While the streams go down among the mountains,
Gathering rills and leaving sand behind,
Till at last the ocean sea receives them,
And they lose themselves among their kind,

Man, the joy-born and the sorrow-nurtured,
(One with nothingness though all things be,—­
Great lord Sirius and the moving planets
Fleet as fire-germs in the torn-up sea,—­)

Linked to all his half-accomplished fellows,
Through unfrontiered provinces to range,
Man is but the morning dream of nature
Roused by some wild cadence weird and strange.

Slowly therefore, Niccolo, and softly,
With more memories than tongue can tell,
Lower me down the slope of life, and leave me
Knowing the hereafter will be well.

Close with, “Love is but the perfect knowledge,
The one thing no failure can befall;
Lovingkindness betters loving credence;
Love and only love is best of all.”

Beauty, beauty, beauty, sense and seeming,
With the soul of truth she calls her lord! 
Stars and men the dust upon her garment;
Hope and fear the echoes of her word.

How escape we then, the rainbow’s brothers,
Endless being with each blade and sod? 
Dust and shadow between whence and whither,
Part of the tranquillity of God.

[Illustration:  THE JUGGLER]

The Juggler

Look how he throws them up and up,
The beautiful golden balls! 
They hang aloft in the purple air,
And there never is one that falls.

He sends them hot from his steady hand,
He teaches them all their curves;
And whether the reach be little or long,
There never is one that swerves.

Some, like the tiny red one there,
He never lets go far;
And some he has sent to the roof of the tent
To swim without a jar.

So white and still they seem to hang,
You wonder if he forgot
To reckon the time of their return
And measure their golden lot.

Can it be that, hurried or tired out,
The hand of the juggler shook? 
O never you fear, his eye is clear,
He knows them all like a book.

And they will home to his hand at last,
For he pulls them by a cord
Finer than silk and strong as fate,
That is just the bid of his word.

Was ever there such a sight in the world? 
Like a wonderful winding skein,—­
The way he tangles them up together
And ravels them out again!

He has so many moving now,
You can hardly believe your eyes;
And yet they say he can handle twice
The number when he tries.

You take your choice and give me mine,
I know the one for me,
It’s that great bluish one low down
Like a ship’s light out at sea.

It has not moved for a minute or more. 
The marvel that it can keep
As if it had been set there to spin
For a thousand years asleep!

If I could have him at the inn
All by myself some night,—­
Inquire his country, and where in the world
He came by that cunning sleight!