I heard the bell-buoy ringing—­
    How long ago it seems! 
  (Oh, it’s weary, weary waiting, love.)
  And ever still, its knelling
    Crashes in upon my dreams. 
  The banns were read, my frock was sewn;
  Since then two seasons’ winds have blown—­
    And it’s weary, weary waiting, love.

  The stretches of the ocean
    Are bare and bleak to-day. 
  (Oh, it’s weary, weary waiting, love.)
  My eyes are growing dimmer—­
    Is it tears, or age, or spray? 
  But I will stay till you come home. 
  Strange ships come in across the foam! 
    But it’s weary, weary waiting, love.

THE END OF THE CHAPTER

  Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day;
  We even lay the book away;
  But oh, how sweet the moments sped
  Before the final page was read!

  We tried to read between the lines
  The Author’s deep-concealed designs;
  But scant reward such search secures;
  You saw my heart and I saw yours.

  The Master,—­He who penned the page
  And bade us read it,—­He is sage: 
  And what he orders, you and I
  Can but obey, nor question why.

  We read together and forgot
  The world about us.  Time was not. 
  Unheeded and unfelt, it fled. 
  We read and hardly knew we read.

  Until beneath a sadder sun,
  We came to know the book was done. 
  Then, as our minds were but new lit,
  It dawned upon us what was writ;

  And we were startled.  In our eyes,
  Looked forth the light of great surprise. 
  Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls,
  A voice spoke forth:  “Behold your souls!”

  I do, I do.  I cannot look
  Into your eyes:  so close the book. 
  But brought it grief or brought it bliss,
  No other page shall read like this!

SYMPATHY

  I know what the caged bird feels, alas! 
    When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
  When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
  And the river flows like a stream of glass;
    When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
  And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—­
  I know what the caged bird feels!

  I know why the caged bird beats his wing
    Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
  For he must fly back to his perch and cling
  When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
    And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
  And they pulse again with a keener sting—­
  I know why he beats his wing!

  I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
    When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—­
  When he beats his bars and he would be free;
  It is not a carol of joy or glee,
    But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
  But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—­
  I know why the caged bird sings!