Some Verses. Whitney Helen Hay

      I will not look for him—I will not hear

      My heart's loud beating, as I strain to see

      Across the rain forlorn and hopelessly,

      Nor starting, think 'tis he that draws so near.

      I will forget how tenderly and dear

      He might in coming hold his arms to me,

      For I will prove what woman's pride can be

      When faint love lingers in the darkness drear.

      I will not—Ah, but should he come to-night

      I think my life might break thro' very bliss,

      This little will should so be torn apart

      That all my soul might fail in golden light

      And let me die—So do I long for this.

      Ah, love, thine eyes!—Nay, love—Thy heart, thy heart!

      I have a dream, that somewhere in the days,

      Since when a myriad suns have burned and died,

      There was a time my soul was not for pride

      Of spendthrift youth, the pensioner who pays

      Dole for the pain of searching thro' the haze

      Where joy lies hidden. As the puff balls ride,

      The wandering wind across the Summer's side

      So winged my spirit in a golden blaze

      Of pure and careless Present—Future naught

      But a sad dotard's wail—and I was young,

      Who now am old. Now years like flashes seem,

      Lambent or grey on the great wall of Thought—

      This is a song a poet may have sung—

      No proof remains, I have but dreamed a dream.

      Ah love, my love, upon this alien shore

      I lean and watch the pale uneasy ships

      Slip thro' the waving mist in strange eclipse,

      Like spirits of some time and land of yore.

      I did not think my heart could love thee more,

      And yet, when lightlier than a swallow dips,

      The wind lays ghostly kisses on my lips

      I seem to know of love the eternal core.

      Here is no throbbing of impassioned breath

      To beat upon my cheek, no pulsing heart

      Which might be silenced by the touch of Death,

      No smile which other smile has softly kissed

      Or doting gaze which Time must draw apart,

      But spirit's spirit in the trailing mist.

      High on the mountain's slope I pause and turn—

      Over my head, by the rough crag-points high,

      Seems rent and torn the tender hovering sky,

      Till almost—thro'—I see a Heaven-spark burn;

      Then downward to the sleeping world I yearn

      Whose eyes so heavy droop they may not try

      To catch the higher gleam—and live thereby—

      Youth passes graveward—and they never learn.

      Then faint with brooding o'er a careless earth

      I turn to Nature and her broad warm breast,

      Strive for a friendship with her sun-burnt mirth,

      Teach my sad soul to catch her cadence deep,

      Dream that in her absorbed my heart must rest;

      But Nature smiles, and turns once more in sleep.

      Beloved, when the tides of life run low

      As sobbing echoes of a dead refrain,

      And I may sit and watch the silent rain

      And muse upon the fulness of my woe,

      Then is my burden lighter, for I know

      The roses of my heart shall bloom again

      The fairer for this plenitude of pain,

      And Summer shall forget the chilly snow.

      But when life calls me to its revels gay

      And I must face the world's wide-gazing eyes

      Nor find sweet rest by night or peace by day,

      E'en seems your love, where I would turn for aid,

      As distant as the blue in sunny skies;

      Then am I very lonely and afraid.

      Earth holds no sweeter secret anywhere

      Than this my brook, that lisps along the green

      Of mossy channels, where slim birch trees lean

      Like tall pale ladies whose delicious hair

      Lures and invites the kiss of wanton air.

      The smooth soft grasses, delicate between

      The rougher stalks, by waifs alone are seen,

      Shy things that live in sweet seclusion there.

      And is it still the same, and do these eyes

      Of every silver ripple meet the trees

      That bend above like guarding emerald skies?

      I turn—who read the city's beggared book

      And hear across the moan of many seas