But self-encrusted, I had failed to see
The child had also looked and laughed to me. 
My lowly neighbour thought the smile God-sent,
And singing, through the toilsome hours she went. 
O! weary singer, I have learned the wrong
Of taking gifts, and giving naught of song;
I thought my blessings scant, my mercies few,
Till I contrasted them with yours, and you;
To-day I counted much, yet wished it more—­
While but a child’s bright smile was all your store,

If I had thought of all the stormy days,
That fill some lives that tread less favoured ways,
How little sunshine through their shadows gleamed,
My own dull life had much the brighter seemed;
If I had thought of all the eyes that weep
Through desolation, and still smiling keep,
That see so little pleasure, so much woe,
My own had laughed more often long ago;
If I had thought how leaden was the weight
Adversity lays at my kinsman’s gate,
Of that great cross my next door neighbour bears,
My thanks had been more frequent in my prayers;
If I had watched the woman o’er the way,
Workworn and old, who labours day by day,
Who has no rest, no joy to call her own,
My tasks, my heart, had much the lighter grown.

EASTER

April 1, 1888

Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading
  In her reluctant hands. 
Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,
  As pensively she stands
Awaiting Easter’s benediction falling,
  Like silver stars at night,
Before she can obey the summons calling
  Her to her upward flight,
Awaiting Easter’s wings that she must borrow
  Ere she can hope to fly—­
Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow
  Against the far, blue sky. 
Has not the purple of her vesture’s lining
  Brought calm and rest to all? 
Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining
  Been naught but pleasure’s pall? 
Who knows?  Perhaps when to the world returning
  In youth’s light joyousness,
We’ll wear some rarer jewels we found burning
  In Lent’s black-bordered dress. 
So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers
  To beg the crowning grace
Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers
  The veil from April’s face. 
Sweet, rosy April—­laughing, sighing, waiting
  Until the gateway swings,
And she and Lent can kiss between the grating
  Of Easter’s tissue wings. 
Too brief the bliss—­the parting comes with sorrow. 
  Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye! 
We’ll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow
  Against the far blue sky.

ERIE WATERS

A dash of yellow sand,
Wind-scattered and sun-tanned;
Some waves that curl and cream along the margin of the strand;
And, creeping close to these
Long shores that lounge at ease,
Old Erie rocks and ripples to a fresh sou’-western breeze.