TEARS IN SPRING

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Above the surf's wild roar

He darts as swiftly o'er,

But he who heard his cry of spring

Hears that no more, heeds not his wing.

How bright the skies that dally

Along day's cheerful arch,

And paint the sunset valley!

How redly buds the larch!
Blackbirds are singing,

Clear hylas ringing,

Over the meadow the frogs proclaim

The coming of Spring to boy and dame,

But not to me,

Nor thee!

And golden crowfoot's shining near,
Spring everywhere that shoots 't is clear,
A wail in the wind is all I hear;
A voice of woe for a lover's loss,
A motto for a travelling cross,

And yet it is mean to mourn for thee,
In the form of bird or blossom or bee.

Cold are the sods of the valley to-day
Where thou art sleeping,

That took thee back to thy native clay;
Cold, if above thee the grass is peeping
And the patient sunlight creeping,
While the bluebird sits on the locust-bough
Whose shadow is painted across thy brow,
And carols his welcome so sad and sweet
To the Spring that comes and kisses his feet.
William Ellery Channing.

SHE CAME AND WENT

As a twig trembles, which a bird
Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent,
So is my memory thrilled and stirred;
I only know she came and went.

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven,

The blue dome's measureless content,
So my soul held that moment's heaven;
I only know she came and went.

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps
The orchards full of bloom and scent,
So clove her May my wintry sleeps; -
I only know she came and went.

An angel stood and met my gaze,

Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays;

I only know she came and went.

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim,
And life's last oil is nearly spent,

One gush of light these eyes will brim,
Only to think she came and went.
James Russell Lowell.

MY LOVE

NoT as all other women are
Is she that to my soul is dear;
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening-star,
And yet her heart is ever near.

MY LOVE

Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,

And sweet they are as any tone

Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not,
Although no home were half so fair;

No simplest duty is forgot,

Life hath no dim and lowly spot

That doth not in her sunshine share.

She doeth little kindnesses,

Which most leave undone, or despise:
For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low-esteemèd in her eyes.

She hath no scorn of common things,
And, though she seem of other birth,
Round us her heart entwines and clings,
And patiently she folds her wings
To tread the humble paths of earth.

Blessing she is: God made her so,
And deeds of week-day holiness
Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
Nor hath she ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless.

She is most fair, and thereunto
Her life doth rightly harmonize;
Feeling or thought that was not true

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Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

She is a woman: one in whom
The springtime of her childish years
Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
Though knowing well that life hath room
For many blights and many tears.

I love her with a love as still
As a broad river's peaceful might,
Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Seems following its own wayward will,
And yet doth ever flow aright.

And, on its full, deep breast serene,
Like quiet isles my duties lie;

It flows around them and between,

And makes them fresh and fair and green,
Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

James Russell Lowell.

COMMEMORATION ODE

I

WEAK-winged is song,

Nor aims at that clear-ethered height
Whither the brave deed climbs for light:

We seem to do them wrong,

Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse Who in warm life-blood wrote their nobler verse, Our trivial song to honor those who come

With ears attuned to strenuous trump and drum,

COMMEMORATION ODE

And shaped in squadron-strophes their desire,
Live battle-odes whose lines were steel and fire:
Yet sometimes feathered words are strong,
A gracious memory to buoy up and save
From Lethe's dreamless ooze, the common grave
Of the unventurous throng.

II

To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes back
Her wisest Scholars, those who understood
The deeper teaching of her mystic tome,
And offered their fresh lives to make it good:
No lore of Greece or Rome,

No science peddling with the names of things,
Or reading stars to find inglorious fates,

Can lift our life with wings

Far from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits And lengthen out our dates

With that clear fame whose memory sings

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In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates: Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all!

Not such the trumpet-call

Of thy diviner mood,

That could thy sons entice

From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest
Of those half-virtues which the world calls best,
Into War's tumult rude;

But rather far that stern device

The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood
In the dim, unventured wood,
The VERITAS that lurks beneath

The letter's unprolific sheath,

Life of whate'er makes life worth living,