Part 14

Her lovely face, lit by the splendour That glorified landscape and sea, Woke thoughts that were daring and tender: Did her thoughts, too, rest upon me?

“Oh, tell me,” I cried, growing bolder, “Have I in your musings a place?” “Well, yes,” she said over her shoulder: “I was thinking of nothing in space.”

POEMS OF THE WEEK

SUNDAY

Lie still and rest, in that serene repose That on this holy morning comes to those Who have been burdened with the cares which make The sad heart weary and the tired head ache. Lie still and rest— God’s day of all is best.

MONDAY

Awake! arise! Cast off thy drowsy dreams! Red in the East, behold the Morning gleams. “As Monday goes, so goes the week,” dames say. Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day. And see! thy neighbour Already seeks his labour.

TUESDAY

Another morning’s banners are unfurled— Another day looks smiling on the world. It holds new laurels for thy soul to win; Mar not its grace by slothfulness or sin, Nor sad, away, Send it to yesterday.

WEDNESDAY

Half-way unto the end—the week’s high noon. The morning hours do speed away so soon! And, when the noon is reached, however bright, Instinctively we look toward the night. The glow is lost Once the meridian cross’d.

THURSDAY

So well the week has sped, hast thou a friend, Go spend an hour in converse. It will lend New beauty to thy labours and thy life To pause a little sometimes in the strife. Toil soon seems rude That has no interlude.

FRIDAY

From feasts abstain; be temperate, and pray; Fast if thou wilt; and yet, throughout the day, Neglect no labour and no duty shirk: Not many hours are left thee for thy work— And it were meet That all should be complete.

SATURDAY

Now with the almost finished task make haste. So near the night thou hast no time to waste. Post up accounts, and let thy Soul’s eyes look For flaws and errors in Life’s ledger-book. When labours cease, How sweet the sense of peace!

GHOSTS

There are ghosts in the room. As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there They come out of the gloom, And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair.

There’s the ghost of a Hope That lighted my days with a fanciful glow. In her hand is the rope That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.

But her ghost comes to-night, With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes, And it stands in the light, And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

There’s the ghost of a Joy, A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much, And the hands that destroy Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

There’s the ghost of a Love, Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest, But he towers above All the others—this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.

I am weary, and fain Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host Make my struggle in vain, In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.

FLEEING AWAY

My thoughts soar not as they ought to soar, Higher and higher on soul-lent wings; But ever and often, and more and more They are dragged down earthward by little things, By little troubles and little needs, As a lark might be tangled among the weeds.

My purpose is not what it ought to be, Steady and fixed, like a star on high, But more like a fisherman’s light at sea; Hither and thither it seems to fly— Sometimes feeble, and sometimes bright, Then suddenly lost in the gloom of night.

My life is far from my dream of life— Calmly contented, serenely glad; But, vexed and worried by daily strife, It is always troubled, and ofttimes sad— And the heights I had thought I should reach one day Grow dimmer and dimmer, and farther away.