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The Diary Of An Old Soul. - Dedication
Sweet friends, receive my offering. You will find Against each worded page a white page set:-- This is the mirror of each friendly mind Reflecting that. In this book we are met. Make it, dear hearts, of worth to you indeed:-- Let your white page be ground, my print be seed, Growing to golden ears, that faith and hope shall feed. YOUR OLD SOUL
George MacDonald
Longing.
Look westward o'er the steaming rain-washed slopes, Now satisfied with sunshine, and beholdThose lustrous clouds, as glorious as our hopes, Softened with feathery fleece of downy gold, In all fantastic, huddled shapes uprolled,Floating like dreams, and melting silently,In the blue upper regions of pure sky.The eye is filled with beauty, and the heart Rejoiced with sense of life and peace renewed;And yet at such an hour as this, upstart Vague myriad longing, restless, unsubdued, And causeless tears from melancholy mood,Strange discontent with earth's and nature's best,Desires and yearnings that may find no rest.
Emma Lazarus
Too Late.
How should I know,That day when first we met,I Would be a dayI never can forget?And yet 'tis so.That clasp of hands that made my heartstrings thrill,Would not die out, but keeps vibrating still?How should I know?How should I know,That those bright eyes of thineWould haunt me yet?And through Grief's dark cloud shine,With that same glow?That thy sweet smile, so full of trust and love,Should, beaming still, a priceless solace prove?How should I know?How should I knowThat one so good and fair,Would condescendTo spare a thought, or care,For one so low?I dared not hope such bliss could be in store; -How dare I who had known no love before?How should I know?But now I know -Too lat...
John Hartley
Sonnet--Thoughts In Separation
We never meet; yet we meet day by day Upon those hills of life, dim and immense: The good we love, and sleep--our innocence.O hills of life, high hills! And higher than they,Our guardian spirits meet at prayer and play. Beyond pain, joy, and hope, and long suspense, Above the summits of our souls, far hence,An angel meets an angel on the way.Beyond all good I ever believed of thee Or thou of me, these always love and live.And though I fail of thy ideal of me,My angel falls not short. They greet each other. Who knows, they may exchange the kiss we give,Thou to thy crucifix, I to my mother.
Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell
Johanna
'Twas a balmy day in Autumn,In the drowsy, dreamy Autumn,When from out the quiet woodlandSounds of rustling leaves came only -Leaves that floated softly earthward -And the streamlets had a murmurSuch as wanders through our visionsIn the hushed and starry midnight -Low, soft murmur, full of music.With the small hand of her darlingClasped in her's, there came a motherTo an Artist - fondly askingFor the picture of her pet-lamb -Winsome pet-lamb full of child-life,Full of merry, ringing laughter -Laughter that went up unceasingLike the happy chime of streamletsSinging thro' some mountain valley, -Like the bird-song in the forestIn the time of early roses, -Like the tinkle of sweet watersDripping o'er a marble fou...
Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)
Reverie Of Mahomed Akram At The Tamarind Tank
The Desert is parched in the burning sunAnd the grass is scorched and white.But the sand is passed, and the march is done,We are camping here to-night. I sit in the shade of the Temple walls, While the cadenced water evenly falls, And a peacock out of the Jungle calls To another, on yonder tomb. Above, half seen, in the lofty gloom, Strange works of a long dead people loom,Obscene and savage and half effaced -An elephant hunt, a musicians' feast -And curious matings of man and beast;What did they mean to the men who are long since dust? Whose fingers traced, In this arid waste,These rioting, twisted, figures of love and lust.Strange, weird things that no man may say,Things Humanity hides away; - ...
Adela Florence Cory Nicolson
The Old Year and the New.
Low at my feet there lies to-night A crushed and withered rose;Within its heart of fading red No crimson fire glows;For o'er its leaves the frost of death Steals like an icy breath;And soon 't will vanish from my sight, A thing of gloom and death.Ah! beauteous flower, once thou wert My pleasure and my pride;And now when thou art old and worn I will not turn aside;But gently o'er thy faded leaves I'll shed one kindly tear;That thou wilt know, though dead and gone, To memory thou art dear.Before my gaze there lies to-night A rose-bud fresh and fair;And like the breath of dewy morn Its fragrance scents the air.This fragile flower I fain would pluck With hand most kind yet b...
Fannie Isabelle Sherrick
Iris, Her Book
I pray thee by the soul of her that bore thee,By thine own sister's spirit I implore thee,Deal gently with the leaves that lie before thee!For Iris had no mother to infold her,Nor ever leaned upon a sister's shoulder,Telling the twilight thoughts that Nature told her.She had not learned the mystery of awakingThose chorded keys that soothe a sorrow's aching,Giving the dumb heart voice, that else were breaking.Yet lived, wrought, suffered. Lo, the pictured tokenWhy should her fleeting day-dreams fade unspoken,Like daffodils that die with sheaths unbroken?She knew not love, yet lived in maiden fancies, -Walked simply clad, a queen of high romances,And talked strange tongues with angels in her trances.Twin-souled she seemed,...
Oliver Wendell Holmes
When Abroad In The World.
When abroad in the world thou appearest. And the young and the lovely are there,To my heart while of all thou'rt the dearest. To my eyes thou'rt of all the most fair. They pass, one by one, Like waves of the sea, That say to the Sun, "See, how fair we can be." But where's the light like thine, In sun or shade to shine?No--no, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee, Nothing like thee.Oft, of old, without farewell or warning, Beauty's self used to steal from the skies;Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning, And post down to earth in disguise; But, no matter what shroud Around her might be, Men peeped through the cloud, ...
