WonderfulPoetry.com

Time.
Why should we localize thy Spirit’s place, And call it sometimes Heaven, and sometimes Hell? Forgetting that amongst the thousand Worlds Poor Mother Earth but takes the seventh rank. God made the Stars. Has each a Heaven then, And each a Hell? Does God repeat the sin Of killing Innocence to save the souls Of Men sent here in pristine ignorance? Oh ! coward Hearts, who first conceived the thought Of letting others suffer for your sake !
Ask, and ye shall have! Why all this pother?
Does God not give without beseeching then?
Think of a Mother waiting to be asked
To give her milk to little hungry lips !
Is God less generous than a Mother?
Oh ! Infinite ! Forgive our foolish thoughts of Thee !
Why should mere Mortals praise Omnipotence, Like Savages appeasing Devil Gods?

The Fortunate Islands

Hiding her face from the grey rustling rain. Majestic clouds, borne on the urgent air, Brought up the night within their nets of rain, And darkness darkness overtook. The night Was fallen as if day had never been, And she, forsaken, abandoned to the rain, Covered her eyes, or lifted up her face To gaze into the roaring wet abyss When the sun vanished, when the day went by, Nor turned her to the east, whereto the sun Was bounden with his majesties of gold, And the unwelcome and incredible day.

A GARLAND OF FLOWERS.
In my garden old I would roam with thee, And the winds would whisper low,
And the flowers would tell thee a thousand things In a language no lips can know.
Mayhap in the trees and the grass and the sky, Thro’ the tranquil and sunny hours,
I might, as they do in Eastern lands, Tell the tale of my heart in flowers.
I would give thee a wisp of Quaker’s Grass,
Quivering with vague alarm ‘Twill only forget its trembling
When it lies at peace in your palm.
From a ruined wall I pluck thee a spray
Of Ivy for Friendship’s sake, It only gathers its arms more close,
When brighter blossoms forsake.
May the Crocus in the grass spring up For Gladness, ‘neath thy tread
And Pansies, too, with tender Thoughts, A fragrance round thee spread.

Ferns I’d place within thy hand,
Sincerity to thee A White Chrysanthemum for “Truth”
Thro’ all Eternity.
I come to thee with both hands full Of the strange old-fashioned Balm,
Sweet Sympathy and an Olive branch For Peace and God-like calm.
Violets blue and Daisies white
In my story play their part; And Honeysuckles weave their chains
All closely round thy heart.
And a Rose I would give thee last of all, Where the sun, and the dew, and the r?.in,
Have fallen asleep in unison, And never can leave it again.
Open thy heart to the sunlight,
The grey, and the gold, and the green And you’ll hear the sweet garden voices
Whispering all that I mean.

THE LOOK THAT THRILLED
And Jesus turned and looked upon
Saint Peter standing there! A look of sorrow and of love,
Too great for man to bear!
A look that filled a soul with shame !
Reproachful love, far more Than words could tell ! It seemed to say
How great the load He bore !
And Peter then remembered how
He had denied his Lord ! He turned away; in bitter tears,
His sorrow he outpoured!
And thus in grief unspeakable,
No mortal man might know Saint Peter, fallen, lonely, sad,
In sorrow bended low!
(Lord, dost Thou turn and look on me,
When, by an act or word, A silence, or betraying glance
I, too, deny my Lord?

QUESTIONING.
What do we live for? What do we crave On snow-capped peak, or on restless wave? What makes the heart throb wild and fast? What is it breaks that heart at last?
Is it a smile from eyes that shine With a wondrous light that is half divine? Is’t the touch of a hand that is firm and true. Stirring the life-blood through and through?
Where is this glory that man would find? Oh, that our eyes had not grown blind, But could see it flooding the earth and sea, And claim it as ours eternally!
But when this struggling life of pain Has swiftly leaped to its source again, Souls which the worlds in vain divide, Are merged in one by the Endless Tide.

PRAYER FOR THE FAMILY
show Thyself Thou Bread of Life, Grant there may be no anxious strife, But day by day on Living Bread, My earthly father might be fed.
The sisters, Lord, who try with me To tread the path that leads to Thee, help them, Lord, to trust Thy might And grant to them that inward sight.
keep them close by Thy dear side, Make them to be Thy spiritual bride, Help them Thy Kingdom first to seek, To know Thy voice when Thou dost speak.
Let them ne’er falter in the way, Until at last, in bright array, Around Thy Throne of Grace in Heaven They praise Thee for the blessing given.
My brothers, Lord, Thou knowest all, Saviour, at Thy feet I fall, Imploringly I do beseech That Thou would’st touch the heart of each

THE SOUL OF MAN

IN the soul of man there are many voices, That silence wakens, and sound restrains :
A song of love, that the soul rejoices,
With windy music, and murmuring rains ;
A song of light, when the dawn arises, And earth lies shining, and wet with dew ;
And life goes by, in a myriad guises, Under a heaven of stainless blue.
The willows, bending over the river,
Where the water ripples between the reeds, Where the shadows sway, and the pale lights
quiver
On floating lily, and flowing weeds,

LA MIA APOLOGIA
FOR remembrance a printed word is better than a faded photograph, and if, when I am no longer here, some friend who loved me, open this little book, I feel that then I should not be really dead. I should live again in their memory.
A wise man of the East once said ” Oh ! that mine enemy would write a book ! ” and this ought to make one pause.
But then, I have no enemies. At least I am uncon- scious of them ; so that for me they do not exist.
To my friends who read me, I owe an apology for the slightness of my work, but I know that they will remember that all my working hours have been given to that exact- ing mistress named Art, and that only as a relaxation I abandoned the brush for the pen.
I am especially proud to be able to have as a frontispiece the splendid work of my friend Sir John Millais; work that will rank in years to come, I venture to prophesy, amongst the best of the Old Masters.

THE WAITING ANGEL
WE are leaning through the roses Mid the thrill of the sweet closes
Of our tender violing. Up and down, up and down All the ways of our dream-town,
Round a dragon-crested King, Ride the noble knights of old, All in azure, green, and gold. We two cast them our dream-roses Mid the sweetness of the closes
Of our tender violing.
But I know, behind the star-lit Dusk of emerald, a scarlet

DEPRESSION

So let us look around, Lest we some blessing lose.
And cheerfully the while, Our little lot fulfil,
Which glorifies in this! It is the Master’s will !
If we the “little” use,
God soon will make it grow,- Maybe a little seed,
Yet given us to sow. A mustard seed of faith,
Sown in the Father’s field, And blessed by the Lord
A grand increase will yield.
So let us humbly give
Our pathway unto God; He knows it all, for He
The selfsame pathway trod. And let us trust Him more,
A God of Love is He, Of everlasting love,
And He loves even me!