A Few More Verses. Coolidge Susan

      SHE seemed so young, so young to die!

      Life, like a dawning, rosy day,

      Stretched from her fair young feet away,

      And beams from the just-risen sun

      Beckoned and wooed and urged her on.

      She met the light with happy eyes,

      Fresh with the dews of Paradise,

      And held her sweet hands out to grasp

      The joys that crowded to her clasp,

      Each a surprise, and all so dear:

      How could we guess that night was near?

      She seemed so young, so young to die!

      When the old go, we sadly say,

      ’Tis Nature’s own appointed way;

      The ripe grain gathered in must be,

      The ripe fruit from the laden tree,

      The sear leaf quit the bare, brown bough;

      Summer is done, ’tis autumn now,

      God’s harvest-time; the sheaves among,

      His angels raise the reaping-song,

      And though we grieve, we would not stay

      The shining sickles on their way.

      She seemed so young, so young to die!

      We question wearily and vain

      What never answer shall make plain:

      “Can it be this the good Lord meant

      Which frustrates his benign intent?

      Why was she planted like a flower

      In mortal sun and mortal shower,

      And left to grow, and taught to bloom,

      To gather beauty and perfume;

      Why were we set to train and tend

      If only for this bootless end?”

      She seemed so young, so young to die!

      But age and youth, – what do they mean

      Measured by the eternal scheme

      Of God, and sifted out and laid

      In his unerring scales and weighed?

      How may we test their sense or worth, —

      These poor glib phrases, born of earth,

      False accents of a long exile, —

      Or know the angels do not smile,

      Holding out truth’s immortal gauge,

      To hear us prate of youth and age?

      She seemed so young, so young to die!

      So needed here by every one,

      Nor there; for heaven has need of none.

      And yet, how can we tell or say?

      Heaven is so far, so far away!

      How do we know its blissful store

      Is full and needeth nothing more?

      It may be that some tiny space

      Lacked just that little angel face,

      Or the full sunshine missed one ray

      Until our darling found the way.

      I OUGHT to be kinder always,

      For the light of his kindly eyes;

      I ought to be wiser always,

      Because he is so just and wise;

      And gentler in all my bearing,

      And braver in all my daring,

      For the patience that in him lies.

      I must be as true as the Heaven

      While he is as true as the day,

      Nor balance the gift with the given,

      For he giveth to me alway.

      And I must be firm and steady;

      For my Love, he is that already,

      And I follow him as I may.

      O dear little golden fetter,

      You bind me to difficult things;

      But my soul while it strives grows better,

      And I feel the stirring of wings

      As I stumble, doubting and dreading,

      Up the path of his stronger treading,

      Intent on his beckonings.

      I SAW the gardener bring and strew

      Gray ashes where blush roses grew.

      The fair, still roses bent them low,

      Their pink cheeks dimpled all with dew,

      And seemed to view with pitying air

      The dim gray atoms lying there.

      Ah, bonny rose, all fragrances,

      And life and hope and quick desires,

      What can you need or gain from these

      Poor ghosts of long-forgotten fires?

      The rose-tree leans, the rose-tree sighs,

      And wafts this answer subtly wise:

      “All death, all life are mixed and blent,

      Out of dead lives fresh life is sent,

      Sorrow to these is growth for me,

      And who shall question God’s decree?”

      Ah, dreary life, whose gladsome spark

      No longer leaps in song and fire,

      But lies in ashes gray and stark,

      Defeated hopes and dead desire,

      Useless and dull and all bereft, —

      Take courage, this one thing is left:

      Some happier life may use thee so,

      Some flower bloom fairer on its tree,

      Some sweet or tender thing may grow

      To stronger life because of thee;

      Content to play a humble part,

      Give of the ashes of thy heart,

      And haply God, whose dear decrees

      Taketh from those to give to these,

      Who draws the snow-drop from the snows

      May from those ashes feed a rose.

      WHAT is the dearest happiness of heaven?

      Ah, who shall say!

      So many wonders, and so wondrous fair,

      Await the soul who, just arrivèd there

      In trance of safety, sheltered and forgiven,

      Opens