1871

There’s a picture I sometimes see,
  Of Jesus, with a child on his chest.
And other kids gathered at his knee—
  The little lambs of God that he blessed.
And this one—lying in the Savior's arms
  Looks up and smiles at that holy face,
And knowing he’s safe from all harm
  He drifts off to sleep in that secure place.

To-night I am so tired, both in heart and soul.
  So exhausted, feeling a thousand unnameable pains.
My spirit deeply longs for its purpose
  And every part of my being is filled with a powerful desire.
"Oh, to be that child--
  To rest against my Saviour's chest." I cry,
"And gazing at that face so gentle and calm.
  Forget my tears, and peacefully drift off to sleep."

It isn't always the case: sometimes the earth
  And earthly friends can fill my heart.
But now—tonight—I sense their shallow value,
  And I feel, Oh Christ my Savior, that You are
And You alone, the only true friend
  Who knows all my sins, and sees me
Just as I am, will have pity until the end
  And in compassion, judge me gently.

I feel so weak and sinful—every day
  The sins and shortcomings I strongly criticize,
And despise in others—I immediately
  Go out and wickedly indulge in them.
But Christ, who once lived in human form
  And walked the earth, will understand.
And with a love and compassion so profound,
  Will grant me a pardon with His own hand.

1869

If I should die today.
Tomorrow, maybe, the world would notice—
It would wake up and say,
"Here was talent! Here was worth!
Here was a shining light on earth.
A soul as free
As the winds of the sea:
To whom was given
A gift from heaven.
And fame, and name, and glory belong
To this dead singer of living songs.
Bring a wreath for the bride of death!"
And so they would praise me, and so they would elevate me
Perhaps, a pedestal, high above the bed
Where I would be lying, all cold and dead.

But I’m a living poet!
Walking in the sunlight of God,
Not lying asleep, where the worms creep,
And the cold world won’t acknowledge it,
Even when it sees that my song should please;
But it sneers and says: "Go away with your songs!
Don’t sing them, and don’t bring them
Into this noisy, chaotic life.
We have no time for a catchy rhyme,
In this scene of rushing, stressing strife."
And so, I say, there’s only one way
To earn me a name and bring me fame.
And that’s to die and be buried low,
When the world would praise me, for just an hour or so.

1870

I met a young girl on the street;
    I was just a stranger to her.
  But the look in her brown eyes, shy and sweet,
    Made me daydream about the good old days.
      Ah! she doesn’t know, but a long time ago
When life was as clear as June’s blue skies,
Her mother meant everything to me;
      And she
Has her mother’s beautiful eyes.

She lifted her eyelashes and let them drop;
    She raised them and let them fall as I walked by.
  An old, grizzled stranger, that’s all
    She saw, because she couldn’t know that I
      In the precious, precious past
      So sweet it couldn’t last
  Had found my Eden, my paradise.
  In her mother’s beautiful eyes.

I loved, and I was loved. But a careless joke was made, and everything changed. The hopes I had held onto were ruined and gone—my rival made his case and succeeded. And their child—oh, how lovely she is! I wonder if she's as good and wise, as sweet and kind, and as pure of heart as the one who passed down those beautiful eyes.

She walks just like her dad, and carries his demeanor.
    She has his forehead and his pale, dark cheek.
  And his wavy, tawny hair.
    And his mouth, which is partly sweet and partly weak.
      It’s all definitely true.
And "she’s just like her dad in every way,"
  I said when we ran into each other on the street that day,
    "And not like her mom at all."
  Then I gasped in surprise,
      (Though she didn’t notice)
For my rival's child looked up at me
  With her mom's beautiful eyes.

1871

Friend from my youth, let’s reminisce about the past;
About the long-lost golden moments.
When "Winter" only meant Christmas bells,
And "Summer" was all about flowers.
Life has aged and turned cold, my friend,
And winter now means death.
And summer blooms remind us all too clearly
Of the beloved, lost ones below.

But let's talk about the past tonight;
  And relive it all over again,
We'll leave the long years behind.
  And dream we’re as young as we were back then.
But you can't look at me, my friend,
  And I can't look at you,
Or the lines on our brows and gray hair
  Will show that our dream isn't real.

Let’s celebrate the summer, too lovely to endure.
  And yet too lovely to fade away.
Let’s share stories from the history book,
  And reminisce about the days that have passed.
We’ll turn away from the West, my friend,
  And ignore that we’re getting older.
The skies of today are dull and gray,
  But the skies of the past are blue and golden.

The sun has moved past the midday point
  And is setting in the West.
And of the friends we knew in the old days,
  Half of them have passed away.
And the few who are still around, my friend,
  Are spread out near and far.
But you and I will reminisce about the days
  Before anyone wandered off or died.

Auburn curls and hazel eyes—
  Blue eyes and golden hair.
Joyful breezes and blue skies,
  Belong to those days gone by.
Let’s leave the Present for a bit
  And drift on the Past's calm sea.
But I shouldn’t look at you, my friend,
  And you shouldn’t look at me.

1871

This world is a really sad place, I know;
  And what person alive can argue with that?
But that won’t ease the longing and pain,
  To keep singing about it.
So let’s get rid of the songs that are full of tears,
  And ditch the sad melodies.
Let’s make the most of our brief time,
  By singing the songs that lift us up.

The world isn’t always a sad place—
  There are sunny days.
And the people in it aren’t all terrible,
  But a mix of saints and sinners.
I believe those amazing hours in June,
  Are much better to remember,
Than the times when the world feels off-key
  In the cold, dreary winds of November.
Even though we encounter many selfish people
  In our daily lives, It doesn’t mean that this world of struggle
  Lacks anything good.
There is beauty and bloom all around,
  With buds and blooming flowers, There are honest souls and kind hearts—
  There are bright, golden hours.

In reflecting on a joy we've experienced,
  We easily make it twice as sweet.
Which is much better than sulking and complaining,
  About sorrow and pain and struggles.
For even though this world is tough, we know,
  (And who among us can deny it?)
It won’t ease the need or the pain,
  To keep always singing about it.

1872

Walking today in the park,
  I heard a stranger say
To a friend who was standing next to him,
  "Do you know I’m leaving?"
I had never seen their faces:
  I might never see them again,
But the words the stranger spoke,
  Filled me with a deep, indescribable sadness.

For I knew some heart would miss him,
  Would ache at his "goodbye,"
And the world would feel so empty,
  For many, many days.
No matter how happy I feel,
  No matter how light my heart is,
If I hear these two words spoken,
  The tears always start.

They seem so sad and serious,
So full of a lonely sound:
Like dead leaves rustling down,
And falling to the ground.
Oh, I feel for the bare branches,
When the skies are dull and gray,
And the last leaf whispers softly,
"Goodbye, I'm leaving now."

In the gloomy, wet Autumn,
  The wings of the flying birds
As they head southward,
  Always seem to say these words.
Wherever they’re spoken,
  They land with a sob and a sigh;
And heartaches follow those words,
  "I'm leaving--Goodbye."

Oh, God, in Your blessed kingdom
No one will ever say,
No ears will ever listen.
To the words "I'm leaving."
For no soul ever tires
Of the dear, bright, angel group,
And no saint ever strays,
From the sunny, golden land.

1872

He got up and stopped by her as he passed.
  They stood together for a moment in the doorway.
His dark eyes quickened her heartbeat
  Like never before;
How softly the night bird sang above
The dull brown heath. Oh, Life, Oh, Love!

He took her hand and said, "Goodbye."
  Then, happily singing, he crossed
The wet fields: he didn’t hear the cry
  That her heart sent out, nor realized her loss.
How bleak, wild, and desolate,
The wind blew down. Oh, Love, Oh, Fate!

The west suddenly burst into flames;
  Striped in spots with blue and gold.
She shook with chills she couldn’t explain.
  The air felt oddly harsh and cold.
How sharp the winds were, and how full
With wintry sounds. Oh, Love, Oh, Life!

She waited until she saw him walk
  Across the field, disappearing from view.
His shadow lay on the grass;
  The winds whispered about the night.
How high they spun the dried leaf;
How quickly it flew. Oh, Love, Oh, Grief.

She closed the door and turned away.
  Some task was waiting for her to do.
She closed another door, behind which was
  Her sweet, lost hope. You get it.
"And they will weep no more," says God,
"Nor experience pain." Oh, Life, Oh, Death.

In through the kitchen, the boys came marching in:
  Will, Sammy, Bob, and Fred,
And Johnny and Jamie, the twins, followed behind,
Filling the rafters with their laughter.
  Oh, how I regretted what I said!
I looked at the floor I had just cleaned,
  And saw the mess the twelve pairs of feet made;
And I sighed and frowned at the six bright flowers,
  And frowning, I voiced my thoughts.

"Oh, was there ever a more tired woman!
  I've only been married twelve years.
But I've never had a moment of peace or quiet.
Six noisy boys, with their chaos and energy,
  Are wearing me out," I said.
"Six wild boys to raise and work for,
  To clothe and feed—it’s tough at best;
There’s no end to my exhausting work,
  There’s no time for rest."

The darkness settled around my small cottage,
  I leaned over the little bed, crying,
My tears fell uselessly on the tiny face;
In the faint distance, I heard a voice calling—
  "Come to me," it said.
And down through the starlight, an angel came,
  And stood by my Jamie's little bedside.
"Come! There’s space with the angels," she whispered,
  "Heaven is beautiful and vast."

"Beautiful are its meadows, and spacious are its homes,
And thousands of kids are gathered there."
Pointless were the prayers I said, leaning over him,
She took him up to the heavens.
Woe for my heart's despair!
Oh, to take back the harsh words I said!
Oh, for his laughter and noise today!
Oh, for the work his hands would make me!
Hands that have turned to dust.