Thomas Moore
The Rosebud
In June I brought her roses, and she cuptOne slim bud in her hand and cherisht it,And put it to her mouth. Rose and she suptEach other's sweetness; but the flower was litBy her kind eyes, and glowed. Then in her breastShe laid it blushing, warm and doubly blest.
Maurice Henry Hewlett
Nancy - A Song.
You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presumeThat you cherish a secret affection for me?When we see the Flow'rs bud, don't we look for the Bloom?Then, sweetest, attend, while I answer to thee.When we Young Men with pastimes the Twilight beguile,I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy:And observe, that whatever occasions the smile,You give me a glance; but provokingly coy.Last Month, when wild Strawberries pluckt in the Grove,Like beads on the tall seeded grass you had strung;You gave me the choicest; I hop'd 'twas for Love;And I told you my hopes while the Nightingale sung.Remember the Viper: - 'twas close at your feet;How you started, and threw yourself into my arms;Not a Strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweetAs the li...
Robert Bloomfield
Lippo.
Now we must part, my Lippo. Even so,I grieve to see thy sudden pained surprise;Gaze not on me with such accusing eyes -'T was thine own hand which dealt dear Love's death-blow.I loved thee fondly yesterday. Till thenThy heart was like a covered golden cupAlways above my eager lip held up.I fancied thou wert not as other men.I knew that heart was filled with Love's sweet wine,Pressed wholly for my drinking. And my lipGrew parched with thirsting for one nectared sipOf what, denied me, seemed a draught divine.Last evening, in the gloaming, that cup spilledIts precious contents. Even to the leesWere offered to me, saying, "Drink of these!"And when I saw it empty, Love was killed.No word was left unsaid, no act undone,T...
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
All That Love Asks
"All that I ask," says Love, "is just to standAnd gaze, unchided, deep in thy dear eyes;For in their depths lies largest Paradise. Yet, if perchance one pressure of thy handBe granted me, then joy I thought complete Were still more sweet." "All that I ask," says Love, "all that I ask,Is just thy hand clasp. Could I brush thy cheekAs zephyrs brush a rose leaf, words are weak To tell the bliss in which my soul would bask.There is no language but would desecrate A joy so great." "All that I ask, is just one tender touchOf that soft cheek. Thy pulsing palm in mine,Thy dark eyes lifted in a trust divine And those curled lips that tempt me overmuchTurned where I may not seize the supreme bliss Of one mad ...
To The Girls Of The Unions.
Girls, we love you, and love Asks you to give againThat which draws it above, Beautiful, without stain.Give us weariless faith In our Cause pure, passionate,Dearer than life and death, Dear as the love that's it!Give to the man who turns Traitrous hands or forlornBack from the plough that burns, Give him pitiless scorn!Let him know that no wife Would bear him a fearless childTo hate and loathe the life Of a leprous father defiled.Girls, we love you, and love Asks you to give againThat which draws it above, Beautiful, without stain!
Francis William Lauderdale Adams
The Kiss.
Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss,On which my soul's beloved sworeThat there should come a time of bliss,When she would mock my hopes no more.And fancy shall thy glow renew,In sighs at morn, and dreams at night,And none shall steal thy holy dewTill thou'rt absolved by rapture's rite.Sweet hours that are to make me blest,Fly, swift as breezes, to the goal,And let my love, my more than soul,Come blushing to this ardent breast.Then, while in every glance I drinkThe rich overflowing of her mind,Oh! let her all enamored sinkIn sweet abandonment resigned,Blushing for all our struggles past,And murmuring, "I am thine at last!"
The Emigrant Mother
Once in a lonely hamlet I sojournedIn which a Lady driven from France did dwell;The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,In friendship she to me would often tell.This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,Where she was childless, daily would repairTo a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,For sake of a young Child whose home was there.Once having seen her clasp with fond embraceThis Child, I chanted to myself a lay,Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to traceSuch things as she unto the Babe might say:And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,My song the workings of her heart expressed.I"Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,One moment let me be thy mother!An infant's face and looks are thine,And sure a ...
William Wordsworth
His Place.
So all things come to our mind at last,He is close by your side in the twilight gloom,And you two are alone in the dim old room,Yet he is mute, as you bade him be, time past.You bade him to weary you, never againWith his idle love, in truth he was wise,For he spake no more, although in his eyesYou read, you fancied, a language of pain.But this is past, and vex you he never will,With loving glance, or look of sad reproach;His lips move not, smile not at your approach;The flowers he clasps are not more calm and still.Your favorite flowers he has heard you praise,Purple pansies, and lilies creamy white;But he offers them not to you to-night,He troubles you not, he has learned "his place."You wished to teach him that lesson,...
Marietta Holley
Blue Roses
Roses red and roses whitePlucked I for my love's delight.She would none of all my posies,Bade me gather her blue roses.Half the world I wandered through,Seeking where such flowers grew.Half the world unto my questAnswered me with laugh and jest.Home I came at wintertide,But my silly love had diedSeeking with her latest breathRoses from the arms of Death.It may be beyond the graveShe shall find what she would have.Mine was but an idle quest,Roses white and red are best!
Rudyard