Then suddenly he saw a flame,
       A conflagration turned to bloom;
     It even put the rose to shame,
       Both in its beauty and perfume.

     He watched it, and it did not fade;
       He plucked it, and it brighter grew. 
     In cold or heat, all undismayed,
       It kept its fragrance and its hue.

     “Here deathless love and passion sleep,”
       He cried, “embodied in this flower. 
     This is the emblem I will keep.” 
       Love wore carnations from that hour.

     [Illustration:]

     LIFE IS TOO SHORT.

     Life is too short for any vain regretting;
       Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,
     And let us go upon our way forgetting
       The joys and sorrows of each yesterday
     Between the swift sun’s rising and its setting
     We have no time for useless tears or fretting: 
               Life is too short.

     Life is too short for any bitter feeling;
       Time is the best avenger if we wait;
     The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing;
       We have no room for anything like hate. 
     This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealing
     That thick and fast about our feet are stealing: 
               Life is too short.

     Life is too short for aught but high endeavor—­
       Too short for spite, but long enough for love. 
     And love lives on forever and forever;
       It links the worlds that circle on above: 
     ’Tis God’s first law, the universe’s lever. 
     In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never
               “Life is too short.”

     A SCULPTOR.

     As the ambitious sculptor, tireless, lifts
       Chisel and hammer to the block at hand,
       Before my half-formed character I stand
     And ply the shining tools of mental gifts. 
       I’ll cut away a huge, unsightly side
     Of selfishness, and smooth to curves of grace
     The angles of ill-temper.

               And no trace
       Shall my sure hammer leave of silly pride. 
     Chip after chip must fall from vain desires,
       And the sharp corners of my discontent
       Be rounded into symmetry, and lent
     Great harmony by faith that never tires. 
       Unfinished still, I must toil on and on,
       Till the pale critic, Death, shall say, “’Tis done.”

     BEYOND.

     It seemeth such a little way to me
       Across to that strange country—­the Beyond;
     And yet, not strange, for it has grown to be
       The home of those of whom I am so fond,
     They make it seem familiar and most dear,
     As journeying friends bring distant regions near.

     So close it lies that when my sight is clear
       I think I almost see the gleaming strand. 
     I know I feel those who have gone from here
       Come near enough sometimes to touch my hand. 
     I often think, but for our veiled eyes,
     We should find Heaven right round about us lies.