Five strong boys march into my cottage,
  John, Will, Sammy, Bob, and Fred—
Five courageous boys who could make any mother proud.
But always, I miss the other,
  The dear boy who's gone.
I miss the sound of his happy laughter,
  Think about him and grieve for him day and night,
But the homes are vast, and the fields are beautiful
  Where my Jamie roams.

1872

The shadows fall over the brown fields,
  Where the snowdrifts were shining not long ago,
And the day closes her eyes, while the red western skies
  Prepare the rooms for the night.
How quiet the house feels! as the last warm rays
  Of the sun shine around.
There's no sound on the stairs—no voice anywhere,
  Saying, "Mom, the last job is finished!"

Can it be that I'm alone? Is there really no one
  Left of the eight who have called me that name?
Four boys and four girls, with their hair and curls,
  Four brave boys, four lovely girls, who came
To my home one by one, like lost rays from the sun,
  And where are they all now? I wonder;
Like birds from the nest, the kids in my arms
  Took off and have flown away.

There was John, my first child; as gentle and kind
  As the girl who grew up by his side, --
He was the first to arrive and the last to leave; but death took him away,
  It’s been two years today since he passed.
Hope, Mary, and Joe are all married now, and they
  Have moved into their own homes;
Mark is across the ocean, and Flora—shh! we
  Never talk about the one who has left us.

My dear Will, my handsome Will, fell at Champion Hill--
  My dark-eyed, my black-haired son;
There was someone beside him who fell too; and Kate died
  From mourning for Will--and that person!
Yet we try hard, my partner and I,
  To be happy and cheerful always.
God knows what’s best; but I think if we knew
  She was dead, it would feel better today.

1871

There were two glasses sitting full to the top,
On a wealthy man's table, edge to edge.
One was deep red, as red as blood,
And the other was clear like a crystal stream.

Said the glass of wine to its paler sibling,
"Let’s share stories of the past with each other;
I can talk about feasts, celebrations, and joy,
Where I was the center of attention, reigning supreme.
And the most noble and impressive souls on earth
Fell under my influence, as if cursed.
From the heads of kings, I have taken crowns,
From the heights of fame, I have brought men low;
I have ruined many a respected name,
I have stolen virtue and replaced it with shame;
I have lured the young with just a sip,
That has left their futures barren and empty.
I am far greater than any king,
Or any army beneath the sky.
I have weakened the strength of the driver,
And derailed the train from its iron track.
I have caused good ships to sink at sea,
And the cries of the lost were sweet to me;
For they said, 'Look, how mighty you are!
Fame, strength, wealth, genius, all fall before you,
And your power and influence overshadow all.'"
"Ha! Ha! pale sibling," the wine laughed,
"Can you claim to have achieved anything as great as I?"

Said the water glass, "I can't brag
About a king who lost his throne or a murdered crowd;
But I can share stories of hearts that were heavy,
That my crystal drops turned light and happy.
Of thirsts I've quenched, and foreheads I've cooled;
Of hands I've refreshed, and souls I've ruled.
I've flowed through valleys, rushed down mountains;
Rested in the sunshine, and dripped from fountains.
I've broken free from cloud chains, and fell from the sky,
And everywhere brightened the landscape and eye.
I've soothed the hot forehead of fever and pain,
I've made the dry fields rich and full of grain;
I can tell of the strong wheel of the mill,
That ground the flour and turned at my will;
I can tell of manhood brought low by you,
That I've lifted up and crowned anew.
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and assist,
I bring joy to the hearts of all who exist;
I set the captive of wine free,
And everyone is better for knowing me."

These are the stories they shared with one another,
The glass of wine, and its lighter counterpart,
As they sat together, overflowing,
On the wealthy man's table, full to the edge.

1872

The God of the day has disappeared
  The light from the hills has gone,
And the hand of an unseen artist,
  Is painting the West all red.
All mixed with gold and crimson,
  And glowing with amber hue,
And edged with purple shadows,
  The glory flames up high.

Fair, beautiful world of ours!
  Fair, beautiful world, but oh.
How darkened by pain and sorrow,
  How stained by sin and woe,
The splendor dims in the heavens
  And fades in a golden shine,
And alone in the quiet of twilight,
  I sit, in a patterned dream.

I think about the lost souls,
  In darkness as deep as night,
Of hands that are reaching out without sight
  Looking for the bright light;
Of hearts that are silently weeping,
  And wishing for just one ray,
To guide them out of the darkness,
  Into a better way.

I think about the Father’s kids
  Who are trying to go it alone,
Who have let go of the Parent's hand,
  And are wandering in unfamiliar ways.
Oh, the paths are tough and prickly,
  And I know they can’t hold on.
They will weaken and stumble along the way,
  Without guidance from God’s strong hand.

And I think about the souls that are longing
To follow what’s good and true;
That are trying to live clean,
Yet don’t know what to do.
And I wonder when God, the Master,
Will put an end to this tired struggle,
And guide us out of the darkness
Into the everlasting life.

1869

Once, when summer spread across the hilltops,
  And the sunshine fell like a golden flame,
Out from the city's dust and chaos
  A brave, handsome stranger arrived—
He came to rest in our simple cottage
  Until the winds of autumn blew again,
To stroll in the meadow and lie by the stream,
  And regain the strength that the city had taken.

I was young, with the naive heart of a girl
  Who had never been pursued, and the charming stranger
Awoke that heart from its idle daydreaming,
  And played the strings with a skilled hand.
I remember the rush and the first wild shiver,
  That stirred its depths with a lovely surprise,
When I glanced one day at the attractive stranger,
  And met the gaze of his deep, dark eyes.

My cheeks flushed with a revealing blush,
  And the knitting slipped from my weak hands;
He bent down, and as he handed it to me,
  He held my hand in a loving grip;
We didn’t say anything, but he knew my secret,
  He understood what was in my heart,
No pointless hiding was needed anymore
  To cover the shiver his voice would cause.

We strolled through the meadow and by the stream,
  My sun-kissed hand in his pale palm;
He said my blush could outrival the roses,
  And my heart felt still in a joyful peace.
He ran his fingers through my dark curls,
  And wrapped them around his fair finger;
My eyes' deep allure held a hint of danger,
  He said, because Cupid was hiding there.

And once he held me tight in his embrace,
  And pressed a loving kiss on my lips;
Oh! how I shake with shame and anger,
  Even now, as I remember this—
But in that moment, I thought that heaven
  Had suddenly opened up and welcomed me in,
And kissed passionately the lips so close to me,
  Never realizing I was tarnishing my soul with sin.

But one quiet evening, a letter arrived
  For the man who meant more to me than life itself--
"A picture," he said as he opened it,
  "Look, my dear friend, at my beautiful young wife."
A terrible pain, a raging anger,
  Filled my chest and drained the color from my face,
And he who stood there holding the letter,
  Watched me with a smile but didn’t say a word.

I took the picture and looked at it--
A sweet young thing with sunny hair
And blue eyes. "May the good Lord watch over you,"
I said out loud, "in His gentle care--
You who are married and tied forever
To this man," and I met his gaze--
"This heartless villain, this spineless coward,
Whose heart is filled with lies."

My heart was filled with a terrible hatred,
  And there was something dark burning inside me,
But a better feeling crept in behind it
  As I gazed at the sweet and beautiful picture;
I turned and walked away, never seeing him again—
  Never looking at his face again,
And time has eased my shame and sorrow,
  And calmed and quieted my pain.

But I always shake with terrible anger,
  That drains and troubles my fading life,
When I remember how he held me tight against his chest,
  He—with a legally married wife.
When I think about how I responded to his loving touches,
  And wrapped my arms around his neck in a blissful haze,
And the tears of a lifetime and all my pain
  Can never wash away the mark of his kiss.

1869

When I'm gone, if someone who has learned their lesson,
  Sees the "item," or hears someone say
That my performance is finished, and my role complete,
  And I’m resting in my small grave—
If I could know that someone would say,
  Whether out loud or quietly,
"In the struggle and strain of the day,
  She offered me a refreshing drink;"

Or, "when I was close to death,
  She helped me recover and regain my strength,
And when I was struggling to breathe,
  She calmed my pain;"
Or, "when I was lost in grief and uncertainty,
  Turned away from the light of day,
Her hand reached out to me and lifted me up,
  And guided me toward a better path."

Or, "when everyone hated and avoided me,
  Crushed by my guilt and my shame,
She, once, as she walked by, spoke
  Words of compassion and hope that touched
My heart, like a soothing peace
  Over the rough waters of a stormy sea,
Words of comfort like oil and ointment.
  She spoke, and the desert bloomed for me."

Better by far than a marble tomb—
  Than a monument towering above me;
(What will I care, in my quiet room,
  For a headboard or footboard when I'm gone)
Better than glory, or honors, or fame,
  (Though I am chasing those today)
To know that someone will cherish my name,
  And think of me kindly, with blessings always.

1870

It's great to be open in conversation,
  It's great to be able to chat
With a friend about something that matters—
  With a stranger about this or that.
Don't try to be distant or reserved,
  But I ask you to listen to reason,
And keep this wise saying in mind,
  "Don't talk when you have nothing to say."

A cheerful, fun friend or buddy,
  Who's always sharp and quick-witted,
Is so much better than a boring,
  And chatless bore.
But even at its best, talk is just silver,
  While silence is always golden.
So keep in mind, wherever you are,
  Don't speak when you have nothing to say.

I enjoy being around knowledgeable people
  Who know what to say, how and when.
And a bit of good nonsense and joking
  Is always welcome now and then.
But I fear the presence of a Magpie,
  Who moves from serious topics to light,
Who talks from morning till midnight,
  And always has nothing to say.

1871

All day the trees were sighing
  For the leaves they had lost,
All day they creaked and shook,
  And the bare branches swayed
And shivered in the north wind
  As it rushed around.
Over hilltops cold and dull,
  Over meadows empty and brown.

