I can remember how, in childish days,
      I deemed that he who held my heart in thrall
      Must love me “passionately” or “not at all.” 
    Poor little wilful ignorant heart that prays
      It knows not what, and heedlessly demands
      The best that life can give with out-stretched hands!

    Now I am wiser, and have learned to prize
      Peace above passion, and the summer life
      Here with the flowers above the ceaseless strife
    Of armed ambitions.  They alone are wise
      Who know the daisy-secrets, and can hold
      Fast in their eager hands her heart of gold.

Sea-Song.

    A dash of spray,
    A weed-browned way,—­
    My ship’s in the bay,
    In the glad blue bay,—­
    The wind’s from the west
    And the waves have a crest,
    But my bird’s in the nest
    And my ship’s in the bay!

    At dawn to stand
    Soft hand to hand,
    Bare feet on the sand,—­
    On the hard brown sand,—­
    To wait, dew-crowned,
    For the tarrying sound
    Of a keel that will ground
    On the scraping sand.

    A glad surprise
    In the wind-swept skies
    Of my wee one’s eyes,—­
    Those wondering eyes. 
    He will come, my sweet,
    And will haste to meet
    Those hurrying feet
    And those sea-blue eyes.

    I know the day
    Must weary away,
    And my ship’s in the bay,—­
    In the clear, blue bay,—­
    Ah! there’s wind in the west,
    For the waves have a crest,
    But my bird’s in the nest
    And my ship’s in the bay!

Gratitude.

    There are some things, dear Friend, are easier far
      To say in written words than when we sit
      Eye answering eye, or hand to hand close knit. 
    Not that there is between us any bar
      Of shyness or reserve; the day is past
      For that, and utter trust has come at last.

    Only, when shut alone and safe inside
      These four white walls,—­hearing no sound except
      Our own heart-beatings, silences have crept
    Stealthily round us,—­as the incoming tide
      Quiet and unperceived creeps ever on
      Till mound and pebble, rock and reef are gone.

    Or out on the green hillside, even there
      There is a hush, and words and thoughts are still. 
      For the trees speak, and myriad voices fill
    With wondrous echoes all the waiting air. 
      We listen, and in listening must forget
    Our own hearts’ murmur, and our spirits’ fret;

    Even our joys,—­thou knowest;—­when the air
      Is full to overflowing with the sense
      Of hope fulfilled and passion’s vehemence. 
    There is no place for words; we do not dare
      To break Love’s stillness, even though the power
      Were ours by speech to lengthen out the hour.