"I loafe and invite my soul."And what do I feel?An influx of life from the great central powerThat generates beauty from seedling to flower."I loafe and invite my soul."And what do I hear?Original harmonies piercing the dinOf measureless tragedy, sorrow, and sin."I loafe and invite my soul."And what do I see?The temple of God in the perfected manRevealing the wisdom and end of earth's plan.

August, 1891.

TO SUMMER HOURS

DAYTrip lightly, joyous hours,While Day her heart reveals.Such wealth from secret bowersKing Time himself ne'er steals.O joy, King Time ne'er steals!NIGHTBreathe gently, tireless hours,While Night in beauty sleeps.Hold back e'en softest showers, —Enough that mortal weeps.Ah me, that my heart weeps!

A TRUE VACATION

IN A HAMMOCK"Cradled thus and wind caressed,"Under the trees,(Oh what ease.)Nature full of joyous greeting;Dancing, singing, naught secreting,Ever glorious thoughts repeating —Pause, O Time,I'm satisfied!Now all lifeIs glorified!

Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass.

A QUESTION

Is life a farce?Tell me, O breeze,Bearing the perfume of flowers and trees,While gaily decked birdsPour forth their gladness in songs beyond words,And cloudlets coquette in the fresh summer airRejoicing in everything being so fair —Is life a farce?How can it be, child,When Nature at heartIs but the great spirit of love and of artEternally saying, "I must God impart."Is life a farce?Tell me, O soul,Struggling to act out humanity's whole'Midst Error and Wrong,And failure in sight of true victory's song;With Wisdom and Virtue at times lost to view,And love for the many lost in love for the few —Is life a farce?How can it be, child,When humanity's heartIs but the great spirit of love and of artEternally crying, "I must God impart."

TO A BUTTERFLY

O butterfly, now prancingThrough the air,So glad to shareThe freedom of new living,Come, tell me my heart's seeking.Shall I too knowAfter earth's throeFull freedom of my being?Shall I, as you,Through law as true,Know life of fuller meaning?O happy creature, dancing,Is time too shortWith pleasure fraughtFor you to heed my seeking?Ah, well, you've left me thinking:If here on earthA second birthCan so transform a being,Why may not IIn worlds on highBe changed beyond earth's dreaming?

IN A HAMMOCK

The rustling leaves above me,The breezes sighing round me,A network glimpse of bluest skyTo meet the upturned seeing eye,The greenest lawn beneath me,Loved flowers and birds to greet me,A well-kept house of ancient daysTo tell of human nature's ways, —Oh happy, happy hour!Whence comes all this to bless me,The soft wind to caress me,The life which does my strength renewFor purer visions of the true?Alas! no one can tell me.But, hush! let Nature lead me.Let even wisest questions ceaseWhile I breathe in such life and peaceThis happy, happy hour.

Porter Manse, Wenham, Mass.

O RARE, SWEET SUMMER DAY

"The day is placid in its going,To a lingering motion bound,Like a river in its flowing —Can there be a softer sound?"– Wordsworth.O rare, sweet summer day,Could'st thou not longer stay?The soothing, whispering wind's caressWas bliss to weary brain,The songs of birds had power to blessAs in fair childhood's reign.The tinted clouds were free from showers,The sky was wondrous clear,The precious incense of rare flowersMade sweet the atmosphere;The shimmering haze of mid-day hourWas balm to restlessness,While thought of silent hidden powerWas strength for helplessness —O rare, sweet summer day,Could'st thou not longer stay?

Porter Manse.

AN OLD MAN'S REVERIE

Blow breezes, fresh breezes, on Love's swiftest wing,And bear her the message my heart dares to sing.Pause not on the highways where gathers earth's dust,Nor in the fair heavens, though cloudlets say must.But blow through the valleys where flowers awaitTo give of their essence ere yielding to fate;Or blow on the hill tops where atmospheres lieImbued with the health which no money can buy.But fail not, O breezes, on Love's swiftest wingTo bear her the message my heart dares to sing.The breezes, thus ladened, sped on in their flight,As, cradled in hammock, I sang in delight,On that blest summer day in the years long ago,When life was all sunshine and youth all aglow.The sweets of the valleys, the breath of the hillsWere gathered – the best that our loved earth distills —As, obedient still to my wish, on they flewTo the home of my darling they now so well knew.******Alas for the breezes, alas for my heart,Alas for my message, so full of love's art!If only the breezes had followed their will,And loitered among the pure cloudlets so still,They'd have met a fair soul from the earth just set freeIn search of their help for its message to me;The message my darling, with last fleeting breath,In vain tried to utter, o'ertaken by death.The breezes, fresh breezes, have blown on since then,With messages laden again and again.As for me, I send none. I wait only their willTo bring me that message my lone heart to fill.They'll find it some day in a light zephyr chase,For nothing is lost in pure love's boundless space.