"Oh, my fresh and delicate leaves.
  Oh, my lovely buds, lost and gone!"
So, they sighed all through the day,
  So, they mourned until night fell.
And the frost hid and listened
  To the sorrowful, sad tune,
And it whispered, "wait—be patient—
  I will cover you again;

"I will dress you in new clothes--
  I will clothe you before dawn,
In a shine of immaculate beauty--
  In a robe of the cleanest white.
You will wear the unmatched cloak,
  That the kind Frost Fairy creates."
And the bare trees listened, amazed,
  And forgot their fallen leaves.

And the charming and quiet fairy,
  Back and forth, through the shadows,
Wove the unique, shining cloak,
  Spun the frost threads on her loom.
And the bare trees whispered to each other,
  Spoke in soft and low murmurs,
As the kind and quiet fairy
  Moved her shuttle back and forth.

And look! when the golden light
  Of the morning spread out,
All the trees were dressed in beauty,
  All the branches adorned and fitted
With unmatched, clean outfits,
  That the sunshine decorated with gems,
And the trees forgot their sadness,
  Under their outfits and crowns.

1871

Did you see Florabelle? Did she go by you this morning?
  A tall, slender young woman with hair like spun gold.
She did? Then please, dear sir, take my warning,
  It's just the same old story being told again:

Florabelle is a heartbreaker—a flirt—a deceiver.
  She goes after hearts with sweet words and charming smiles.
If you know what’s coming, you’re prepared; don’t trust or believe her,
  Ignore her sweet talk, and don’t fall for her tricks.

She has eyes like the center of a blue morning glory,
  She has lips like a rosebud just touched with dew,
 It's the same old tired story, the same miserable tale,
  A woman who is beautiful, yet completely untrue.

With her smooth, silky hair, all tangled and messy,
  With her rosy cheeks and full, red lips,
With her eyes shining brightly like the twinkling stars,
  She has broken as many strong hearts as the ocean has ships.

Those blue eyes are always on the lookout for someone new;
  She craves new adventures, and she has noticed you.
I'm warning you, my friend, your peace is at risk,
  Be careful, or the day you met her will bring you regret.

Don't get lost in her smiles for even a second, just walk away,
  Before you get caught up and realize it’s too late.
Florabelle is a heartbreaker—a flirt—a trickster,
  I’ve warned you! Now make your own choice!

1871

(After the Chicago Fire.)

I heard a soft sound, like a troubled soul praying:
And the winter night winds carried it to me.
It was the voice of the doomed city: "Oh, gentle snow," it was saying,
"Please come, cover my ruins, which are so dreadful to see,
I’m stripped of my beauty and robbed of my glory;
And the strength I once had—where is it today?
I’m low in the dust; my sad story
Makes tearless eyes weep and unholy lips pray.

"I—I, who have enjoyed wealth and influence,
  Am now on my knees, with my face in the dirt.
Just yesterday I was queen, with all the royal wealth,
  Today I'm grateful for just a bit of bread or some scraps.
Not long ago I ruled, a grand and powerful city,
  The pride of the country, the queen of the West;
Now I'm looked at, a figure of sympathy,
  A charity case, begging for help, at best."

"My strength, my pride, and my glory are gone,
  My beautiful features burned by the fire's breath,
Is it unusual that I'm heartbroken and full of sorrow?
  Is it strange that my thoughts dwell on ruin and death?
Oh, white, fluffy clouds hanging above me,
  Listen to my pleas and respond to my sighs,
And release the lovely snow, if you care for me,
  To hide my wounds from all compassionate eyes,

"I’ve been thrown from my throne, but I won’t stay down forever.
I will rise from the dust; I will overcome my troubles—
But my heart lies today, like a silent, frozen river;
When it will thaw and flow again, only God knows.
Oh, spirits of the air! I ask you to weave me
A cloak of white snow and lovely frost
To cover my unsightly ruins; then leave me
In the care of the healer of all wounds—'Old Time.'"

November 1871

Now may God be with the men who stand
In legislative halls today.
Those chosen leaders of our land—
May God be with them all, I say,
And may His wisdom guide and protect them,
For great is the trust we place in them.

Oh, men! who control a nation's destiny,
  There in the palm of your hand.
Every word you speak, whether soon or late,
  Will leave its mark on our land,--
Out from the halls of government,
  Will travel across the entire Nation.

Then may the Source of Truth and Light,
  Always be over you, always close.
And may He steer every word correctly;
  May no false teaching reach your ears,
No selfish love for money or group,
  Stop Justice's hand or influence any action.

And may no one among these men
  Lift the cursed glass to their lips,
Let no one speak the truth again,
  What has been said, sadly,
"Men drink in the halls of power—
  Why shouldn't we, who are less privileged?"

Oh, men! You see, you hear this monster,
  This villain that ravages the earth.
Whose work is death—whose constant feast,
  Is noble souls and worthy minds—
You see—and if you won’t restrain him,
  Or reach out even one hand to stop him.

For heaven's sake, don’t help him,
  Or push him forward. Oh, it feels so strange to me
That laws are created
  To punish all other crimes, while he
Who pushes through Hell’s wide openings
  The countless souls of people ruined by alcohol,

Is allowed to roam back and forth,
  In complete freedom across the land.
And those who should see and understand,
  Will raise no warning voice or hand.
Oh, men in the halls of legislation.
  Stand up and fight, save the Nation!

January 1871

Gather them from the valley—
Bring them from the moors and the hills,
And decorate with wreaths and garlands.
On the city so quiet and calm—
So silent, so quiet, and still;
Where neighbors never talk to each other,
Where you can hear the song of the bird and the buzz of the bee,
But never the harsh noises of work.

Bring them from the woods and fields—
  As fresh and beautiful as can be.
Bring them, all types and all colors.
  That grow on the hills and meadows—
  That spring up with wild grace on the grass.
And gather from the earth's warm embrace
  Every flower, and blow, until "God's acre" shines
And blooms, like a garden in full flower.

Bring them from the vase and from the greenhouse,
  And scatter them with generous hands.
There is nothing too precious for the soldier,
  Who sacrificed his life for his country—
  Who gave up everything for his country;
And turned to the duty ahead of him,
  And how can we now show our gratitude and love
But by throwing these May blossoms over him.

We know they will soon fade and wither—
  We know they will soon droop and die;
But one time, I read about an angel
  Who came down from the heavens above—
  In the night, from God's kingdom above—
He came down where a poor, faded flower
  Lay crushed by careless feet, in the dirt of the street,
And he carried it up to God's garden;

And placed it before the Good Master,
  Who kissed it and handed it to Christ,
Sitting on the throne beside Him; and He kissed it,
  And the warmth of those kisses was enough—
  The touch of the divine was enough—
And it blossomed into amazing beauty,
  A source of joy, and most pleasing in God's eyes—
I know it's just a story; but it’s so heartfelt;

So sweet that I like to believe it--
  And I've been thinking today,
That maybe these soldiers, now angels,
  Will come when these wreaths fade away--
  When they wither and shrivel up--
And will carry the broken things up to heaven,
  And God and His Son will kiss each one,
And new beauty and bloom will be given.

And it might be a strange idea, but go ahead and argue against it.
  Try to prove it wrong if you can.
There are mysterious, subtle ways in how God operates
  That are hidden from human understanding,
  Blocked from human vision.--
By a dark shroud of profound ignorance;
  But when God thinks it's the right time, He will give us clear sight
And lift the heavy veil, out of His compassion;

And when we step into His kingdom,
  And understand all His unusual ways,
Who knows, but maybe these very same flowers,
  We will find blooming there in His land,
  All fresh and beautiful, in His land;
And these soldiers, who went ahead of us,
  As we wander through God's gardens, will say:
"These are the wreaths you placed over us."

Then, scatter the best and the brightest
  Of buds and fully bloomed flowers,
Over the graves of our loved ones—
  Over those marked "Unknown!"
  Oh! the sadness of that word, "Unknown!"
Bring here the brightest and rarest!
  We don't care if the person wore blue or gray!
We'll give them the best and the fairest.

For someone who mourned the "missing,"
  And cried hot, scalding tears,
And hoped against hope for their return;
  And watched, and waited, months and years,
  Such long, and such empty years!
But the hearts that love them are so patient,
  And some still watch and weep for the soldiers who rest
With the stone marked "Unknown" above them.

Then collect from the fields and woods,
  From gardens, and greenhouses, and vases,
The brightest and best of flowers,
  And spread them out here in this spot;
  This sacred and respected spot—
This city of peace, not of work,
  Where only the birds and the brown bees are heard,
And neighbors never talk to one another.

Forest Hill Cemetery, May 30, 1871.

I knew there was a baby hidden in that house,
  Even though I didn’t see a crib or hear any cries.
But the husband was sneaking around like a mouse,
  And the wife was softly humming a lullaby;
And there was an expression on that mother’s face
That I knew could mean only one thing, and nothing else.

"The mother," I thought to myself; because I knew
  That the woman in front of me was definitely that,
For there was a small cloth shoe in the corner,
  And I spotted a tiny little hat on a stand; And the husband's beard clearly stated,
"Two chubby little hands have been pulling at me."

And he pulled out a colorful picture book,
  And a dog that would bark if you tugged on a string;
And his wife put them away with a huge smile;
  And I thought to myself, "Nothing else could cause all this, so
That there must be a baby hiding around here somewhere, I know."

I stayed for just a moment and saw nothing else,
  And didn't hear a sound, but I knew I was right;
What else could the shoe on the floor mean—
  The book and the toy, and the faces so bright?
And why was the husband as quiet as a mouse?
I'm sure, very sure, there's a baby in that house.

1872

[Read at the Reunion of the Society of the "Grand Army of the Tennessee," at Madison, Wisconsin, July 4th, 1872.]

After the battles are over,
  And the war drums stop pounding,
And there's no more sound on the hillside
  Of rushing feet,
So many brave deeds,
  That were done in the tough times,
By soldiers are mostly forgotten,
  In the calm moments of life.

