Thou who wouldst be wise

Open wide thine eyes;

In each sunny hour

Pluck the one perfect flower!

"BEYOND ALL BEAUTY IS THE UNKNOWN GRACE"

BEYOND all beauty is the unknown grace;
Above all bliss a higher; and above
The lovingest is a more loving love

That shows not the still anguish of its face.
Than death there is a deathlier. Brief space
Behind despair the blacker shadows rove;
Beneath all life a deeper life doth move:
So, friends of mine, when empty is my place,-
For me no more grass grows, dead leaves are stirred,—
And still the songs that once you loved to hear;

True friends whom well I thank for every word Of heart-help, praise or blame, as you draw near I pray that 'mid your tears this may be heard: "For what he never did he is most dear."

THE VIOLET

A VIOLET lay in the grass,
A tear in its golden eye;

And it said: "Alas and alas!

The night is over and gone,
Another day is anigh,

And I am alone, alone!

There is none to care if I die,

There is none to be glad that I live;

The lovers they pass me by

THE VIOLET

And never a glance they give.
And I could love so well, so well!
If one would but tarry and tell

A tale that was told to me only:
My lover might go his ways,

But through all the nights and the days
I should never again be lonely!"

Then sudden there fell a look
Into that violet's heart.

It lifted its face with a start;

It arose; it trembled and shook.

"At last, O, at last!" it cried;

Down drooped its head, and it died.

Is God in Heaven! Is the light

Of the moons, and the stars, and the suns, or the Evil One's,

His

Is He cruel, or mad, or right!

The lily that grew by the wall,
Its heart was heavy with bliss.
In the night it heard a call;
It listened, it felt a kiss;
Then a loving Wind did fall

On its breast, and shiver with gladness:
The morning brought love's madness
To light, and the lover fled.

But the eyes that burned in his head
Shot love through each and all,

For the lily that bloomed by the wall
Shone sweet in every place,

In the earth, and the sky above,
And the lover saw never the face
Of the flower that died of love.

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Hush! Hush! Let no sorrow be spoken!
Tho' it perish, no pity shall flout it.
Better to die heart-broken

Of love than to live without it!

THE YOUNG POET

I

WHEN I am dead and buried, then
There will be mourning among men.
I hear one musing on my dust:
"How hard he fought to win his crust."
And one, "He was too sensitive
In this cold-wintered world to live."
Another, weeping, "Ah, how few
So gentle-hearted and so true."
"I saw him only once, and yet
I think I never shall forget

The strange, sad look in those young eyes,"
Another says, and then with wise

And solemn-shaking head- "No doubt

The hot heart burned that frail frame out."

II

Good friends, a discount on your grief!

A little present help were worth
More than a sorrow-stricken earth

When I am but a withered leaf.

An outstretched hand were better to me

Than your glib graveyard sympathy.

You need not pity and rhyme and paint me,

You need not weep for, and sigh for, and saint me

After you've starved me driven me dead.

Friends! do you hear? What I want is bread!

A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN

A SONG OF EARLY AUTUMN

WHEN late in summer the streams run yellow,
Burst the bridges and spread into bays;
When berries are black and peaches are mellow,
And hills are hidden by rainy haze;

When the goldenrod is golden still,

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But the heart of the sunflower is darker and sadder; When the corn is in stacks on the slope of the hill, And slides o'er the path the stripèd adder;

When butterflies flutter from clover to thicket,
Or wave their wings on the drooping leaf;

When the breeze comes shrill with the call of the cricket,
Grasshoppers' rasp, and rustle of sheaf;

When high in the field the fern-leaves wrinkle,

And brown is the grass where the mowers have mown; When low in the meadow the cow-bells tinkle,

And small brooks crinkle o'er stock and stone.

When heavy and hollow the robin's whistle
And shadows are deep in the heat of noon;
When the air is white with the down o' the thistle,
And the sky is red with the harvest moon;

O, then be chary, young Robert and Mary,
No time let slip, not a moment wait!

If the fiddle would play it must stop its tuning,
And they who would wed must be done with their

mooning;

So, let the churn rattle, see well to the cattle,

And pile the wood by the barn-yard gate!

THE BUILDING OF THE CHIMNEY

I

My chimney is builded

On a hill by the sea,

At the edge of a wood

That the sunset has gilded

Since time was begun

And the earth first was done:

For mine and for me

And for you, John Burroughs,

My friend old and good,
At the edge of a wood

On a hill by the sea
My chimney is builded.

II

My chimney gives forth
All its heat to the north,

While its right arm it reaches
Toward the meadows and beaches,

And its left it extends

To its pine-tree friends.

All its heat to the north
My chimney gives forth.

III

My chimney is builded

Of red and gray granite:

Of great split boulders

Are its thighs and its shoulders;

Its mouth - try to span it.