ON JEFFERSON HILL

(BEFORE THE PRESIDENTIAL RANGE.)The sovereign mountains bask in sunset rays,The valleys rest in peace;The lingering clouds melt into twilight haze,The birds their warbling cease;The villagers' hour of welcome sleep is near,The cattle wander home,While wrapped in summer-scented atmosphere,Calm evening comes to roamWith gentle paceThrough star-lit space,Till moon-kissed Night holds all in her embrace,And Morning waits to show her dawn-flushed face.

ON SUGAR HILL

TO F. B. FThe lovely valleys nestling in the armsOf glorious mountain peaks;The purple tint of sunset hour, and charmsThe evening hour bespeaks;The monarch peak kissed by the rising sun,While clouds keep guard below;Grand, restful views, with foliage autumn-won,And Northern lights rare glow, —Will e'er recall,In memory's hall,The happy days when on fair "Look-Off's" height,Sweet friendship cast her hues of golden light.

Hotel Look-Off, September, 1891.

AT FAIRFIELDS1, WENHAM

June, 1890.Buttercups and daisies,Clover red and white,Ferns and crown-topped grassesWaving with delight,Dainty locust-blossoms,All that glad June yields,Welcome me with gladnessTo dearly-loved "Fairfields."But where's my happy collie dog,My Rosa?The orioles sing greeting,The butterflies come near,The hens cease not their cackling,The horses neigh "I'm here,"The cows nod "I have missed you,"The pigs' eyes even shine,And from the red-house hearth-stoneComes pet cat Valentine.But where's my happy collie dog,My Rosa?I miss her joyful greeting,Her handsome, high-bred face,Her vigorous, playful actionIn many a fair field chase.Not even lively SanchoCan fill for me her place.O Rosa, happy Rosa,Gone where the good dogs go,Dost find such fields as "Fairfields,"More love than we could show?

BLOSSOM-TIME

Blossoms floating through the air,Bearing perfumes rich and rare,Free from trouble, toil, and care.Would I were a blossom!Robins singing in the trees,Feeling every velvet breeze,Free from knowledge that bereaves.Would I were a robin!Violets peaceful in the vale,Telling each its happy tale,Free from worldly noise and sale.Would I were a violet!Blessed day of needed wealth,Full of Nature's perfect health,Fill me with thy power.Then like blossoms I shall be,Wafting only purity,Or like robins, singing free'Midst the deepening mystery,Or like violets, caring naughtOnly to reflect God's thought."

Porter Manse.

THE PRIMROSE

Who tells you, sweet primrose, 'tis time to wake upAfter dreaming all day?Who changes so quickly your sombre green dressTo the yellow one gay,And makes you the pet of the twilight's caress,And of poet's sweet lay?Who does, primrose, pray?The primrose, secure on his emerald throne,Looked up quickly to say,"A dear lovely fairy glides down from his throneIn the sun's golden ray,And with a sweet kiss opens wide all our eyes,Saying, 'Now is your day.'And lo! when he's gone we are filled with surpriseAt our wondrous array,So fresh and so gay.Do tell us the name of this fairy, I pray,Who gives of his beauty, and then hies awayWithout thanks, without pay.Does he linger your way?"

JOY, ALL JOY

Lying on the new-mown hay, in a sightly field,On a summer day,With no care to weigh,Or a bitter thought to stay all that sense might yield —What a joy to have alway!Sky as blue as blue can be, perfect green all round,Birdlings on the wingEre they pause to singOn the top of bush or tree, or on sweet hay-mound —Restful joy in everything!Butterflies just come to light, proud of freedom's hour,Cows in pastures near,Wondering why I'm here,Chipmunks now and then in sight, bees in clover-flower —Added joy when these appear!Happy children far and near climbing loads of hay,Running here and there.Farmer's work to share,Skipping, shouting loud and clear, full of daring play —Children's joy! Joy everywhere!

AMONG THE PINES

Far up in air the pines are murmuringLove songs sweet and low,With a rhythmic flow,Worthy of the glad sun's glow.The airy clouds are o'er them bending,Captured by the soundOf such pleasure foundIn a playful daily round.The birds pause in their flight to listen,Wondering all the whileHow the trees can smileRooted so to earthly guile.The hush of summer noon enwraps themPerfumed from belowBy the flowers that showThey, too, murmuring love songs know.All nature finds a joy in loving —Oh, that I could hearLove songs once so dearDeath has hushed forever here!