Just like the tangled grass,
  In the warmth and light of summer,
Grows over the graves of the fallen
  And hides them from view,
So too many acts of bravery,
  And countless incredible deeds,
Fade from a soldier's memory,
  Choked out by the grass of time.

Not so should they be rewarded,
  Those noble deeds of the past;
They should live on forever,
  Even when the heroes' hearts have turned cold.
So come together, brave old friends,
  Veterans, unite once more!
Pull up time's tangled weeds--
  Relive the march and the battle.

Let Grant come up from the White House,
  And shake hands with each brother,
First leader of the army,
  Last leader of the land.
Let him take a break from the nation's burdens,
  And travel, in spirit, with his men,
Through the fire and smoke of Shiloh,
  And save the day once more.

This quiet warrior of battles,
  Knew no such word as defeat.
It was the rebels who learned that.
  Along with the word retreat.
He wasn’t one for talking,
  But he realized that guns could speak
In a way that was more convincing
  Than fancy and flowery words.

Three cheers for the brave leader
  Of the great old Tennessee!
Who won the first major battle—
  Achieved the first major victory.
His motto was always "Conquer,"
  "Success" was his password,
And "even if it took all summer,"
  He kept fighting along "that line."

Let Sherman, the tough old General,
  Answer the wake-up call,
Let him march with his troops through Georgia,
  From Atlanta to the sea.
Oh, that amazing trek to Savannah!
  Three hundred miles to the coast!
It will stay in the heart of the Nation,
  Always a point of pride and glory.

As Sheridan headed to battle.
  When he was a score of miles away,
* He has arrived at the feast and banquet.
  By the iron horse today.
Its speed isn't much faster
  Than that famous horse's pace
That carried him to the fight
  And saved the day with its speed.

Then go over the ground today, guys,
Tread each familiar spot.
It will be a joyful journey,
On the quick feet of thought;
You can fight a peaceful battle,
You can skirmish along the way,
But it's not worth it to scavenge,
There are plenty of supplies elsewhere.

Don't begin if you hear the cannon;
  It's not the sound of disaster,
It doesn’t signal the fight—
  To the smoke and darkness of battle.
"Let's have Peace," was said.
  And suddenly, peace reigned again;
And now the country is shouting,
  Through the cannon's voice, "Amen."

Oh, guys, who surrounded old Vicksburg,
  Can time ever erase
The victory of her surrender,
  Nine years ago today?
Can you ever forget the moment,
  When you saw that white flag,
That signaled how the tough old city
  Had fallen in her strength?

Ah, it was a bold, brave army,
  When the guys, with a strong spirit,
Went happily marching and singing
  To the fight at Champion Hill.
They received a warm welcome,
  But the spirit of "Old John Brown"
Was present on that battlefield,
  And our flag did NOT fall.

Come, heroes of Look Out Mountain,
Of Corinth and Donelson,
Of Kenesaw and Atlanta,
And share how the day was won!
Quiet! Bow your head for a moment--
There are those who cannot come.
No bugle call can wake them--
No sound of fife or drum.

McPherson fell in battle,
  When the waves were crashing high.
Brave Ransom sank on the roadside;
  It was a lonely death to die.
They walk in God's beautiful, green meadows,
  They live in a land of bliss,
Yet I believe their spirits are with us
  In moments like this.

Oh, boys who died for the country,
  Oh, dear and honored dead!
What can we say about you
  That hasn’t already been said?
Whether you fell in battle,
  Gunned down by bullets and shells,
Or wasted away from illness,
  Or starved in a prison cell--

We know you died for freedom,
  To protect our land from disgrace,
To save a threatened nation,
  And we honor your lasting legacy.
It was the fight for truth and justice
  That you battled and fell for,
And we say it softly,
  "Our soldiers who died in the war."

Saviors of our Republic,
Heroes who wore the blue,
We owe the peace that surrounds us—
And our Nation's strength, to you.
We owe it to you that our banner,
The fairest flag in the world
Is today unstained, unsullied,
On the summer air unfurled.

We look at its stripes and sparkles,
  And our hearts are filled with love
For the brave leaders,
  And the soldiers on the front lines.
The greatest acts of bravery,
  Were never documented,
The most honorable deeds,
  The world knows nothing about.

And many ordinary soldiers,
  Who go about their daily lives,
With no big names or titles,
  Unknown to the world today,
In the eyes of God, they're heroes;
  He will reward them all,
No action, no matter how private,
  Is hidden from the Lord.

Brave men of a powerful army,
  We offer you a friendly hand!
I represent the "Loyal Women,"
  The backbone of our land.
We give you a warm welcome,
  We’re proud that you’re here with us
To share memories from the past
  On this brightest day of the year.

And if peace, with her pure white wings,
  Hovers over our land today,
Should she ever leave us again,
  (God, let her always remain).
If our Nation calls for help in her time of danger
  For "Six hundred thousand more,"
The loyal women would hear that call,
  And send you out just like before.

We would pull out the treasured backpack.
  We would take the sword from the wall,
And silencing our own heart's worries,
  Listen only to the country's call.
For next to our God, comes our Nation:
  And we value the respected name,
Of the bravest of all brave armies
  Who fought for that Nation's glory.

* This stanza was written after arriving at the hall and spotting Sheridan among the Generals present, which explains the change of tense in that verse. Since I wasn't aware that General Sheridan was part of the Society, he wasn't mentioned when the poem was written.

[A tribute to former Governor Fairchild.]

God bless the hero of my song!
Six years the leader of our State!
We've held him in our hearts for so long,
And shown that he is good, true, and great.
Now, we couldn't let him go,
Even if he wanted to.

I hear people singing his praises
  From the east and west, and north and south,
His enemies are quiet out of shame:
  His actions have shut down Slander's voice,
And all the petty creatures of spite
He's crushed beneath the power of what's right.

He lost an arm one bloody day,
  In tearing down the walls of injustice,
But no strength left him;
  His other arm became three times stronger.
Few men, with both hands, have accomplished
As many noble deeds as he did with just one.

His soul shines through his blue eye,
  And everyone knows he's someone you can trust,
Because his heart is kind and genuine,
  And all his actions show he's fair.
I speak for thousands when I shout,
"The people's favorite forever!"

May God be with him all his days--
  With him and everyone he cares about;
And if my little song of praise
  Happens to reach his ears,
May he accept this gift,
And know that I sing from my heart.

1872

Throughout these calm autumn days,
All sweet and dim, and soft with haze,
I debate with my foolish heart,
That really wants to take the easy route.

My heart says, "Let's lie down and dream
Under the gentle sunlight's beam.
This is the dreamiest time of the year,
When Heaven itself feels so near."

"Look at how the peaceful still waters are lying
And dreaming under the wide sky.
The sun pulls on a curtain of mist,
And dreams away these golden days."

"Put down the pen—set thoughts aside,
And stop fighting against the flow,
Let's, like Nature, relax and dream
And drift with the current of the stream."

So my heart pleads. I reply, "No,
Work is waiting for you and me today.
Behind these golden autumn hours,
Winter hangs around, bleak and cold.

"And those who dream for too long or too often,
Must wake up, shivering, at his touch,
With nothing to show for lost hours,
But dust from dreams and wilted flowers."

"So now, while the days are gentle and warm,
We need to prepare for the storm."
So, in the golden, hazy weather,
My heart and I talk to each other.

And yet, I won’t let myself look
At rocky beaches or gentle skies,
Because I really want to
Just follow what my heart tells me to.

October 1872

Something is missing from the warm spring.
There’s no scent in its gentle breeze;
And there are sobs in the songs the wild birds sing.
And all the bees buzz about the grave and death,
Something is missing from the earth. One morning
The angels called out a new name on the list;
A spirit soldier joined their ranks,
And all of Christ's army embraced the pure young soul.

He died. Two simple words, but only God
  Can grasp the terrible depths of sorrow
They carry for those who suffer the loss,
  Praying for strength from Him who dealt the blow.
He died. The soldier who fought bravely and hard,
  Who faced Death on the battlefield,
Amid the roaring guns—the screaming shells—
  In toxic prison cells—and would not give in.

A six month long wait, he suffered there,
  And yet he lived; oh, young heart, strong and brave!
Thank God, who heard the repeated prayers;
  Thank God, he doesn’t lie in a Southern grave;
That when he died, the loved ones gathered around,
  And eased the pain of those last, sad hours.
That gentle hands can keep the cherished ground
  All green with moss and filled with flowers.

He was so young and handsome; and life was good.
  May Christ give the mourners the strength to cope!
He went to join the ranks of Heaven,
  God sent the angel of Death to take him home.
So young, and handsome and brave; loved by everyone;
  The babbling child—life's veteran, old and gray—
And eyes grow dim, and bitter tears fall
  On the grave where the soldier's body rests.

Oh! it’s comforting to know that God knows best,
  Who called this brother, friend, and son in his youth,
  And it’s sweet to lean on the Savior’s embrace,
  And looking up, say, "Your will be done."
But something feels off in this pleasant spring;
  There’s no fragrance in its soft breeze,
And there are sobs in the songs the wild birds sing,
  And all the bees buzz about the grave and death.

Under the willow, you and I
Walked in the twilight, when love was intense;
That wild first love, which felt almost like pain,
That we can never experience on earth again.

The winds were gentle, and the night was peaceful;
You held my hand in your warm grip.
With the fire of passion, your dark eyes shone,
And my heartbeat raced uncontrollably.

You pulled me in close to you--
You softly asked me to be your wife.
I shook, blushed, and couldn’t find my words,
But you knew my answer and kissed my cheek.

"When the earth has vanished and time is over,
Our love will still endure," we said.
"It will have a constant and unending light,
Even as youth, strength, and life fade away."

The nightbird sang a tune at that moment;
It sounded to us like a joyful amen,
As we created our dreams, and made our promises,
Under the willow's hanging branches.

