Waking, I beheld him there,
With his fire-gold, flickering hair,
In his blinding armor stand,
And the scales were in his hand: 
Mighty were they, and full well
They could poise both heaven and hell. 
‘Angel,’ asked I humbly then,
’Weighest thou the souls of men? 
That thine office is, I know.’ 
‘Nay,’ he answered me, ’not so;
But I weigh the hope of Man
Since the power of choice began,
In the world, of good or ill.’ 
Then I waited and was still.

In one scale I saw him place
All the glories of our race,
Cups that lit Belsbazzar’s feast,
Gems, the lightning of the East,
Kublai’s sceptre, Caesar’s sword,
Many a poet’s golden word,
Many a skill of science, vain
To make men as gods again.

In the other scale he threw
Things regardless, outcast, few,
Martyr-ash, arena sand,
Of St Francis’ cord a strand,
Beechen cups of men whose need
Fasted that the poor might feed,
Disillusions and despairs
Of young saints with, grief-grayed hairs,
Broken hearts that brake for Man.

Marvel through my pulses ran
Seeing then the beam divine
Swiftly on this hand decline,
While Earth’s splendor and renown
Mounted light as thistle-down.

A VALENTINE

Let others wonder what fair face
  Upon their path shall shine,
And, fancying half, half hoping, trace
  Some maiden shape of tenderest grace
      To be their Valentine.

Let other hearts with tremor sweet
  One secret wish enshrine
That Fate may lead their happy feet
  Fair Julia in the lane to meet
      To be their Valentine.

But I, far happier, am secure;
  I know the eyes benign,
The face more beautiful and pure
  Than fancy’s fairest portraiture
      That mark my Valentine.

More than when first I singled, thee,
  This only prayer is mine,—­
That, in the years I yet shall see. 
  As, darling, in the past, thou’ll be
      My happy Valentine.

AN APRIL BIRTHDAY—­AT SEA

On this wild waste, where never blossom came,
  Save the white wind-flower to the billow’s cap,
Or those pale disks of momentary flame,
  Loose petals dropped from Dian’s careless lap,
    What far fetched influence all my fancy fills,
    With singing birds and dancing daffodils?

Why, ’tis her day whom jocund April brought,
  And who brings April with her in her eyes;
It is her vision lights my lonely thought,
  Even as a rose that opes its hushed surprise
    In sick men’s chambers, with its glowing breath
    Plants Summer at the glacier edge of Death.

Gray sky, sea gray as mossy stones on graves;—­
  Anon comes April in her jollity;
And dancing down the bleak vales ’tween the waves,
  Makes them green glades for all her flowers and me. 
    The gulls turn thrushes, charmed are sea and sky
    By magic of my thought, and know not why.