A Dream That Was Not All A Dream.

Through the half-curtained window stole
An Autumn sunset's glow,
As languid on my couch I lay
With pulses weak and low.

And then methought a presence stood,
With shining feet and fair,
Amid the waves of golden light
That rippled through the air,

And laid upon my heaving breast,
With earnest glance and true,
A babe, whose fair and gentle brow
No shade of sorrow knew.

A solemn joy was in my heart,--
Immortal life was given
To Earth, upon her battle-field
To discipline for Heaven.

Soft music thrilled the quiet room,--
An unseen host were nigh,
Who left the infant pilgrim at
The threshold of our sky.

A new, strange love woke in my heart,
Defying all control,
As on the soft air rose and fell
That birth-hymn for a soul!

And now again the Autumn skies,
As on that evening, shine,
When, from a trance of agony,
I woke to joy divine.

That boundless love is in my heart,
That birth-hymn on the air;
I clasp in mine, with grateful faith,
A tiny hand in prayer.

And bless the God who guides my way,
That, mid this world so wide,
I day by day am walking with
An angel by my side.

Mary Gardiner Horsford

Mary Gardiner Horsford was an American poet born in Albany, New York. She was known for her thoughtful and evocative poetry. Gardiner displayed a remarkable talent for literary expression from an early age and contributed to various literary magazines. However, her life was tragically cut short when she passed away at the young age of 31. Despite her brief life, her works left a lasting impression on American literature.

Mary Gardiner Horsford

The Dying Year

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

A Thought Of The Stars.

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

To My Sister. On Her Birthday.

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

The Voice Of The Dead.

Mary Gardiner Horsford, Simple Poetry

English

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A Thought Of The Stars.

I remember once, when a careless child,
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And I stole to my mother's knee,

With a handful of stemless violets, wet
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And asked of the wonderful points of light
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She told me of numberless worlds, that rolled
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The Daughter Of Jephthah Among The Mountains.

Night bent o'er the mountains
With aspect serene;
The deep waters slept
'Neath the moon's pallid sheen,
And the stars in their courses
Moved noiseless on high,
As a soul, when it cleaveth
In thought the blue sky.

The low winds were spent
With the fever of day,
And stirred scarce a leaf
Of the green wood's array;
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Hovered light on the air,
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Sleep hushed in the city
The tumult and strife,
And calmed in the spirit
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Lifted its snow,
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Wakened earth with its glow.

Beneath the dark cedars,
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The First Look.

I heard the strokes of the midnight bell
As they thrilled the quiet air,
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Laden with fragrance and warmth and blight.

I knew that scarcely an hour before,
With plaintive and feeble wail,
A spirit had entered the gates of time,
A being helpless and frail;
That cradled beside me the stranger lay,
Though I had not dared o'er her face to pray.

But roused by the voice of the midnight chime,
O'er the little one I bent,
And soft, sweet eyes were upraised to mine,
As blue as the firmament, -
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Or the chastened light of the moonbeam's ray.

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Minnie

    "And Jesu called a little child unto him."
                MATT. xviii. 2.


Oh, my blossom, my darling, whose dimpled hands are    cold!
Oh, my baby, my treasure, laid under the green mould!
Earth pressed on thy closed eyelids, and on thy sunny hair,
And folded hands, and smiling lips, so exquisitely fair.

Cold and dark are the night dews around thy grassy bed,
Instead of warm and loving arms beneath thy sunny    head;
Oh, my blossom, my darling, the long nights through, awake,
I stretch my empty arms for thee,--my heart--my heart will break.

The autumn leaves are falling ungathered on the hill,
The soft October sun is bright, but the little hands are still;
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The Wakeful Sleeper

    When things are holding wonted pace
    In wonted paths, without a trace
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    Breaks common life asunder.

    Howe'er it comes, whate'er its door,
    It makes you ponder something more--
    Unseen with seen things linking:
    To neighbours met one festive night,
    Was given a quaint and lovely sight,
    That set some of them thinking.

    They stand, in music's fetters bound
    By a clear brook of warbled sound,
    A canzonet of Haydn,
    When the door slowly comes ajar--
    A little further--just as far
    As shows a tiny maiden.

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The Deformed Artist.

The twilight o'er Italia's sky
Had spread a shadowy veil,
And one by one the solemn stars
Looked forth, serene and pale;
As quietly the waning light
Through a high casement stole,
And fell on one with silver hair,
Who shrived a passing soul.

No costly pomp or luxury
Relieved that chamber's gloom,
But glowing forms, by limner's art
Created, thronged the room:
And as the low winds carried far
The chime for evening prayer,
The dying painter's earnest tones
Fell on the languid air.

"The spectral form of Death is nigh,
The thread of life is spun:
Ave Maria! I have looked
Upon my latest sun.
And yet 't is not with pale disease
This frame is worn away;
Nor yet - nor yet with length of years; -
A child but yesterday,"

Mary Gardiner Horsford