When I am dead, and all will soon forget
My words, and face, and ways —
I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet
Adown thy after days.

I die first, and you will see my grave;
But child! you must not cry;
For my dead hand will brightest blessings wave
O'er you from yonder sky.

You must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears
Tho' sleeping in a tomb:
My rest would not be rest, if in your years
There floated clouds of gloom.

For — from the first — your soul was dear to mine,
And dearer it became,
Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine
Thy name — my child! thy name.

You came to me in girlhood pure and fair,
And in your soul — and face —
I saw a likeness to another there
In every trace and grace.

You came to me in girlhood — and you brought
An image back to me;
No matter what — or whose — I often sought
Another's soul in thee.

Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became —
Gentle though I be —
Gentler than ever when I called thy name,
Gentlest to thee?

You came to me in girlhood; as your guide
I watched your spirit's ways;
We walked God's holy valleys side by side,
And so went on the days.

And so went on the years — 'tis five and more;
Your soul is fairer now;
A light as of a sunset on a shore
Is falling on my brow —

Is falling, soon to fade; when I am dead
Think this, my child, of me:
I never said — I never could have said —
Ungentle words to thee.

I treated you as I would treat a flower,
I watched you with such care;
And from my lips God heard in many an hour
Your name in many a prayer.

I watched the flower's growth; so fair it grew,
On not a leaf a stain;
Your soul to purest thoughts so sweetly true;
I did not watch in vain.

I guide you still — in my steps you tread still;
Towards God these ways are set;
'Twill soon be over: child! when I am dead
I'll watch and guide you yet.

'Tis better far that I should go before,
And you awhile should stay;
But I will wait upon the golden shore
To meet my child some day.

When I am dead; in some lone after time,
If crosses come to thee,
You'll think — remembering this simple rhyme —
"He holds a crown for me."

I guide you here — I go before you there;
But here or there — I know —
Whether the roses, or the thorny crown you wear
I'll watch where'er you go,

And wait until you come; when I am dead
Think, sometimes, child, of this:
You must not weep — follow where I led,
I wait for you in bliss.

God in the Night

Deep in the dark I hear the feet of God:
He walks the world; He puts His holy hand
On every sleeper — only puts His hand —
Within it benedictions for each one —
Then passes on; but ah! whene'er He meets
A watcher waiting for Him, He is glad.
(Does God, like man, feel lonely in the dark?)
He rests His hand upon the watcher's brow —
But more than that, He leaves His very breath
Upon the watcher's soul; and more than this,
He stays for holy hours where watchers pray;
And more than that, He ofttimes lifts the veils
That hide the visions of the world unseen.
The brightest sanctities of highest souls
Have blossomed into beauty in the dark.
How extremes meet! the very darkest crimes
That blight the souls of men are strangely born
Beneath the shadows of the holy night.

Deep in the dark I hear his holy feet —
Around Him rustle archangelic wings;
He lingers by the temple where His Christ
Is watching in His Eucharistic sleep;
And where poor hearts in sorrow cannot rest,
He lingers there to soothe their weariness.
Where mothers weep above the dying child,
He stays to bless the mother's bitter tears,
And consecrates the cradle of her child,
Which is to her her spirit's awful cross.
He shudders past the haunts of sin — yet leaves
E'er there a mercy for the wayward hearts.
Still as a shadow through the night He moves,
With hands all full of blessings, and with heart
All full of everlasting love; ah, me!
How God does love this poor and sinful world!

The stars behold Him as He passes on,
And arch His path of mercy with their rays;
The stars are grateful — He gave them their light,
And now they give Him back the light He gave.
The shadows tremble in adoring awe;
They feel His presence, and they know His face.
The shadows, too, are grateful — could they pray,
How they would flower all His way with prayers!
The sleeping trees wake up from all their dreams —
Were their leaves lips, ah, me! how they would sing
A grand Magnificat, as His Mary sang.
The lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowers
Watch their Creator as He passes on,
And mourn they have no hearts to love their God,
And sigh they have no souls to be beloved.
Man — only man — the image of his God —
Lets God pass by when He walks forth at night.

Poets

Poets are strange — not always understood
By many is their gift,
Which is for evil or for mighty good —
To lower or to lift.

Upon their spirits there hath come a breath;
Who reads their verse
Will rise to higher life, or taste of death
In blessing or in curse.

The Poet is great Nature's own high priest,
Ordained from very birth
To keep for hearts an everlasting feast —
To bless or curse the earth.