*   *   *   *   *

Under the willows, back and forth
We walked in the twilight, when love was fading.
The tide had receded, the flow stopped,
And our wild, crazy passion had gradually faded.

I don't know why, but we had slowly grown apart,
Our hearts distancing more and more.
Something unseen came between us—
I can't say what it was—it was fate, I guess.

The scales had fallen from our young eyes,
And we looked at each other in puzzling surprise;
And she that you thought was an angel before,
You found was just a woman—and nothing more.

And the idol I worshiped for gold, always,
I found was the cheapest kind of clay.
And so it faded, at one cold breath,
The passion we said would survive through death.

And under the willow again we wandered,
And broke the promises we once made.
We felt no sadness--we knew no pain--
Since love had died, it was better this way.

We have dreamed our dream; we have come to the end.
You said calmly, "goodbye, my friend."
The nightbird let out a wailing cry;
It sounded to me like a final farewell.

I’m glad we broke our vows that night.
My path is easy, my heart is free.
But I feel, my friend, as the days go by,
That a part of my youth is gone from my life.

And we can never, on earth, know again,
That initial, intense passion, so close to pain,
When under the willow, you and I
Walked in the twilight, and love felt strong.

Sometimes we humans, twisting in deep pain,
  Overwhelmed by sorrows that feel unbearable,
And made to question God's kindness and his wisdom,
  And we struggle to raise our weighed-down hearts in prayer.
I believe these moments are the darkest,
  The bleakest and the coldest that we experience,
And I believe God, Christ, and all the angels,
  Feel the most compassion for us in this time of our suffering.

I had a little child I dearly loved;
  A charming, playful, kind-hearted boy,
Strong-willed, yet gentle, cheerful, and loving.
  He was the pride of our home and our happiness.
We showered him with endless affection;
  We gave him all the love we could offer,
We dressed him in beautiful clothes of the finest quality,
  And looking at him, felt grateful for this life on earth.

We taught him everything good, true, and noble;
  We told him about the beloved Lord who was crucified;
We envisioned a bright and happy future for him;
  We protected him from danger—yet he died.
Not all the gold and riches we could give,
  Not all our wealth could save him from the grave.
He died! And when those sweet eyes closed for good,
  They shut out the sunlight and left only darkness.

Today I saw the child of a drunkard—a homeless kid;
  Poorly dressed, poorly fed, unkempt, unclean, and wild;
His home is the street—his lessons are just bad habits and sadness—
  He wears rags—his young lips tainted
With alcohol, cigarettes, lies, and loud cursing;
  What future can he have but a life of crime?
And thinking about this, and about my son who was sleeping,
  My heart felt heavy, even if just for a moment.

It felt so weird that he, a homeless drifter,
  Unloved, unloving, walking the path of wrongdoing,
That he was saved; and mine so dearly treasured—
  Mine so cherished, whose life seemed so intertwined
And wrapped around our hearts, that when he was gone,
  It left them ripped and bleeding—he should die;
Ah, it seems odd; and yet I can’t question God’s wisdom,
  Nor should I wonder why.

He, being all-wise, Father, King, Creator,
It would be strange if you or I could know
Everything He knows or understand His wisdom,
Everything He does or why He does it that way.
If all this were clear to our mortal vision,
There would be nothing new to learn above;
So, even though the challenge is great and the reward is hidden,
I don't need to doubt His wisdom or His love.

1871

I sit by my cottage window,
  In the warm glow of the setting sun,
And the hilltops shine brightly,
  And the western sky is on fire.
My room is filled with beauty,
  My soul is bursting with joy,
And my heart is overflowing with poems,
  That I can't express or write down.

O, darker, deeper, and grander,
  The glory shines up high.
And I follow the walls of a city,
  In that stunning western sky:
A city of gold and crimson—
  All purple and amber red;
And the streets are paved with crystal,
  Where the feet of angels walk.

O, lifeless pen and pencil.
  Your efforts are weak and pointless;
The poet's pen hesitates.
  And his heart is filled with sorrow:
And the artist lays down his pencil,
  And cries in silent despair,
For he can't capture the beauty
  That shines in the sunset there.

But the city fades—fades;
The glory turns to gray;
The golden lights are dying,
And the splendor slips away.
And I know it was just the shadow
Of the city built up high—
Just the weak, pale shadow,
That I saw in the sunset sky.

And I yearn for that other city—
The city that God has created,
Where the glory never wanes.
And the splendors never fade.
Oh, there at the feet of Jesus,
In songs of praise, I know
My soul will express the poems
That fill it to the brim.

1869

The sweet girl, Day, has rested her head
  On the chest of her dark lover Night;
The sun has made her a bed of red,
  And draped a cover of soft twilight;
And the lover kisses the maiden's forehead,
As she lies down on her bed now asleep.

Here at my window, above the street,
  I sit as the day rests;
And I listen to the endless sound of footsteps.
  And I watch this human wave that moves,
Upward and downward, to and fro.
Like the waves of the ocean, ebbing and flowing.

Over and over in the bustling town,
  Back and forth, all through the day;
One heads up, while another goes down—
  Each on their own path.
Strangers and family pass and cross,
And bump and jostle on the street.

People who have never met before--
  People who will never meet again:
A quick glance--that's all,
  And both are lost in the crowd.
Strangers, separated by miles in spirit,
Under my window come together and say goodbye.

But whether they move up or down,
  Across the river, to the east or west,
Whether it's in the city or out,
  To a place of sin or a place to rest,
We are all heading towards a shared destination—
There is one final truth for everyone.

Strangers and relatives, friends and enemies,
Whether their goals are significant or trivial,
Whether their journeys take them high or low—
There is one final resting place for everyone.
Then up and down, they rush by—
Under my window—you all must die.

1870

Not everyone who walks steadily,
  On the straight path where martyrs have walked,
Whose clothes look perfectly clean,
  Are always the ones most loved by God.
Even though He sees and knows their goodness,
  And from His throne looks down with loving eyes,
And hovers close to comfort and bless,
  And holds a starry crown for each beautiful head--

Yet there are those who occasionally stray
  Into paths of sin and sorrow,
Who sometimes teeter on the edge of doubt,
  Crying, "Oh, God, help my lack of faith!"
Whose lives are a constant struggle with their sins,
  Who desire righteousness yet hold onto worldly things;
And he who struggles and ultimately prevails,
  God values and treasures as truly worthy.

For greater is he, fighting this good fight,
  Falling repeatedly, and prone to mistakes,
Than he who walks calmly in the light,
  And never stumbles, because he is so strong.
Who never sins, because he isn’t tempted.
  To him who fights temptation one by one,
How sweet God's words when the last battle is fought,
  "Beloved servant, well, and nobly done."

1870

Some wear silk and velvet robes,
  Falling like manna;
Others work hard through rain and shine,
  For a homemade dress.
Some are born to ride in carriages,
  Resting comfortably;
Others trudge on, tired and worn.
  (I’m one of them.)

Some have impressive names and titles,
  Here on earth;
Others live away from glory—
  No one knows their value.
Some have money, fame, and beauty,
  All the things that make people happy;
Some are poor, plain, and alone.
  (I am one of them.)

Some people complain, even while enjoying life's pleasures,
  About their tough, sad fate,
Questioning God, rejecting heaven,
  Not loving or trusting.
Others, surrounded by sorrow,
  Do, on their knees, Praise and bless the Lord forever.
  (I am one of them.)

Pull down the red curtains,
  And block out the bright snow,
The cold white blanket that covers
  The hills, where the grass should be;
And stir up the fire until it glows,
  With a warmth like the summer sun,
And hang the cage by the window,
  And bring in the plants, one by one.

Till they fill the air with a scent
  As unique as what summer can offer.
And call to the bird, until he sings
  The sweetest notes he can produce.
And let me lie here while you fan me,
  Until the gentle air moves, like a breeze,
That sweeps over the hills in summer,
  And rustles the tops of the trees.

Then sing me a summer song,
  A song filled with warmth and sunshine,
And I will forget that winter
  Is looming over the earth with its power.
I will dream that I'm lying in the clover,
  And your voice is like the breeze,
And the bird in the cage is the robin,
  Singing down his song from the trees.

1871

My heart and soul are just too tired to express;
      So exhausted, Lord,
Of this endless effort to do good,
      With no reward.

Oh, I have been your servant now for years,
      And haven't complained,
Though my life has been filled with tears,
      But now I'm weak.

And I've worked for you, with all my energy,
      In pain and sorrow.
My Master, can you really blame me if, at last,
      I ask to leave?

Oh, if the soul is cleansed by fire,
      Then I am blessed.
The worker deserves his pay—
      Lord, grant me peace.

I know that I've messed up in a lot of ways--
      I'm a sinner.
But I've tried to serve you my whole life--
      I'm not afraid.

I know very well my past isn’t spotless,
      Nor pure as snow;
But it’s better to face it than to stick around.
      Lord, please let me go.

I said, last winter, When the grasses grow,
And flowers are blooming everywhere,
And gentle southern winds have melted all the snow,
Then I will meet my love face to face;
And I will hold her hand in mine,
And I will see her blue eyes shine and glow.

And now the grass is green on the moor and meadow;
The snow has melted, and spring is here,
The robins are singing from every tree,
The meadowlarks are singing loud and clear,
And there are flowers blossoming everywhere—
And still I can't see my darling's face.

All soft and gentle, the warm southern breeze blew,
  The snow clouds disappeared, and the sunlight poured
Over the meadow, and the daisies bloomed,
  And violets and pansies decorated the valley.
The bees are active, humming softly,
And still—still—my darling does not arrive.

Alas! She will never return,
  She sleeps, sleeps, still and quiet now;
Her resting place is sunken in the grassy field,
  And daisies bloom and sway above her head;
And I can never hold her hand in mine,
And I can never see her blue eyes shine.

