And tears would slide from out her eye, The tongue that scarce had learned to An entrance to a mother's heart Fluttering with half-fledged words, That more than words expressed, Oh, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, That would have soared like strong-winged birds Far, far into the skies, Had he but tarried with us long! As the airy gossamere, Floating in the sunlight clear, Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly, Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, So from his spirit wandered out Tendrils spreading all about, Knitting all things to its thrall With a perfect love of all: Oh stern word-Nevermore ! He did but float a little way Adown the stream of time, With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, Or hearkening their fairy chime; Ne'er felt the gale; He did but float a little way, No grating on his shallop's keel; Mingled the waters with the land Look how the gray old Ocean And all sweet sounds of earth and air And in our green isle rest forevermore ! And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, Thus, on Life's weary sea, Voices sweet, from far and near, Is it not better here to be, To see the still seals only A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the sidelong shark Ever waiting there for thee: Look down and see those shapeless forms, In the whirls of their unwieldy play; Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Voices sad, from far and near, Here all is pleasant as a dream; Listen! Oh, listen! Here is a gush of many streams, A song of many birds, And every wish and longing seems Here ever hum the golden bees IRENÉ The indirect as well as direct references to Maria White are frequent in these early poems. Lowell, in a letter to G. B. Loring shortly after this poem appeared, wrote: "Maria fills my ideal and I satisfy hers, and I mean to live as one beloved by such a woman should live. She is every way noble. People have called Irené a beautiful piece of poetry. And so it is. It owes all its beauty to her." HERS is a spirit deep, and crystal-clear; Calmly beneath her earnest face it lies, Free without boldness, meek without a fear, Quicker to look than speak its sympathies; As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night, But such as are revealed to the eyes Of a true woman's soul bent down and lowly Before the face of daily mysteries; — So circled lives she with Love's holy A love that blossoms soon, but ripens light, slowly To the full goldenness of fruitful prime, time, By a sure insight knowing where to cling, And where it clingeth never withering;These are Irene's dowry, which no fate Can shake from their serene, deep-builded state. In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chas teneth No less than loveth, scorning to be bound With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes, Giving itself a pang for others' sakes; eye, Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride came Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence It came, nor wandered far from thence, Near to her place of birth, that she may not Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot. Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth, But her whole thought would almost seem to be How to make glad one lowly human hearth; For with a gentle courage she doth strive In thought and word and feeling so to live As to make earth next heaven; and her heart Herein doth show its most exceeding worth, That, bearing in our frailty her just part, She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, But hath gone calmly forth into the strife, And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood With lofty strength of patient womanhood: For this I love her great soul more than all, That, being bound, like us, with earthly thrall, She walks so bright and heaven-like there In thy chamber thou sittest alone, Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! The world is happy, the world is wide, Kind hearts are beating on every side; Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled Alone in the shell of this great world? Why should we any more be alone? Alone, alone, ah woe! alone! Oh, 't is a bitter and dreary word, WITH A PRESSED FLOWER THIS little blossom from afar Perchance some fair-haired German maid "He loves me, loves me not," she cries; "He loves me more than earth or heaven!" And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven. And thou must count its petals well, But here at home, where we were born, For Nature, ever kind to love, THE BEGGAR A BEGGAR through the world am I, From place to place I wander by. That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light, She hath no scorn of common things, And deck me in a robe of white, Ready to be an angel bright, O sweetly mournful pine. A little of thy merriment, Ye have been very kind and good Of all good things I would have part, Heaven help me! how could I forget That blossoms here as well, unseen, MY LOVE NOT as all other women are And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart intwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. Blessing she is: God made her so, She is most fair, and thereunto She is a woman: one in whom I love her with a love as still And, on its full, deep breast serene, |