They cannot help but sing; they know not why
Their thoughts rush into song,
And float above the world, beneath the sky,
For right or for the wrong.

They are like angels — but some angels fell,
While some did keep their place;
Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell,
And God's or Satan's face

Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face,
In blessing or in blight,
And leaves upon your soul a grace or trace
Of sunlight or of night.

They move along life's uttermost extremes,
Unlike all other men;
And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams,
Like shadows in a glen.

They all are dreamers; in the day and night
Ever across their souls
The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright
In mystic rhythm rolls.

They live within themselves — they may not tell
What lieth deepest there;
Within their breast a heaven or a hell,
Joy or tormenting care.

They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways,
No matter what they seem;
The stars and sunlight of their nights and days
Move over them in dream.

They breathe it forth — their very spirit's breath —
To bless the world or blight;
To bring to men a higher life or death;
To give them light or night.

The words of some command the world's acclaim,
And never pass away,
While others' words receive no palm from fame,
And live but for a day.

But, live or die, their words leave their impress
Fore'er or for an hour,
And mark men's souls — some more and some the less —
With good's or evil's power.

A Legend

He walked alone beside the lonely sea,
The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face,
His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands
Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer.
And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair!
Brown sandals on His feet — His face downcast,
As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns.
His face looked like His Mother's — only hers
Had not those strange serenities and stirs
That paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow.
He wore the seamless robe His Mother made —
And as He gathered it about His breast,
The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice
Murmur, "Oh! My Mother" — the white sands felt
The touch of tender tears He wept the while.
He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals off
To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave —
For He had walked across the desert sands
All day long — and as He bathed His feet
He murmured to Himself, "Three years! three years!
And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come
And make you bleed; but, ah! that blood shall lave
All weary feet on all their thorny ways."
"Three years! three years!" He murmured still again,
"Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will —
My Father's will — biddeth Me bide that time."
A little fisher-boy came up the shore
And saw Him — and, nor bold, nor shy,
Approached, but when he saw the weary face,
Said mournfully to Him: "You look a-tired."
He placed His hand upon the boy's brown brow
Caressingly and blessingly — and said:
"I am so tired to wait." The boy spake not.
Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm
That had been sweeping on the farther shore,
Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell
At His feet and died; and then the boy said:
"Poor little bird," in such a piteous tone;
He took the bird and laid it in His hand,
And breathed on it — when to his amaze
The little fisher-boy beheld the bird
Flutter a moment and then fly aloft —
Its little life returned; and then he gazed
With look intensest on the wondrous face
(Ah! it was beautiful and fair) — and said:
"Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God."
He leaned down towards the boy and softly said:
"I am thy Christ." The day they followed Him,
With cross upon His shoulders, to His death,
Within the shadow of a shelt'ring rock
That little boy knelt down, and there adored,
While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified.

Thoughts

By sound of name, and touch of hand,
Thro' ears that hear, and eyes that see,
We know each other in this land,
How little must that knowledge be?

How souls are all the time alone,
No spirit can another reach;
They hide away in realms unknown,
Like waves that never touch a beach.

We never know each other here,
No soul can here another see —
To know, we need a light as clear
As that which fills eternity.

For here we walk by human light,
But there the light of God is ours,
Each day, on earth, is but a night;
Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours.

I call you thus — you call me thus —
Our mortal is the very bar
That parts forever each of us,
As skies, on high, part star from star.

A name is nothing but a name
For that which, else, would nameless be;
Until our souls, in rapture, claim
Full knowledge in eternity.

Lines ["The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,"]

The world is sweet, and fair, and bright,
And joy aboundeth everywhere,
The glorious stars crown every night,
And thro' the dark of ev'ry care
Above us shineth heaven's light.

If from the cradle to the grave
We reckon all our days and hours
We sure will find they give and gave
Much less of thorns and more of flowers;
And tho' some tears must ever lave

The path we tread, upon them all
The light of smiles forever lies,
As o'er the rains, from clouds that fall,
The sun shines sweeter in the skies.
Life holdeth more of sweet than gall

For ev'ry one: no matter who —
Or what their lot — or high or low;
All hearts have clouds — but heaven's blue
Wraps robes of bright around each woe;
And this is truest of the true:

That joy is stronger here than grief,
Fills more of life, far more of years,
And makes the reign of sorrow brief;
Gives more of smiles for less of tears.
Joy is life's tree — grief but its leaf.