"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where He was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, Transplanted by my care, And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.' And the mother gave, in tears and pain, She knew she should find them all again Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath, T was an angel visited the green earth, THE LIGHT OF STARS THE night is come, but not too soon; All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? Oh, no! from that blue tent above, A hero's armour gleams. And earnest thoughts within me ris, Suspended in the evening skies, O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light, The star of the unconquered will, And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, Oh, fear not in a world like this, FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, Wake the better soul, that slumbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Then the forms of the departed Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished By the road-side fell and perished, They, the holy ones and weakly, And with them the Being Beauteous, With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me Uttered not, yet comprehended, Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! FLOWERS SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, Bright and glorious is that revelation, In these stars of earth,—these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same, universal being, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, These in flowers and men are more than seeming, Workings are they of the self-same Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing, powers, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; |