A Spirit Present
IF, coming from that unknown sphere
Where I believe thou art,--
The world unseen which girds our world
So close, yet so apart,--
Thy soul's soft call unto my soul
Electrical could reach,
And mortal and immortal blend
In one familiar speech,--
What wouldst thou say to me? wouldst ask
What, since did me befall?
Or close this chasm of cruel years
Between us--knowing all?
Wouldst love me--thy pure eyes seeing that
God only saw beside?
O, love me! 'T was so hard to live,
So easy to have died.
If, while this dizzy whirl of life
A moment pausing stayed,
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Violets
SENT IN A LITTLE BOX.
LET them lie, yes, let them lie,
They'll be dead to-morrow:
Lift the lid up quietly
As you'd lift the mystery
Of a shrouded sorrow.
Let them lie, the fragrant things,
Their sweet souls thus giving:
Let no breezes' ambient wings,
And no useless water-springs
Lure them into living.
They have lived--they live no more:
Nothing can requite them
For the gentle life they bore
And up-yielded in full store
While it did delight them.
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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North Wind
LOUD wind, strong wind, sweeping o'er the mountains,
Fresh wind, free wind, blowing from the sea,
Pour forth thy vials like streams from airy fountains,
Draughts of life to me.
Clear wind, cold wind, like a Northern giant,
Stars brightly threading thy cloud-driven hair,
Thrilling the blank night with thy voice defiant,
Lo! I meet thee there.
Wild wind, bold wind, like a strong-armed angel,
Clasp me and kiss me with thy kisses divine;
Breathe in this dulled ear thy secret sweet evangel--
Mine--and only mine.
Fierce wind, mad wind, howling o'er the nations,
Knew'st thou how leapeth my heart as thou goest by:
Ah, thou wouldst pause awhile in a sudden patience
Like a human sigh.
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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The Wren’s Nest
I TOOK the wren's nest;--
Heaven forgive me!
Its merry architects so small
Had scarcely finished their wee hall,
That, empty still, and neat and fair,
Hung idly in the summer air.
The mossy walls, the dainty door,
Where Love should enter and explore,
And Love sit carolling outside,
And Love within chirp multiplied;--
I took the wren's nest;--
Heaven forgive me!
How many hours of happy pains
Through early frosts and April rains,
How many songs at eve and morn
O'er springing grass and greening corn,
Before the pretty house was made!
One little minute, only one,
And she'll fly back, and find it--gone!
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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A True Hero
JAMES BRAIDWOOD: Died June 22, 1861.
NOT at the battle front,--writ of in story;
Not on the blazing wreck steering to glory;
Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,
Died he--this Hero new; hero forever.
No pomp poetic crowned, no forms enchained him,
No friends applauding watched, no foes arraigned him:
Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty,
Only an honest man doing his duty:
Just a God-fearing man, simple and lowly,
Constant at kirk and hearth, kindly as holy:
Death found--and touched him with finger in flying:--
Lo! he rose up complete--hero undying.
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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The First Waits
A MEDITATION FOR ALL.
SO, Christmas is here again!--
While the house sleeps, quiet as death,
'Neath the midnight moon comes the Waits' shrill tune,
And we listen and hold our breath.
The Christmas that never was--
On this foggy November air,
With clear pale gleam, like the ghost of a dream,
It is painted everywhere.
The Christmas that might have been--
It is borne in the far-off sound,
Down the empty street, with the tread of feet
That lie silent underground.
The Christmas that yet may be--
Like the Bethlehem star, leads kind:
Yet our life slips past, hour by hour, fast, fast,
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Year After Year: A Love Song.
YEAR after year the cowslips fill the meadow,
Year after year the skylarks thrill the air,
Year after year, in sunshine or in shadow,
Rolls the world round, love, and finds us as we were.
Year after year, as sure as birds' returning,
Or field-flowers' blossoming above the wintry mould,
Year after year, in work, or mirth, or mourning,
Love we with love's own youth, that never can grow old.
Sweetheart and ladye-love, queen of boyish passion,
Strong hope of manhood, content of age began;
Loved in a hundred ways, each in a different fashion,
Yet loved supremely, solely, as we never love but one.
Dearest and bonniest! though blanched those curling tresses,
Though loose clings the wedding-ring to that thin hand of thine,--
Brightest of all eyes the eye that love expresses!
Sweetest of all lips the lips long since kissed mine!
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Sitting On The Shore
THE tide has ebbed away:
No more wild dashings 'gainst the adamant rocks,
Nor swayings amidst sea-weed false that mocks
The hues of gardens gay:
No laugh of little wavelets at their play:
No lucid pools reflecting heaven's clear brow--
Both storm and calm alike are ended now.
The rocks sit gray and lone:
The shifting sand is spread so smooth and dry,
That not a tide might ever have swept by
Stirring it with rude moan:
Only some weedy fragments idly thrown
To rot beneath the sky, tell what has been:
But Desolation's self has grown serene.
Afar the mountains rise,
And the broad estuary widens out,
All sunshine; wheeling round and round about
Seaward, a white bird flies.
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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On The Cliff-Top
FACE upward to the sky
Quiet I lie:
Quiet as if the finger of God's will
Had bade this human mechanism 'be still!'
And sent the intangible essence, this strange I,
All wondering forth to His eternity.
Below, the sea's sound, faint
As dying saint
Telling of gone-by sorrows long at rest:
Above, the fearless sea-gull's shimmering breast
Painted a moment on the dark blue skies--
A hovering joy, that while I watch it flies.
Alike unheeded now
Old griefs, and thou
Quick-wingèd Joy, that like a bird at play
Pleasest thyself to visit me to-day:
On the cliff-top, earth dim and heaven clear,
My soul lies calmly, above hope--or fear.
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Fishermen—Not Of Galilee
THEY have toiled all the night, the long weary night,
They have toiled all the night, Lord, and taken nothing:--
The heavens are as brass, and all flesh seems as grass,
Death strikes with horror and life with loathing.
Walk'st Thou by the waters, the dark silent waters,
The fathomless waters that no line can plumb?
Art Thou Redeemer, or a mere schemer--
Preaching a kingdom that cannot come?
Not a word say'st Thou: no wrath betray'st Thou:
Scarcely delay'st Thou their terrors to lull;
On the shore standing, mutely commanding,
'Let down your nets!'--And they draws them up,--full!
* * * * *
Jesus, Redeemer,--only Redeemer!
I, a poor dreamer, lay hold upon Thee:
Thy will pursuing, though no end viewing,
But simply doing as Thou biddest me.
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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