Intervale Woods, North Conway.

CONSCIOUS OR UNCONSCIOUS?

The earthquake's shock, the thunder's roar,The lightning's vivid chain,The ocean's strength, the deluge's pour,The wildest hurricane,Are moods that Nature loves to showTo man who boasts his birthFrom conscious force she could not knowBecause denied soul-worth.But is it true she does not shareA knowledge in God's plan?Must not she His own secret bearTo so touch soul of man?Those who deny this see not clearInto the heart of things;For how could otherwise God hereReveal His wanderings?

POEMS OF LOVE

LOVE'S HOW AND WHY

How do I love thee?Oh, who knowsHow the blush of the roseCan its secret disclose?Oh, who knows?Why do I love thee?Ah, who caresSound a passion he sharesWith the angels? Who dares,Yes, who dares?

LOVE'S GUERDON

Thine eyes are stars to hold meTo love's pure rapturous height.Thy thoughts are pearls to lead meTo truth beyond earth's sight.Thy love is life to keep meForever in God's light.

A BIRTHDAY GREETING

Thy birthday, dear?Oh, would I had the poet's artBy which I could my wish impartFor thy new year;But e'en a poet's pen of goldWould fail my wish to thee unfoldIn earthly sphere.Thy birthday, dear?Oh, would I had the painter's skillProphetic visions to fulfillFor thy new year;But e'en a painter's rarest brushWould but my holy visions crush,Or fail to cheer.Thy birthday, dear?Oh, would I had sweet music's aidTo vitalize the prayers I've madeFor thy new year;Alas! not even music's bestCould put in form my soul's behestFor thee, my dear.That only will expression findIn purest depths of thine own mindThis coming year;As, guided by the inner light,There'll come to thee the new-born sightOf ravished seer.But in this sight thou may'st so feelEternal beauty o'er thee steal —God's gift, my dear —That thou can'st find the blessed artBy which to make e'en depths of heartIn form appear.Yet, it may be a heaven's birthdayWill have to dawn for us to sayOur best things, dear.For, as thou know'st, Truth's deepest wellMust e'er reflect, its depths to tellHeaven's atmosphere.

THREE KISSES

The kiss still burns upon my brow,That kiss of long ago,When in the flush of love's first hourHe said he loved me so.Another burns yet deeper still,The kiss of wedded bliss,When soul met soul in rapture sweet —Oh, pure love's burning kiss!The third was laid away with him,A kiss for heaven's day,(O heart abide God's way) —When in the life beyond earth's change,Beyond these mysteries sad and strange,New life will spring from out the old,New thoughts will larger truth unfold,And love have endless sway.

IF I WERE ONLY SURE

If I were only sureHe loves me still,As in the realms of beauteous space(Alas! so far from my embrace)He bides God's will,I could be more content to bearThe bitter anguish and despairWhich now me fill.If I were only sureHe waits for meTo join him in the heavenly realm(Oh, how the thought does overwhelm)When body-free,I could the better bear my fate,As day by day I learn to waitIn silent agony.O Father, in my doubtOne thing is sure,That Thou, all love, could ne'er destroy(Death only is in earth's alloy)Such love so pureAs that which blessed our union here,The love which knew no change nor fear —Such must endure.

ABSENCE

The days are happy here, dear,But happier would they beCould'st thou be near to bless meWith love's sweet ministry;Then all this beauty round meWould on my memory lie,As prayers of sainted mother,Or childhood's lullaby.

Hotel Look-Off, Sugar Hill, N.H.

A LOVE SONG

Oh! ecstasy rareComes down to shareThe heart that with human love trembles;While all on the earthIs crowned with new birthAnd everything heaven resembles.But grief and despairHave latent their shareIn hearts that with human love tremble,Since fires of loveEnkindled aboveIn frail earthen vessels assemble.Still, ecstasy rareComes down to shareThe heart that with human love trembles;While all on the earthIs crowned with new birthAnd everything heaven resembles.

IN HER GARDEN

She picks me June roses.Were ever such roses?Their fragrance would honorThe heavenly halls.She finds me pet pansies.Such wondrous-eyed pansies,And lovely nasturtiumsThat run on the walls.Sweet peas she's now bringing,While all the time singing.And I? Ask the flowersTo tell what befalls.

LOVE'S WISH

Would I were beautiful!Then you at Beauty's shrine might freely dine,A welcome guestFor joy's bequest.But, dear, if this were so, —If I were Beauty's child, all undefiled,To make you blestIn beauty's quest,You might forget to seeThe soul's pure hidden shrine wherein e'er shineThe things that testLove's true behest.Would I were beautiful,That you might better see the soul in me!That wish is best,Is 't not, dearest?

