I shall take thy hand in mine,
    And live o’er the olden days
  When thy smile to me was wine,—­
    Golden wine thy word of praise,

  For the carols I had wrought
    In my soul’s simplicity;
  For the petty beads of thought
    Which thine eyes alone could see.

  Ah, those eyes, love-blind, but keen
    For my welfare and my weal! 
  Tho’ the grave-door shut between,
    Still their love-lights o’er me steal.

  I can see thee thro’ my tears,
    As thro’ rain we see the sun. 
  What tho’ cold and cooling years
    Shall their bitter courses run,—­

  I shall see thee still and be
    Thy true lover evermore,
  And thy face shall be to me
    Dear and helpful as before.

  Death may vaunt and Death may boast,
    But we laugh his pow’r to scorn;
  He is but a slave at most,—­
    Night that heralds coming morn.

  I shall spend an hour with thee
    Day by day, my little bride. 
  True love laughs at mystery,
    Crying, “Doors of Death, fly wide.”

MARE RUBRUM

  In Life’s Red Sea with faith I plant my feet,
    And wait the sound of that sustaining word
      Which long ago the men of Israel heard,
  When Pharaoh’s host behind them, fierce and fleet,
  Raged on, consuming with revengeful heat. 
      Why are the barrier waters still unstirred?—­
      That struggling faith may die of hope deferred? 
  Is God not sitting in His ancient seat?

  The billows swirl above my trembling limbs,
    And almost chill my anxious heart to doubt
      And disbelief, long conquered and defied. 
  But tho’ the music of my hopeful hymns
    Is drowned by curses of the raging rout,
      No voice yet bids th’ opposing waves divide!

IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN

  In this old garden, fair, I walk to-day
    Heart-charmed with all the beauty of the scene: 
    The rich, luxuriant grasses’ cooling green,
  The wall’s environ, ivy-decked and gray,
  The waving branches with the wind at play,
    The slight and tremulous blooms that show between,
    Sweet all:  and yet my yearning heart doth lean
  Toward Love’s Egyptian fleshpots far away.

  Beside the wall, the slim Laburnum grows
    And flings its golden flow’rs to every breeze. 
    But e’en among such soothing sights as these,
  I pant and nurse my soul-devouring woes. 
  Of all the longings that our hearts wot of,
  There is no hunger like the want of love!

THE CRISIS

  A man of low degree was sore oppressed,
    Fate held him under iron-handed sway,
  And ever, those who saw him thus distressed
    Would bid him bend his stubborn will and pray. 
  But he, strong in himself and obdurate,
  Waged, prayerless, on his losing fight with Fate.