Look, how the candles twinkle through the tree,
The children shout when baby claps his hands,
The room is full of laughter and of song!
Your lips are smiling, dearest—tell me why
Your eyes are brimming full of Christmas tears?
Was it a silent voice that joined the song?
A vanished face that glimmered once again
Among the happy circle round the tree?
Was it an unseen hand that touched your cheek
And brought the secret gift of Christmas tears?
Not dark and angry like the winter storm
Of selfish grief—but full of starry gleams,
And soft and still that others may not weep—
Dews of remembered happiness descend
To bless us with the gift of Christmas tears.
Ah, lose them not, dear heart—life has no pearls
More pure than memories of joy love-shared.
See, while we count them one by one with prayer,
The Heavenly hope that lights the Christmas tree
Has made a rainbow in our Christmas tears!
1888–1912
A deeper crimson in the rose,
A deeper blue in sky and sea,
And ever, as the summer goes,
A deeper loss in losing thee!
A deeper music in the strain
Of hermit-thrush from lonely tree;
And deeper grows the sense of gain
My life has found in having thee.
A deeper love, a deeper rest,
A deeper joy in all I see;
And ever deeper in my breast
A silver song that comes from thee!
I
Bedtime
Ere thou sleepest gently lay
Every troubled thought away:
Put off worry and distress
As thou puttest off thy dress:
Drop thy burden and thy care
In the quiet arms of prayer.
Lord, Thou knowest how I live,
All I’ve done amiss forgive:
All of good I’ve tried to do,
Strengthen, bless, and carry through,
All I love in safety keep,
While in Thee I fall asleep.
II
Night Watch
If slumber should forsake
Thy pillow in the dark,
Fret not thyself to mark
How long thou liest awake.
There is a better way;
Let go the strife and strain,
Thine eyes will close again,
If thou wilt only pray.
Lord, Thy peaceful gift restore,
Give my body sleep once more:
While I wait my soul will rest
Like a child upon Thy breast.
III
New Day
Ere thou risest from thy bed,
Speak to God Whose wings were spread
O’er thee in the helpless night:
Lo, He wakes thee now with light!
Lift thy burden and thy care
In the mighty arms of prayer.
Lord, the newness of this day
Calls me to an untried way:
Let me gladly take the road,
Give me strength to bear my load,
Thou my guide and helper be—
I will travel through with Thee.
Read here, O friend unknown,
Our grief, of her bereft;
Yet think not tears alone
Within our hearts are left.
The gifts she came to give,
Her heavenly love and cheer,
Have made us glad to live
And die without a fear.
Far richer than a thornless rose
Whose branch with beauty never glows,
Is that which every June adorns
With perfect bloom among its thorns.
Merely to live without a pain
Is little gladness, little gain,
Ah, welcome joy tho’ mixt with grief—
The thorn-set flower that crowns the leaf.
Ye gods of battle, lords of fear,
Who work your iron will as well
As once ye did with sword and spear,
With rifled gun and rending shell—
Masters of sea and land, forbear
The fierce invasion of the inviolate air!
With patient daring man hath wrought
A hundred years for power to fly;
And will you make his winged thought
A hovering horror in the sky,
Where flocks of human eagles sail,
Dropping their bolts of death on hill and dale?
Ah no, the sunset is too pure,
The dawn too fair, the noon too bright
For wings of terror to obscure
Their beauty, and betray the night
That keeps for man, above his wars,
The tranquil vision of untroubled stars.
Pass on, pass on, ye lords of fear!
Your footsteps in the sea are red,
And black on earth your paths appear
With ruined homes and heaps of dead.
Pass on to end your transient reign,
And leave the blue of heaven without a stain.
The wrong ye wrought will fall to dust,
The right ye shielded will abide;
The world at last will learn to trust
In law to guard, and love to guide;
And Peace of God that answers prayer
Will fall like dew from the inviolate air.
I never seen no “red gods”; I dunno wot’s a “lure”;
But if it’s sumpin’ takin’, then Spring has got it sure;
An’ it doesn’t need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks,
To make up guff about it, w’ile settin’ in their shacks.
It’s sumpin’ very simple ’at happens in the Spring,
But it changes all the lookin’s of every blessed thing;
The buddin’ woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high,
But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn’t tell ye why.
It’s cur’ous wot a show-down the month of April makes,
Between the reely livin’, an’ the things ’at’s only fakes!
Machines an’ barns an’ buildin’s, they never give no sign;
But the livin’ things look lively w’en Spring is on the line.
She doesn’t come too suddin, ner she doesn’t come too slow;
Her gaits is some cayprishus, an’ the next ye never know—
A single-foot o’ sunshine, a buck o’ snow er hail—
But don’t be disapp’inted, fer Spring ain’t goin’ ter fail.
She’s loopin’ down the hillside—the driffs is fadin’ out.
She’s runnin’ down the river—d’ye see them risin’ trout?
She’s loafin’ down the canyon—the squaw-bed’s growin’ blue,
An’ the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin’ thru.
A thousan’ miles o’ pine-trees, with Douglas firs between,
Is waitin’ fer her fingers to freshen up their green;
With little tips o’ brightness the firs ’ill sparkle thick,
An’ every yaller pine-tree, a giant candle-stick!
The underbrush is risin’ an’ spreadin’ all around,
Jest like a mist o’ greenness ’at hangs above the ground;
A million manzanitas ’ill soon be
