I sometimes think that it is dead,
It lies so still. I bend and
lean,
Like mother over cradle-head,
Wondering if still faint breaths are shed
Like sighs the parted lips between.
And then, with vivid pulse and thrill,
It quickens into sudden bliss
At sound of step or voice, nor will
Be hushed, although, regardless still,
He knows not, cares not, it is his.
I would not lift it if I could;
The little flame, though faint and
dim
As glow-worm spark in lonely wood,
Shining where no man calls it good,
May one day light the path for him,—
May guide his way, or soon or late,
Through blinding mist or wintry
rain;
And, so content, I watch and wait.
Let others share his happier fate,
I only ask to share his pain!
And if some day, when passing by,
My dear Love should his steps arrest,
Should mark the poor heart waiting nigh,
Should know it his, should lift it,—why,
Patience is good, but joy is best!
AFTER-GLOW.
My morn was all dewy rose and pearl,
Peace brimmed the skies, a cool
and fragrant air
Caressed my going forth, and everywhere
The radiant webs, by hope and fancy spun,
Stretched
shining in the sun.
Then came a noon, hot, breathless, still,—
No wind to visit the dew-thirsty
flowers,
Only the dust, the road, the urging
hours;
And, pressing on, I never guessed or knew
That day
was half-way through.
And when the pomp of purple lit the sky,
And sheaves of golden lances tipped
with red
Danced in the west, wondering I
gazed, and said,
“Lo, a new morning comes, my hopes to
crown!”
Sudden the
sun dropped down
Like a great golden ball into the sea,
Which made room, laughing, and the
serried rank
Of yellow lances flashed, and, turning,
sank
After their chieftain, as he led the way,
And all
the heaven was gray.
Startled and pale, I stood to see them go;
Then a long, stealing shadow to
me crept,
And laid his cold hand on me, and
I wept
And hid my eyes, and shivered with affright
At thought
of coming night.
But as I wept and shuddered, a warm thrill
Smote on my sense. I raised
my eyes, and lo!
The skies, so dim but now, were
all aglow
With a new flush of tender rose and gold,
Opening
fold on fold.
Higher and higher soared the gracious beam,
Deeper and deeper glowed the heavenly
hues,
Nor any cowering shadow could refuse
The beautiful embrace which clasped and kissed
Its dun
to amethyst.
A little longer, and the lovely light,
Draining the last drops from its
wondrous urn,
Departed, and the swart shades in
their turn,
Impatient of the momentary mirth,
Crowded
to seize the earth.