Light falls the rain-drop on the fallen leaf,
And light o'er harvest-plain and garnered sheaf —
But lightlier falls the touch of loving hands.
Light falls the dusk of mild midsummer night,
And light the first star's faltering lance of light
On glimmering lawns, – but lightlier loving hands.
And light the feathery flake of early snows,
Or wisp of thistle-down that no wind blows,
And light the dew, – but lightlier loving hands.
Light-falling dusk, or dew, or summer rain,
Or down of snow or thistle – all are vain, —
Far lightlier falls the touch of loving hands.
A TEST
'Twas a test I designed, in a quiet conceit
Of myself, and the thoroughly fixed and complete
Satisfaction I felt in the utter control
Of the guileless young heart of the girl of my soul.
So – we parted. I said it were better we should —
That she could forget me – I knew that she could;
For I never was worthy so tender a heart,
And so for her sake it were better to part.
She averted her gaze, and she sighed and looked sad
As I held out my hand – for the ring that she had —
With the bitterer speech that I hoped she might be
Resigned to look up and be happy with me.
'Twas a test, as I said – but God pity your grief,
At a moment like this when a smile of relief
Shall leap to the lips of the woman you prize,
And no mist of distress in her glorious eyes.
A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS
Chant me a rhyme of Christmas —
Sing me a jovial song, —
And though it is filled with laughter,
Let it be pure and strong.
Let it be clear and ringing,
And though it mirthful be,
Let a low, sweet voice of pathos
Run through the melody.
Sing of the hearts brimmed over
With the story of the day —
Of the echo of childish voices
That will not die away. —
Of the blare of the tasselled bugle,
And the timeless clatter and beat
Of the drum that throbs to muster
Squadrons of scampering feet. —
Of the wide-eyed look of wonder,
And the gurgle of baby-glee,
As the infant hero wrestles
From the smiling father's knee.
Sing the delights unbounded
Of the home unknown of care,
Where wealth as a guest abideth,
And want is a stranger there.
But O let your voice fall fainter,
Till, blent with a minor tone,
You temper your song with the beauty
Of the pity Christ hath shown:
And sing one verse for the voiceless;
And yet, ere the song be done,
A verse for the ears that hear not,
And a verse for the sightless one:
And one for the outcast mother,
And one for the sin-defiled
And hopeless sick man dying,
And one for his starving child.
For though it be time for singing
A merry Christmas glee,
Let a low, sweet voice of pathos
Run through the melody.
SUN AND RAIN
All day the sun and rain have been as friends,
Each vying with the other which shall be
Most generous in dowering earth and sea
With their glad wealth, till each, as it descends,
Is mingled with the other, where it blends
In one warm, glimmering mist that falls on me
As once God's smile fell over Galilee.
The lily-cup, filled with it, droops and bends
Like some white saint beside a sylvan shrine
In silent prayer; the roses at my feet,
Baptized with it as with a crimson wine,
Gleam radiant in grasses grown so sweet,
The blossoms lift, with tenderness divine,
Their wet eyes heavenward with these of mine.
WITH HER FACE
With her face between his hands!
Was it any wonder she
Stood atiptoe tremblingly?
As his lips along the strands
Of her hair went lavishing
Tides of kisses, such as swing
Love's arms to like iron bands. —
With her face between his hands!
And the hands – the hands that pressed
The glad face – Ah! where are they?
Folded limp, and laid away
Idly over idle breast?
He whose kisses drenched her hair,
As he caught and held her there,
In Love's alien, lost lands,
With her face between his hands?
Was it long and long ago,
When her face was not as now,
Dim with tears? nor wan her brow
As a winter-night of snow?
Nay, anointing still the strands
Of her hair, his kisses flow
Flood-wise, as she dreaming stands,
With her face between his hands.
MY NIGHT
Hush! hush! list, heart of mine, and hearken low!
You do not guess how tender is the Night,
And in what faintest murmurs of delight
Her deep, dim-throated utterances flow
Across the memories of long-ago!
Hark! do your senses catch the exquisite
Staccatos of a bird that dreams he sings?
Nay,