These words the poet heard in Paradise,
  Uttered by one who, bravely dying here,
  In the true faith was living in that sphere
  Where the celestial cross of sacrifice
Spread its protecting arms athwart the skies;
  And set thereon, like jewels crystal clear,
  The souls magnanimous, that knew not fear,
  Flashed their effulgence on his dazzled eyes. 
Ah me! how dark the discipline of pain,
  Were not the suffering followed by the sense
  Of infinite rest and infinite release! 
This is our consolation; and again
  A great soul cries to us in our suspense,
  “I came from martyrdom unto this peace!”

MY BOOKS

Sadly as some old mediaeval knight
  Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield,
  The sword two-handed and the shining shield
  Suspended in the hall, and full in sight,
While secret longings for the lost delight
  Of tourney or adventure in the field
  Came over him, and tears but half concealed
  Trembled and fell upon his beard of white,
So I behold these books upon their shelf,
  My ornaments and arms of other days;
  Not wholly useless, though no longer used,
For they remind me of my other self,
  Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways
  In which I walked, now clouded and confused.

MAD RIVER

IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

TRAVELLER
Why dost thou wildly rush and roar,
     Mad River, O Mad River? 
Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour
Thy hurrying, headlong waters o’er
     This rocky shelf forever?

What secret trouble stirs thy breast? 
     Why all this fret and flurry? 
Dost thou not know that what is best
In this too restless world is rest
     From over-work and worry?

THE RIVER
What wouldst thou in these mountains seek,
     O stranger from the city? 
Is it perhaps some foolish freak
Of thine, to put the words I speak
     Into a plaintive ditty?

TRAVELLER
Yes; I would learn of thee thy song,
     With all its flowing number;
And in a voice as fresh and strong
As thine is, sing it all day long,
     And hear it in my slumbers.

THE RIVER
A brooklet nameless and unknown
     Was I at first, resembling
A little child, that all alone
Comes venturing down the stairs of stone,
     Irresolute and trembling.

Later, by wayward fancies led,
     For the wide world I panted;
Out of the forest dark and dread
Across the open fields I fled,
     Like one pursued and haunted.

I tossed my arms, I sang aloud,
     My voice exultant blending
With thunder from the passing cloud,
The wind, the forest bent and bowed,
     The rush of rain descending.

I heard the distant ocean call,
     Imploring and entreating;
Drawn onward, o’er this rocky wall
I plunged, and the loud waterfall
     Made answer to the greeting.