IS THERE ANYTHING PURER?

Oh, the prayer of a dear virgin-heart,Breathed forth with true love's gentle art!Is there anything purerOn land or on sea,More laden with blessingFor you or for me?It is sweeter than song ever heard,More precious than love's spoken word.It is fraught with a keen recognitionOf truest soul-need and fruition.Is there anything purerOn land or on sea,More laden with comfortFor you or for me?It is oftentimes born in great pain,With no ray of hope's blessed gain.But as lulled by the angels at midnightEre reaching the infinite daylightIs there anything surer,On land or on sea,To bring the God-FatherTo you or to me?

LONGING

Through all this summer joy and rest,Though lying on fair Nature's breast,There breathes the longing heart's desire,Would he were here!The thrill of pain kind Nature feels;For all the while there o'er me stealsLike holy chimes in midnight air,"He'll soon be here."And flowers and trees, vales, hills, and birdsMake haste to echo her glad words,"He'll soon be here."

YOUNG LOVE'S MESSAGE

Sing too, little bird, what my heart sings to-day.Dost thou know? —I'll speak low —"Oh, I do love him so."Hold safe, waving grass, in thy rhythmical flow,What I say,Till the dayWhen as sweet new-mown hayThou can'st bear it to him in the fragrance loved best.Thou dost fear? —Oh, love dear,How I wish thou wert here!But pause, little cloud, thou canst carry it now,I am sure,Sweet and pure,Though the winds do allure;For thou art on the way to the west where he is.But dost know? —Tell him low,"That I do love him so,Oh! I do love him so."

A DIARY'S SECRET

January 1, 1867God's love was once enoughMy heart to satisfy,When in the days of childhood's faithI knew not doubt or sigh.But since I saw Roy's face,And knew his love's sweet cheer,And felt the anguish and despairWhich come from partings here,So hungry have I grownNo love can satisfy,And all my childhood's faith in GodDoth mock me as a lie.But still in these dark hoursI hold one anchor fast:Perhaps this is the woman's wayTo reach God's love at last.January 1, 1887The deepening years have provedLove's conquest justified.The woman's hungry heart at lastIn God is satisfied.

A MONOLOGUE

Has Love come?Ah, too late!Already Death stands o'er meWith hungry eyes that bore me —O cruel fate,That after all life's yearsOf sacrifice and tears,'Tis Death, not Love, that wins.But, stay! This message bear,Ere yet Death's work begins:"In other realms earth's lossesWill change from saddening crossesTo love-crowned joy,Where Death shall have no mission,But Love his sweet fruitionWithout alloy."

A PRICELESS GIFT

'Twas much he asked – a virgin heartUnknown to worldly ways.What could he give? Ah, well he knewHe lacked sweet virtue's praise.The virgin heart was given to himWithout a doubting thought,When, lo! through seeming sacrificeA miracle was wrought;A miracle of love and grace,Revealing woman's power;For, clothed in purity, he roseTo meet the coming hour.

THE OCEAN'S MOAN

Last night the ocean's moanWas to my earsThe deep sad undertoneOf vanished years,Bearing a burden,A bliss unattained,A strife and a longing,A life sad and pained,To the shores vast and freeOf eternity's sea.But in that undertoneOf restless pain,Came at length a monotoneOf sweet refrain,Bearing a passionLong known to the sea —Told in moments of silenceA sad heart to free —To be borne me some dayIn the ocean's own way.And this rare monotoneOf mysteryWas now that passion-moanOf secrecy,Bearing, "I love her,My moaning ne'er'll ceaseTill she on my breastFindeth love's perfect peace;Till she on my breastFindeth love's perfect rest."Oh, is there tenderer toneFor mortal ear,Than such a monotone,Distinct and clear,Bearing its comfort,Its heavenly peace,Its help for all sorrow,Its heart-pain release,To a soul waiting longFor love's tender, true song?And now the ocean's moanIs to my earsThe dearest undertoneOf all the years,Bearing a memory,A sweet bliss attained,A gratified longing,A life's joys regained,To the shores vast and freeOf eternity's sea.

Boar's Head, Hampton, N.H.

LOVE'S FLOWER

Love's sweet and tender flowerOf pure, perennial life,Blooms ever fresh in powerO'er all earth's wrong and strife.Pluck not in haste, young man,This flower of wondrous hue,Nor dare to crush, nor fail to scan.Such beauty ever new.Gaze at it long, young girl,And guard its sacred blush;

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"Fairfields" is but another name for "Porter Manse."

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