1869

I believe true love is kind of like a tree;
  The oak, reaching its branches up to the sky.
The woodcutter's axe might hit it hard,
  Or it could fall when strong winds blow by.
And where it stood, flowers might bloom instead,
And everything might look like the tree is gone.

But underneath the grass and flowers, there lies,
  Hidden from the world, a tiny root,
A small living germ that never dies;
  And now and then its branches shoot
Up through the ground, and challenge, and try to be
The mighty forest king—the parent tree.

So love can fade away, at the hands of Fate,
  Or be crushed by the harsh winds that blow;
And new loves may emerge, whether soon or late,
  And flowers of forgetfulness may bloom,
Over the place where love once thrived,
And we might believe the past passion is gone.

And still the little germ lies in the heart,
So deeply hidden that it’s not known;
And now and then its branches sprout–
Useless imitations of the love that has gone.
Though love, once killed, can’t live like before,
I believe its ghost will haunt us forevermore.

1871

A poet walked through the city street,
In worn-out clothes, with sore feet;
Poverty and hunger had dulled his gaze,
And the kids mocked him as he made his way.

But one of the kids sang, while playing,
A song his mom had sung earlier that day.
The poet listened, with heated cheeks,
Because the song was his, and this was fame!

But his heart felt lighter. The boy's song
Had stirred the strings, bringing a strange, sweet joy.
"Even if I end up among the nameless dead,
The songs I've written will live on," he said.

1872

When you leave, my friend,
  When we say our final goodbye,
Then summer will come to an end,
  And winter will be close by.
Even though the green grass covers the heather,
  And the birds sing all day long,
There won't be any summer weather,
  Once you've gone away.

When I look into your eyes,
  I will feel the deepest pain;
Thinking that under the sky,
  I might never see again.
You will feel a brief sadness—
  I will feel a lasting grief;
You will forget by tomorrow—
  I, to mourn with no relief.

When we speak the final, sorrowful words,
  And you’re no longer close,
All the winds and all the birds,
  Can’t keep the summer around.
Life will lose its full wholeness,
  Not for you, but for me;
All the beauty and the sweetness
  This Earth can offer, I won’t see.

1870

Dear love, where the red lilies bloomed and thrived,
      The white snow is falling;
And all through the woods, where I strolled with you,
      The strong winds are calling;
And the robin that sang to us song after song,
      Under the elm--you remember,
Over tree-tops and mountains, June has moved on,
      And left us--December.

Has left, like a true friend when it's sunny,
      And fake when it's dark.
He’s found new pleasures in the place he’s gone,
      Lush forests and fields.
What do we care? Let him go! Let the snow cover the meadow,
      Let it pile up on the heather!
We can sing through it all; I have you—you have me,
      And we'll laugh at the weather.

The old year might pass away, and a new one start
      That feels harsher and chillier;
But we won’t let it get us down; we face it—we laugh it off.
      Because love makes us stronger.
Oh Robin! sing loudly on the faraway field,
      You friend in good times;
But here’s a song that’s sung with even more joy,
      By two warm hearts united.

1870

I walked today in the grassy valley,
  Where the clever ground-bird hides her nest,
And right where the plum tree's shadow fell,
  I sat down for a bit to relax.
And a robin came and perched in the tree,
And shared a long-lost story with me.

Of a girl, pure like the morning light,
  And fresh as a white rose covered in dew.
Of a guy with eyes like a stormy night,
  And a heart that didn’t know anything about honesty.
And all through the valley, lush and beautiful,
The guy and the girl wandered there.

He picked the violets, blue and light,
  The white lily, and the red roses,
With every flower that adorned the valley—
  But he said the girl was the prettiest of all.
And the robin watched him kiss her cheek,
And the girl blushed but didn't say a word.

And he held her hand, like a lover would,
  And he noticed the flush that his gaze brought out,
And with his eyes and tone, he seemed to express
  The words that his deceitful lips never voiced.
And tied to her strength, and a part of her life,
Was the love that blossomed in the girl's heart.

But summer ended, and autumn arrived,
  And the young woman walked through the valley alone;
And the hopeless love, like a burning flame,
  Consumed her life, but she made no sound.
And she withered and faded as the year grew old,
And this was the story that the robin shared.

Oh, do you remember that night, long ago,
  When I gave you the rose from my hair?
And you whispered, "I'll keep it close to my heart,
  As I treasure the sweet giver there?"

It was a long time ago—maybe you've forgotten,
  That something like this ever happened.
But tonight, as I sit in the warm glow of the fire,
  My heart is stirred by the memory.

And I feel like I'm reliving my childhood,
  When my life was as bright as spring:
Before it had learned the harsh lesson of pain,
  And when you were my hero and king.

Oh! you didn’t deserve the love I gave,
  Like the sun in the middle of summer, it was intense;
While a lifeless thought, a pointless daydream,
  Was the weak, empty thing you gave back.

Long ago—so long ago! Time has eased the pain,
  That once threatened to darken my life.
I believe I’m older and wiser now than I was then,
  And you have a lovely wife—

As innocent as angels, and just as beautiful, they say,
  With her blue eyes and snow-white eyelids.
But I can’t help but think to myself,
  If she loves you as much as I did.

Ah, it can never hurt you, or your bride,
  For me to dream about that night,
When you whispered sweet words over the rose from my hair.
  And my foolish heart raced with joy.

1869

The days keep passing by,
      And none of them return.
Another year has disappeared,
Just like the waves of the sea erasing the path
    On the glistening sands of the shore.
And my patience runs thin, and hope fades away,
As I wait and watch for the one who left,
    And doesn't come back to me anymore.

The spring came and went,
      And summer quickly followed;
And I watched through both, with a heart that ached,
For the one who disappeared into the past,
  >  Like a beautiful star in the sky;
Who sailed on a good ship across the sea,
And the ship returned: But "where is he,
    Oh, treacherous ship," I cry?

The autumn, gold and brown,
Rose from the summer’s grave,
And the rain and my tears fell down and down,
As day by day, I stood by the wave.
And cried out in my pain.
But what does the sea care for a tortured soul!
It mocks at sorrow, and the waves crash,
Singing a loud refrain.

And never a word from you,
      But a silence as deep as death;
Though winter shines on the moor and meadow,
And the cold, cold wind, with its harsh breath,
    Blows over the rough sea.
Yet always and forever, until life is over,
I will watch, wait, and cry for someone
    Who never comes to me.

1869

Each day, our lives are drifting further apart;
  Further apart with every sunset.
The clouds between us show no signs of clearing,
  But hang low, collecting shadows, one by one.

Drifting apart! The dreams I've held close,
  In my loving, naïve heart for years,
Those two meaningful words have brutally faded,
  And all that's left are nothing but bitter tears.

I don’t cry—I don’t sigh or fall apart,
  And complain about the harshness of fate.
I keep going, with quiet, smiling pain,
  Knowing that regret and tears come way too late.

But oh, my darling! I am just human,
  And even though it’s a weakness, I still love you.
I have the heart of a devoted, loyal woman,
  Whose fate is to love and never forget.

I know that we can never stop the flow,
  That took the light of my life away;
Our paths can never cross the unbridged stream
  That runs between us, getting wider every day.

Maybe, when we've crossed the heavenly gate.
  And all our tears are dried by Christ, our Friend,
And we've begun our immortal life,
  Maybe our paths there will meet and merge.

I can't say; the mysterious, amazing tomorrow
  Was never meant for human, earthly eyes.
But it’s nice to think all tears and sadness,
  Will disappear at the arrival of heavenly skies.

1869

[To H. A. M.]

What sounds so sweet as the joyful words of hello?
    And what brings on the tears,
Like the warm kiss shared at reunion
    After so many years.

Friend of my heart, we're together again;
    Hand in hand.
We sit and walk in the lovely weather
    That brightens the land.

Oh, rare golden days, in the heart of September;
    Days sweeter than any--
Days that my heart will always remember,
    You are too fleeting!

Why rush off! the greedy "Past" has already filled up;
    But like a miser who saves up precious treasure,
    He keeps asking for "more."

Oh, bright Autumn days! If only you would hang around
    And dawdle, and stay!
Too soon, old time will be pointing his finger
    And telling me to go.

That word "Good-bye," it's so hard to say.
    Hearts have been stirred
Almost to breaking; and loving hearts have broken
    At that final word.

Away with these sad thoughts! This beautiful, rare weather
    Will not make me feel down,
Because we can't always roam together,
    But I will be happy.

Of the days that are left, no lingering sadness
    Will cloud my sky.
Nor will today be overshadowed just because some tomorrow,
    I have to say goodbye.

1871

Once in a while, in this strange world,
To ease our sad regrets,
We come across a heart that's loyal through change—
  A heart that never forgets.
Oh, as rare as a blooming rose in December—
  As a bird in the Arctic,
Is a heart, a heart that can remember
  Through sorrow, change, and time.

Once in a while we discover a love
  That survives through life and death,
Oh! that will follow the soul above.
  Not fading away with the last breath.
But more rare, oh, so much rarer and stranger
  Than a spring in the desert sand,
Is a love that will last, despite toil and danger,
  And struggle on every side.

Every now and then, we find a friend
  Who sticks with us through thick and thin,
Whose loyalty stays with us until the end,
  Whether we’re soaring high or feeling low,
But a heart so genuine and love so warm,
  And friendship's constant smile,
No matter if we're living in poverty or luxury,
  These are found only "once in a while."

1872

Though your cheek is beautiful, like the roses,
  Your brow like freshly fallen snow,
And your eye as bright as a diamond’s light,
  Yet if your heart holds
Noxious weeds and selfish deeds
  That follow you always,
What does it matter in the end, friend,
  If your face is beautiful, I ask.

