A Marriage-Table
THERE was a marriage-table where One sate,
Haply, unnoticed, till they craved His aid:
Thenceforward does it seem that He has made
All virtuous marriage-tables consecrate:
And so, at this, where without pomp or state
We sit, and only say, or mute, are fain
To wish the simple words 'God bless these twain!'
I think that He who 'in the midst' doth wait
Oft-times, would not abjure our prayerful cheer,
But, as at Cana, list with gracious ear
To us, beseeching, that the Love divine
May ever at their household table sit,
Make all His servants who encompass it,
And change life's bitterest waters into wine.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Edenland
YOU remember where in starlight
We two wandered hand in hand,
While the night-flowers poured their perfume,
And night-airs the still earth fanned?--
There I, walking yester even,
Felt like a ghost in Edenland.
I remember all you told me,
Looking up as we did stand,
While my heart poured out its perfume,
Like the night-flowers in your hand;
And the path where we two wandered
Seemed not like earth but Edenland.
Now the stars shine paler, colder
Night-flowers die without your hand;
Yet my spirit walks beside you
Everywhere, unsought, unbanned.
And I wait till we shall wander
Under the stars of Edenland.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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David’s Child
IN face of a great sorrow like to death
How do we wrestle night and day with tears;
How do we fast and pray; how small appears
The outside world, while, hanging on some breath
Of fragile hope, the chamber where we lie
Includes all space.--But if sudden at last
The blow falls; or by incredulity
Fond led, we--never having one thought cast
Towards years where 'the child' was not--see it die,
And with it all our future, all our past,--
We just look round us with a dull surprise:
For lesser pangs we had filled earth with cries
Of wild and angry grief that would be heard:--
But when the heart is broken--not a word.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Dante To Beatrice
I SEE thee, gliding towards me with slow pace
Across the azure fields of Paradise,
Where thine each footstep makes a star arise.
So from this heart's once void but infinite space
Each strange sweet touch of thy celestial grace
In the old mortal life, struck out some spark
To light the world, though all my heaven lay dark.
O Beatrice, cypresses enlace
My laurels: none have grown save tear-bedewed--
Salt tears that sank into the earth unviewed,
And sprang up green to form a crown of bays.
Take it! At thy dear feet I lay my all,
What men my honors, virtues, glories, call:
I lived, loved, suffered, sung--for thy sole praise.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Guns Of Peace
GHOSTS of dead soldiers in the battle slain,
Ghosts of dead heroes dying nobler far,
In the long patience of inglorious war,
Of famine, cold, heat, pestilence, and pain,--
All ye whose loss makes our victorious gain--
This quiet night, as sounds the cannon's tongue,
Do ye look down the trembling stars among
Viewing our peace and war with like disdain?
Or wiser grown since reaching those new spheres,
Smile ye on those poor bones ye sowed as seed
For this our harvest, nor regret the deed?--
Yet lift one cry with us to Heavenly ears--
'Strike with Thy bolt the next red flag unfurled,
And make all wars to cease throughout the world.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Her Likeness
A GIRL, who has so many wilful ways
She would have caused Job's patience to forsake him;
Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise,
Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze,
A little better she would surely make him.
Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon,
And very far from angel yet, I trow.
Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human;
Yet she's more lovable as simple woman
Than any one diviner that I know.
Therefore I wish that she may safely keep
This womanhede, and change not, only grow;
From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep,
And in perennial blessedness, still reap
On every hand of that which she doth sow.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Her Likeness
A GIRL, who has so many wilful ways
She would have caused Job's patience to forsake him;
Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's praise,
Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze,
A little better she would surely make him.
Yet is this girl I sing in naught uncommon,
And very far from angel yet, I trow.
Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human;
Yet she's more lovable as simple woman
Than any one diviner that I know.
Therefore I wish that she may safely keep
This womanhede, and change not, only grow;
From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep,
And in perennial blessedness, still reap
On every hand of that which she doth sow.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Buried To-Day
February 23, 1858.
BURIED to-day.
When the soft green buds are bursting out,
And up on the south wind comes a shout
Of village boys and girls at play
In the mild spring evening gray.
Taken away
Sturdy of heart and stout of limb,
From eyes that drew half their light from him,
And put low, low, underneath the clay,
In his spring--on this spring day.
Passes away
All the pride of boy-life begun,
All the hope of life yet to run;
Who dares to question when One saith 'Nay.'
Murmur not--only pray.
[...] Read more
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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When Green Leaves Come again
WHEN green leaves come again, my love,
When green leaves come again,--
Why put on such a cloudy face,
When green leaves come again?
'Ah, this spring will be like the last,
Of promise false and vain;
And summer die in winter's arms
Ere green leaves come again.
'So slip the seasons--and our lives;
'T is idle to complain:
But yet I sigh, I scarce know why,
When green leaves come again.'
Nay, lift up thankful eyes, my sweet!
Count equal, lost and gain:
Because, as long as the world lasts,
Green leaves will come again.
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Mine
O HOW my heart is beating as her name I keep repeating,
And I drink up joy like wine:
O how my heart is beating as her name I keep repeating,
For the lovely girl is mine!
She's rich, she's fair, beyond compare,
Of noble mind, serene and kind--
And how my heart is beating as her name I keep repeating,
For the lovely girl is mine!
O how my heart is beating as her name I keep repeating,
In a music soft and fine;
O how my heart is beating as her name I keep repeating,
For the girl I love is mine.
She owns no lands, has no white hands,
Her lot is poor, her life obscure;--
Yet how my heart is beating as her name I keep repeating,
For the girl I love is mine!
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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