Her smile of welcome was his meed;
  Her presence was his great reward;
  He questioned sadly if, indeed,
  He loved more loyally his Lord,
  Or if his Lord felt greater need.

  And Mildred, vexed, misunderstood,
  Knew all his love, but might not tell
  How in his thought, so large and good,
  And in his heart, there did not dwell
  The measure of her womanhood.

  She knew the girlish charm would fade;
  She knew the rapture would abate;
  That years would follow when the maid,
  Merged in the matron, and sedate
  With change, and sitting in the shade

  Of a great nature, would become
  As poor and pitiful a thing
  As an old idol, and as dumb,—­
  A clog upon an upward wing,—­
  A value stricken from the sum

  Which a true woman’s hand would raise
  To mighty numbers, and endow
  With kingly power and crowning praise. 
  She must be mate of his; but how? 
  And, dreaming of a thousand ways

  Her hands would work, her feet would tread,
  She thought to match him as a man! 
  His books should be her daily bread;
  She would run swiftly where he ran,
  And follow closely where he led.

  XVIII.

  Since time began, the perfect day
  Has robbed the morrow of its wealth,
  And squandered, in its lavish sway,
  The balm and beauty of the stealth,
  And left its golden throne in gray.

  So when the Sunday light declined,
  A cold wind sprang and shut the flowers
  Then vagrant voices, undefined,
  Grew louder through the evening hours,
  Till the old chimney howled and whined

  As if it were a frightened beast,
  That witnessed from its dizzy post
  The loathsome forms and grewsome feast
  And hideous mirth of ghoul and ghost,
  As on they crowded from the East.

  The willow, gathered into sheaves
  Of scorpions by spectral arms,
  Swung to and fro, and whipped the eaves,
  And filled the house with weird alarms
  That hissed from all its tortured leaves.

  And in the midnight came the rain;—­
  In spiteful needles at the first;
  But soon on roof and window-pane
  The slowly gathered fury burst
  In floods that came, and came again,

  And poured their roaring burden out. 
  They swept along the sounding street,
  Then paused, and then with shriek and shout
  Hurtled as if a myriad feet
  Had joined the dread and deafening rout.

  But ere the welcome morning broke,
  The loud wind fell, though gray and chill
  The drizzling rain and drifting smoke
  Drove slowly toward the westward hill,
  Half hidden in its phantom cloak.

  And through the mist a clumsy smack,
  Deep loaded with her clumsy freight,
  With shifting boom and frequent tack,
  Like a huge ghost that wandered late,
  Reeled by upon her devious track.