For the smoothest skin, time will take its toll,
  And it dulls the brightest eye;
And the prettiest face, and the graceful figure,
  Must eventually lie in the grave.
But our actions live on when life is over.
  Neither time nor death can erase them;
And the words we speak will find their way
  With sadness or with joy.

And even the thoughts we don't say,
  In heaven are like a shout.
Whether good or bad, it’s understood,
  And the angels write it down.
But they don’t care if the face is beautiful,
  Or what the world calls plain.
They look to the heart and the timeless part,
  Because everything else is worthless and shallow.

1870

Let those who want to slander fame--
  Call her a cheat and criticize her ways.
It might all be true; and still
  I will speak words of praise for her.
She has been my loyal friend,
  True and steadfast until the end.

Since I first saw her wave
  High above my humble ground,
I haven't needed to count
  What I've lost or what I've found.
She has made beautiful flowers bloom
  In every path I choose;
She has turned the dark roads bright,
  Made the gloomy spots feel right;
She has filled my empty cup
  To the brim with pure delight,
And even if I drink it all,
  She refills it every time I call.

She has never promised anything
  That she hasn’t delivered on.
She has stood by me in tough times,
  Made friends with many strangers—
Gave me a warm welcome
  Wherever my life takes me;
Opened up many doors
  That were closed to me before;
Granted me every gift and blessing—
  Almost—all that’s worth having.

All my life, I never knew
  Any other friend as true.
Youth and Love are temporary things;
  Wealth is light and goes with the wind—
Fame, which was once mine, won't disappear,
  She's always been a friend to me.
Let anyone criticize her ways,
  I will always sing her praises.

1872

Somewhere there's a piece of land,
  Covered in grass or maybe snow,
That one day will be turned over
  And dug up to make space for me.

And I have walked without realizing it,
  Maybe, and I might again walk
on the very silent ground,
  That will be the ceiling above me.

Somewhere on Earth today
  Live people who will dig
And break up the ground,
  Until my small home is built.

Maybe they have held my hands;
  Those hands, that after I'm gone,
Will measure me so respectfully,
  To determine how long to make my bed.

How strangely, serious thoughts like these
  Will arise when life feels light and carefree;
Like whispers of the flowing breeze,
  Saying "Everything must fade away-"

On a carefully arranged couch for her to relax,
  Mable, the young woman, lies down,
Her long, shiny hair is braided neatly—
  A tangle of golden strands that anyone can
Gaze at in awe for a little while;
  That anyone can touch just a few more times.

Her calm lips part in a gentle, subtle smile,
  As if the wonders of that enchanted shore,
When they first graced her inner vision—
  All the unique beauties of that hidden path
Had filled her with a sense of joyful wonder,
  And left a content look on her face.

Her two delicate hands are crossed over her chest--
  Two forms of wax on a layer of snow.
And they've dressed her for her serene rest.
  Not in the grim shroud--that symbol of sorrow,
But in that outfit we loved to see her wear;
  A dark blue robe, made by her own hand.

I wonder, as I see her lying there,
  If God will give her spirit in His realm
Another form. She couldn’t be more beautiful.
  I think He won’t change her shape or face,
But with the same long, flowing, golden hair
  She will kneel before the throne of grace,
And wipe God's feet; and her dark eyes will look
  Up to Christ's face, and reach out to Him with her hand.
And with her own sweet voice, sing God's praise,
  And still be the most beautiful in the Angel band.

1872

I hear the sound of the harvesters,
  All among the golden grain,
And voices of strong young binders,
  Singing a sweet tune.
The winds are quiet on the hilltops,
  And the sun shines down in the valley,
Until the rose wilts under its gaze,
  And her cheek becomes pale and weak.

The meadows are as green as the ocean;
  And the winds, when they stir from their break,
Ripple and sway the grasses,
  Like waves on the ocean's surface.
The vine climbs over my window,
  Where the hummingbird comes every day, And the robin and thrush in the willow,
  Are singing their hearts out.

Oh, beautiful, lazy Summer!
  You go by so quickly, so quickly.
Oh, youth, joy, and happiness,
  You are so lovely—so lovely!
My life is an amazing poem,
  Perfect in its rhythm and rhyme,
And the best part of all the verses
  Is written this summertime.

But the golden harvest is ending—
  The summer will fade and go.
The thrush and the robin will disappear,
  And snow will cover the grass.
The vine at my window will die.
  And the beautiful poem of life
Will turn into a song of sadness,
  And be scarred and broken by conflict.
So enjoy your youth and summer;
  Oh, heart, be happy and bright,
For sorrow, decay, and winter,
  Are on their way to us someday.

1872

The strings of my heart were tuned by Pleasure,
  And I laughed when the music reached my ears,
For he and Joy played a happy tune,
  And they played so loudly that I couldn’t hear
The wailing and moaning of tired souls—
  The sounds of sorrow that floated around,
For my heart's notes rang bright and cheerful,
  And I heard no other sound.

Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
  Played louder and louder in joyful glee;
But sometimes a discord was heard by others—
  Though only the rhythm was heard by me.
Louder and louder, and faster and faster
  The hands of the brothers played strain on strain,
When all of a sudden, a Mighty Master
  Swept them aside; and Pain,
Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,
  Restrung the strings of my quivering heart,
And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,
  So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start;
Each note was an echo of awful anguish.
  As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow.
And my soul for a season seemed to languish
  And faint with its weight of woe.

With skilled hands that never tired,
  This Master of Music played note after note,
And between the measures of the sorrowful tune,
  He lifted the strings of my heart once more:
And I was filled with a vague, strange awe,
  To see that they didn't break apart.

"They're pulled so tight they'll break apart,"
  I thought, but instead, they grew,
In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger;
  And I could hear in the still air--
Now my ears were no longer deafened by Joy--
  The sounds of sorrow, and grief, and despair,
And my soul became tender and kind to others;
  My nature became sweeter, my mind became broader;
And I saw all people as my brothers,
  Connected by the lesson of hardship.

My spirit was raised to God and heaven,
  And when the touches of Joy and Happiness returned
to my heart,
  There was never a dissonance to spoil the harmony.
For Pain, the musician, the soul-purifier,
  Tuned the strings with a skilled hand,
And whether the music is upbeat or somber,
  It is always beautiful and profound.

1872

The artist gazes at his canvas,
  And lets out a tired sigh,
And he can't see the beautiful picture
  That shines with the colors of the sky.
For a picture that can't be created
  Burns in the artist's mind,
And he cries as he sits at his easel,
  And sobs through his heartache, "It's all in vain."

The poet goes over his poem,
The thoughts of a soul sent from heaven--
And sweet like the flow of water
The beautiful lines come alive.
But a poem that can't be written,
Burns in the poet's mind,
And he weeps in deep anguish,
And sobs through his sorrow, "In vain."

The musician sits at his organ,
  And the air resonates with beautiful melodies.
But his heart longs for richer sounds
  Than what he produces from the keys.
For a chord that has never been played—
  A passionate, ecstatic tune.
And he weeps as he sits at the organ,
  And cries through his sadness, "It's pointless."

Oh, Artist, Musician, and Poet!
Three souls borrowed by the earth
To brighten this dull, lifeless planet
With your touch of beauty!
You dream of the wonders of Heaven,
And are futilely trying to reveal
To the eyes of those tied down by their bodies,
The things that no human will ever understand.

1871

[Lines to the sweetest little girl in the world.]

Sitting and watching the flickering firelight fall
In shifting gleams, on the floor and wall,
I think of the prettiest little girl,
With bright blue eyes and sunny curls,
With two chubby cheeks and a dimpled hand—
The sweetest baby in all the land.

I think of her countless charming ways,
That earned her a special spot in my heart;
And how at dusk, the time for babies—
A lovely queen, she had all the power;
And rested her golden head on my shoulder
And chose the stories she wanted to hear.

"Goosey Loosey," "Cat and Mouse,"
"London Bridge," and "Jack and his House,"
"Peter's Pig," and "the Foolish Frog,"
"The Mooley Cow," and "the Poly-wog."
And when these were shared, along with many more,
I had to add them to my growing collection.

I can picture how the bright little eyes would light up
At the story of the kid who had to leave.
How they filled with tears when Old Mother Hubbard
Opened the door to find her cupboard bare.
How they sparkled with joy and shone with laughter
When she heard how the wasp made the hornet flee.

The charming elf kept asking for the stories she already knew; She would sigh over the fate of poor Hen-Pen Who foolishly hid in the Fox's den, And feel sad about the little mouse that drowned Before anyone found his "great long tail."

And sitting alone in the glow of the fire,
And thinking about it, all I know
Is that nowhere on earth, in any place,
Is there another charming face--
Is there anyone, so sweet and wise,
As baby Eva--under the skies.

1873

I won’t forget you. The years may be gentle,
  But their attempts to ease my pain are in vain;
And the strong hands of Time are too weak and slight
  To cover the wound that’s made in my heart.
Your image is always around me—right in front of me,
  Your voice carries on the wind;
And the power of your presence, even when you're not here,
  And the memories of the past, I find in the present.

I can't forget you. The one gift I never received,
  The gift of your love, is the burden I carry.
In the dark moments of sorrow, I've tried in vain
  To bury the sweet image that's hidden in my heart;
To push away the beautiful dreams that crowd
  The halls of my memory—dreams that hurt more than help;
For the one drop that’s missing, I’m thirsty and longing,
  For the one joy I can’t have, I’m crying in pain.

I won't forget you. I live to remember
  The beautiful hopes that blossomed only to fade,
And brighter than June, even the darkest December,
  When filled with the ghosts of dreams that have faded away.
Once I loved you truly, so I'll love you forever;
  I don't grieve in weak, idle sorrow for the past;
But the love in my heart can never, oh never
  Leave me, nor can another take its place, first or last.

As a mother who dies in childbirth--
  Who shuts her eyes in death,
And falls into a long, deep sleep,
  Just as her baby takes its first breath,
In the quiet of the midnight hours,
  So the old year faded away,
And the new one was born and welcomed this morning,
  As the "Happy New Year Day."

