No More Learning

FAMINE AND HARVEST

[PLYMOUTH PLANTATION: 1622]


The strong and the tender,
The young and the old,
Unto Death we must render;--
Our silver, our gold.

To break their long sleeping
No voice may avail:
They hear not our weeping--
Our famished love's wail.

Yea, those whom we cherish
Depart, day by day.
Soon we, too, shall perish
And crumble to clay.

And the vine and the berry
Above us will bloom;
The wind shall make merry
While we lie in gloom.

Fear not! Though thou starvest,
Provision is made:
God gathers His harvest
When our hopes fade!






THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED


Do you remember, my sweet, absent son,
How in the soft June days forever done
You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high;
And when I lifted you, soft came your cry,--
"Put me 'way up--'way, 'way up in blue sky"?

I laughed and said I could not;--set you down,
Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown
Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by.
Another Father now, more strong than I,
Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky.






THE FLOWN SOUL

(FRANCIS HAWTHORNE LATHROP)

FEBRUARY 6, 1881


Come not again! I dwell with you
Above the realm of frost and dew,
Of pain and fire, and growth to death.
I dwell with you where never breath
Is drawn, but fragrance vital flows
From life to life, even as a rose
Unseen pours sweetness through each vein
And from the air distills again.
You are my rose unseen; we live
Where each to other joy may give
In ways untold, by means unknown
And secret as the magnet-stone.

For which of us, indeed, is dead?
No more I lean to kiss your head--
The gold-red hair so thick upon it;
Joy feels no more the touch that won it
When o'er my brow your pearl-cool palm
In tenderness so childish, calm,
Crept softly, once. Yet, see, my arm
Is strong, and still my blood runs warm.
I still can work, and think and weep.
But all this show of life I keep
Is but the shadow of your shine,
Flicker of your fire, husk of your vine;
Therefore, you are not dead, nor I
Who hear your laughter's minstrelsy.
Among the stars your feet are set;
Your little feet are dancing yet
Their rhythmic beat, as when on earth.
So swift, so slight are death and birth!

Come not again, dear child. If thou
By any chance couldst break that vow
Of silence at thy last hour made;
If to this grim life unafraid
Thou couldst return, and melt the frost
Wherein thy bright limbs' power was lost;
Still would I whisper--since so fair
This silent comradeship we share--
Yes, whisper 'mid the unbidden rain
Of tears: "Come not, come not again! "






SUNSET AND SHORE


Birds that like vanishing visions go winging,
White, white in the flame of the sunset's burning,
Fly with the wild spray the billows are flinging,
Blend, blend with the nightfall, and fade, unreturning!

Fire of the heaven, whose splendor all-glowing
Soon, soon shall end, and in darkness must perish;
Sea-bird and flame-wreath and foam lightly blowing;--
Soon, soon tho' we lose you, your beauty we cherish.

Visions may vanish, the sweetest, the dearest;
Hush'd, hush'd be the voice of love's echo replying;
Spirits may leave us that clung to us nearest:--
Love, love, only love dwells with us undying!






THE PHOEBE-BIRD

(A REPLY)


Yes, I was wrong about the phoebe-bird.
Two songs it has, and both of them I've heard:
I did not know those strains of joy and sorrow
Came from one throat, or that each note could borrow
Strength from the other, making one more brave
And one as sad as rain-drops on a grave.

But thus it is. Two songs have men and maidens:
One is for hey-day, one is sorrow's cadence.
Our voices vary with the changing seasons
Of life's long year, for deep and natural reasons.