The fire of love was burning, yet so low
      That in the peaceful dark it made no rays,
      And in the light of perfect-placid days
  The ashes hid the smouldering embers’ glow. 
  Vainly, for love’s delight, we sought to throw
      New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze: 
      In life’s calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways
  We missed the radiant heat of long ago.

  Then in the night, a night of sad alarms,
      Bitter with pain and black with fog of fears
  That drove us trembling to each other’s arms,
      Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears
  Into life’s calm the wind of sorrow came,
  And fanned the fire of love to clearest name.

HIDE AND SEEK

I

All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still,
All the fleecy flocks of cloud, gone beyond the hill;
Through the noon-day silence, down the woods of June,
Hark, a little hunter’s voice, running with a tune. 
“Hide and seek! 
When I speak,
You must answer me: 
Call again,
Merry men,
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”

Now I hear his footsteps rustling in the grass: 
Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass? 
Just a low, soft whistle,—­quick the hunter turns,
Leaps upon me laughing loud, rolls me in the ferns. 
“Hold him fast,
Caught at last! 
Now you’re it, you see. 
Hide your eye,
Till I cry,
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”

II

Long ago he left me, long and long ago;
Now I wander thro’ the world, seeking high and low. 
Hidden safe and happy, in some pleasant place,—­
If I could but hear his voice, soon I’d see his face! 
Far away,
Many a day,
Where can Barney be? 
Answer, dear,
Don’t you hear? 
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!

Birds that every spring-time sung him full of joy,
Flowers he loved to pick for me, mind me of my boy. 
Somewhere he is waiting till my steps come nigh;
Love may hide itself awhile, but love can never die. 
Heart, be glad,
The little lad
Will call again to thee: 
“Father dear,
Heaven is here,
Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!”

1898.

AUTUMN IN THE GARDEN

When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark
Makes its mark
On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves
Over fallen leaves;
Then my olden garden, where the golden soil
Through the toil
Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,
Whispers in its sleep.

’Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox,
Where the box
Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks,
There’s a voice that talks
Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here
Year by year,—­
And the dreams that brightened all the labouring hours. 
Fading as the flowers.