The day we look back,
  To see what we've accomplished,
Through the golden hours of the past year,
  Like the beads of a devout Nun--
When we close the messy ledger,
  With its accounts of happiness and sorrow,
Of losses and wins, and joys and struggles,
  And turn to the clean new page

We hoped, we planned, and we promised,
When the past year was still new:
But our hopes are like dried-up leaves,
And the year feels like a song that's been sung.
We mapped out an amazing project,
That was supposed to bring us wealth and fame:
Hour by hour, day by day, our plans fell apart,
And our project ended up just a name.

We promised that life would get better,
  As the scope of our work expanded,
That "the past" would fade from our minds,
  As we aimed for the reward of our Creator.
But unfortunately, for the promises made!
  Look at how valuable our good intentions were?
They vanished from our view, and we wandered away from the light,
  And revered the trivial things of this world.

And so, while we built our castles,
  With towers of sapphire and gold,
Until they shone in the sun, month by month,
  Slipped away, and the year got old--
Got weak and old and left
  In the shadows and gloom of the night;
And some said it was a year full of sadness,
  And some said it was a year of joy.

Some, sitting in the dark and crying,
  Sob, "Oh, but the year felt so long!"
And some, full of joy, say the beautiful year
  Was just one line of a song.
To some it brought happiness and joy,
  To others just sadness and despair.
It gave one the sweet orange blossoms,
  And for another, the dust of a grave.

There are mothers today who are sitting,
  With arms that are aching to hold
The small form of grace, and the sweet little face,
  And the head with its crown of spun gold;
And they think of the last happy New Year,
  And the voice that brought music all day,
And, sitting alone in the silence, they moan,
  For the baby that is gone.

There are girls, in love letters, reading
  The story that's both really old and fresh;
And their happy hearts beat, in a rhythm so sweet,
  As they read about love that's strong and real;
And they think that of all the joyful New Years,
  There’s never been one quite so happy;
And they don’t notice the cry of the mother, so pale,
  Who feels the day is gloomy and dreary.

There are some leaning over the coffin
Of a hope that faded with the year;
And their sad eyes are dry, and the lips white that cry,
"The hope of a lifetime lies here."
May God pity and comfort such mourners,
For only God knows the pain
Of these suffering hearts, when a dear hope leaves,
And is buried, never to rise again.

It’s heartbreaking to lean over someone we love,
  And cover their face with a shroud,
But those who grieve, with heads down, over a hope that’s lost,
  Carry the heaviest sorrow of all.
May God bless this New Year with the promise of
  Another hope, just as sweet;
May it gather the bright flowers from happiness' gardens,
  And place them in wreaths at their feet.

Despair and joy go hand in hand;
  The sunlight shines on the grave;
And nearby the tired, whose lives are all dull,
  Walk those who are blessed with life's beauty.
Some wearing the crowns of achievement,
  And glowing with the warmth of success,
May their accolades never fade, or their honors grow old.
  Or their dreams or their happiness lessen.

Oh, amazing year that has passed us by!
Full of tragedy, sorrow, and change,
Was there ever another so impactful,
Was there ever another so bizarre?
Great hearts that were beating last New Year
Are food for the grave-worms today,
And lips whose slightest word a whole nation heard,
Are nothing but cold, silent clay.

There was someone who was crowned with the Fern Leaves,     Whose joyful voice lifted spirits,     Lightened heavy hearts, and brought joy to the tired,     On many a tired New Year. There was one doubly blessed by heaven,     Twice gifted and favored by God, REID, whose brush and pen made him a leader among men,--     He, too, now lies beneath the earth.

And another, the hero of battles.
  Before whom the enemy ran away
In fear and panic, while he triumphed,
  MEAD,--warrior and hero, is gone.
There was one who climbed the steep ladder,
  Step by step, on rungs that he made;
And carved out his name, at the peak of Fame,
  In letters that will never fade.

He fought for knowledge and wealth,
  Status and fame, and achieved.
But, reaching too high, like a kid reaching for a star,
  He fell, with the words, "It's over!"
It's over, all the climbing and working hard;
  It's over, all the stress and struggle,
All the ups and downs, the wins and losses,--
  It's over, the grand story of life.

It’s finished, everything the year could offer us,
  Its blend of shadow and sunlight,
Its joys and its sorrows, its dreams and its worries,
  Its work and responsibilities, all completed.
We stand directly in front of the New Year,
  Not knowing what it has in store for us;
May God make it good to you, and to me,
  And guide us on paths that are bright.

The bells in the towers ring out joyfully,
  The kids are shouting with excitement,
There’s happiness and cheer in the joyful New Year—
  Cheers to young '73!
Step out of the shadows, you who are grieving!
  And leave behind, just for today,
Your cloaks of sorrow, and let’s all join
  In the celebration and feast.

Let’s laugh like joyful kids together,
  Forgetting we ever cried—
Forgetting the losses, the pain, and struggles
  That came into our lives over the years—
Remembering only the good times,
  The beauty, the joy, and the sunshine,
Let’s talk about the New Years that have passed,
  And call this one the happiest.

January 1, 1873

A year that was serious, sad, and weird,
has come to an end,
since we created the graves of our loved ones
like a garden, all in bloom,--
a year that brought grief, need, and change--
a year with a heavy air:
and the terrifying sound of its fiery footsteps
caused destruction, pain, and death.

High and higher the flames leaped up in a single night, Till the walls of a town crumbled down, And a city fell in its might. And with fire and disease, and troubles like these, Death laughed in his wild glee; And Pestilence unleashed his minions in the land, And ships sank at sea.

But with all the passion, pain, and fear, --
With all the long, sad hours, --
We haven't forgotten to bring here
Our yearly tribute of flowers.
I believe the heart in a loyal person
knows no such word as forget;
And I think—no, I know—that in good times or bad,
We will remember our obligation.

The debt of a nation freed from shame,
  And a million slaves released,
With a perfect reputation and cherished name,
  Respected on land and sea.
For the beloved old flag kept from the dirt,
  The flag of the brave and loyal,
And this is the debt we still owe
  To the guys who wore the blue.

Thousands are resting in Southern graves,
  With no stone to show where;
But the land where the sweet magnolia blooms,
  God's hands keep fresh and beautiful.
And the angels above, in compassion and love,
  Watch over the unknown grave,
Where some heart's joy, some mother's son,
  Has found a nameless resting place.

To a clear, sweet song that is powerful and uplifting,
  Yet bittersweet with a minor note,
I compare the lives of the soldiers in blue,
  Who died before they could see our victory;
To a joyful song that sounds loud and vibrant,
  In a stirring major key,
I think of the boys who fought,
  And were celebrated in victory.

To the hero who arrives with the sound of drums,
  We can offer the crowns of fame;
And with joy, music, and celebration,
  We can honor and celebrate his name;
But we bring to the resting place of the holy dead,
  Only these wreaths today;
Yet they convey with their beauty and sweet scent,
  More than our words can express.

They talk about a love that never fades,
  But gets stronger and grows with time;
Of lives that bloom again above,--
  Of a faith and hope that are divine.
They share how a thankful nation's heart
  Remembers those who stood strong and true,
And how tears are shed for the fallen heroes,
  For the boys in blue.

They talk about a higher and more beautiful life
That the Lord's beloved angels understand;
Where nothing can bring pain or conflict,
And tears never fall.
Rest easy, brave boys; your graves are as green
As the thoughts we have of you,
And these flowers will remind us that you are always
Honored in our memories.

Forest Hill Cemetery, May 30, 1872

If we sit down at sunset,
And look back at what we’ve done,
    And in our reflections, find
One selfless act, one word
That eased someone’s heart,
    One kind glance
That brought warmth wherever it landed—
Then we can consider that day well spent.

Or, on the other hand, if we,
In looking through the day, can see
    A place or spot
Where we put down an unkind act,
Or where we smiled when we usually frowned,
    Or crushed some thought
That weighed on the heart—ground where it stood—
Then we can count that day as good.

But if, throughout our entire lives,
We haven't lightened anyone's heart by yes or no;
    If through it all
We haven't done anything we can point to,
That brought a smile to someone’s face—
    Not even a tiny act
That helped someone and didn't cost us anything—
Then consider that day worse than wasted.

1869

When joyful spring arrived,
  And the brown honeybee emerged from its hive;
When the sun and the west wind tidied up nature,
  Dressing her in beautiful garments;
Then my sluggish heart stirred from its sleep,
  Then I truly came alive and to light.
For what were the years without you; they add up
  To just one long, dark, tasteless night.

In the blooming spring, I saw you, and in that moment,
  I loved you with a love that had been waiting for you.
A life I had never known came to life—
  A life and a love that felt like heaven to me.
There had never been such warmth in the summer before,
  There had never been such colors in the fall,
Never such comfort in the breath of that stranger
  Who hides the dead seasons and reigns over everything.

Love, I've soaked in the magic of being with you,
  The potion that gives me eternal life.
My heart races and leaps! I’m exhilarated by the feeling,
  And I rise above challenges, hardships, and struggles.
We live, and we love! What sorrow can scare us;
  Sweetheart, my sweetheart, the world is ours!
Life can never take away from us—death can’t disarm us
  Of this, our immense treasure, our wealth, love, alone.

Summer is gone! Didn't you know it, my love?
Did you know that winter has taken over the earth?
The golden-breasted thrush and the quaker-crowned starling
bring joy to other places with their cheerful songs.
Oh no! For the summer of love in your heart,
it creates summer and sunlight for you, everywhere.
I wouldn't have noticed, but I missed the bright flower
that I saw in your hair all through the summer.

1870

Oh, homes where skeletons live!
  Keep the dark closet shut, and don’t think it’s smart
  To open the door for curious eyes,
To see the grinning, fleshless thing inside.