like a lark;
A taper nearly vanished
Amid the dawning gray,
And a maiden lifting up her head,
And lo, the coming day!
I am no skilful painter;
Let who will blame me then
That I would teach thee hope and fear
With my plain-talking pen!—
Fear of the tide of darkness
That floweth fast behind,
And hope to make thee journey on
In the journey of the mind.
If I Were a Monk, and Thou Wert a Nun
If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun,
Pacing it wearily, wearily,
Twixt chapel and cell till day were done—
Wearily, wearily—
How would it fare with these hearts of ours
That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers?
To prayer, to prayer, at the matins’ call,
Morning foul or fair!—
Such prayer as from weary lips might fall—
Words, but hardly prayer—
The chapel’s roof, like the law in stone,
Caging the lark that up had flown!
Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon,
The God-revealing,
Turning thy face from the boundless boon—
Painfully kneeling;
Or, in brown-shadowy solitude,
Bending thy head o’er the legend rude!
I, in a bare and lonely nook,
Gloomily, gloomily,
Poring over some musty book,
Thoughtfully, thoughtfully;
Or painting pictures of things of old
On parchment-margin in purple and gold!
Perchance in slow procession to meet,
Wearily, wearily,
In antique, narrow, high-gabled street,
Wearily, wearily;
Thine eyes dark-lifted to mine, and then
Heavily sinking to earth again!
Sunshine and air! bird-music and spring!
Merrily, merrily!—
Back to its cell each weary thing,
Wearily, wearily!
Our poor hearts, withered and dry and old,
Most at home in the cloister cold!
Thou slow rising at vespers’ call,
Wearily, wearily;
I looking up on the darkening wall,
Wearily, wearily;
The chime so sweet to the boat at sea,
Listless and dead to thee and me!
At length for sleep a weary assay,
On the lone couch wearily!
Rising at midnight again to pray,
Wearily, wearily!
And if through the dark dear eyes looked in,
Sending them far as a thought of sin!
And at last, thy tired soul passing away,
Dreamily, dreamily—
Its worn tent fluttering in slow decay,
Sleepily, sleepily—
Over thee held the crucified Best,
But no warm cheek to thy cold cheek pressed!
And then my passing from cell to clay,
Dreamily, dreamily!
My gray head lying on ashes gray,
Sleepily, sleepily!
But no woman-angel hovering above,
Ready to clasp me in deathless love!
Now, now, ah, now! thy hand in mine,
Peacefully, peacefully;
My arm round thee, and my lips on thine,
Lovingly, lovingly—
Oh! is not a better thing to us given
Than wearily going alone to heaven?
Blessed Are the Meek, for They Shall Inherit the Earth
A quiet heart, submissive, meek,
Father, do thou bestow,
Which more than granted, will not seek
To have, or give, or know.
Each little hill then holds its gift
Forth to my joying eyes;
Each mighty mountain then doth lift
My spirit to the skies.
Lo, then the running water sounds
With gladsome, secret things!
The silent water more abounds,
And more the hidden springs.
Live murmurs then the trees will blend
With all the feathered song;
The waving grass low tribute lend
Earth’s music to prolong.
The sun will cast great crowns of light
On waves that anthems roar;
The dusky billows break at night
In flashes on the shore.
Each harebell, each white lily’s cup,
The hum of hidden bee,
Yea, every odour floating up,
The insect revelry—
Each hue, each harmony divine
The holy world about,
Its soul will send forth into mine,
My soul to widen out.
And thus the great earth I shall hold,
A perfect gift of thine;
Richer by these, a thousandfold,
Than if broad lands were mine.
The Hills
Behind my father’s cottage lies
A gentle grassy height
Up which I often ran—to gaze
Back with a wondering sight,
For then the chimneys I thought high
Were down below me quite!
All round, where’er I turned mine eyes,
Huge hills closed up the view;
The town ’mid their converging roots
Was clasped by rivers two;
From, one range to another sprang
The sky’s great vault of blue.
It was a joy to climb their sides,
And in the heather lie!
A joy to look at vantage down
On the castle grim and high!
Blue streams below, white clouds above,
In silent earth and sky!
And now, where’er my feet may roam,
At sight of stranger hill
A new sense of the old delight
Springs in my bosom still,
And longings for the high unknown
Their ancient channels fill.
For I am always climbing hills,
From the known to the unknown—
Surely, at last, on some high peak,
To find my Father’s throne,
Though hitherto I have only found
His footsteps in the stone!
And in my wanderings I did meet
Another searching too:
The dawning hope, the shared quest
Our thoughts together drew;
Fearless she laid her band in mine
Because her heart was true.
She was not born among the hills,
Yet on each mountain face
A something known her inward eye
By inborn light can trace;
For up the hills must homeward be,
Though no one knows the place.
Clasp my hand close, my child, in thine—
A long way we have come!
Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,
Farther we yet must roam—
Climbing and climbing till we reach
Our heavenly father’s home.
I Know What Beauty Is
I know what beauty is, for thou
Hast set the world within my heart;
Of me thou madest it a part;
I never loved it more than now.
I know the Sabbath afternoons;
The light asleep upon the graves:
Against the sky the poplar waves;
The river murmurs organ tunes.
I know the spring with bud and bell;
The hush in summer woods at night;
Autumn, when trees let in more light;
Fantastic winter’s lovely spell.
I know the rapture music gives,
Its mystery of ordered tones:
Dream-muffled soul, it loves and moans,
And, half-alive, comes in and lives.
And verse I know, whose concord high
Of thought and music lifts the soul
Where many a glimmering starry shoal
Glides through the Godhead’s living sky.
Yea, Beauty’s regnant All I know—
The imperial head, the thoughtful eyes;
The God-imprisoned harmonies
That out in gracious motions go.
But I leave all, O Son of man,
Put off my shoes, and come to thee!
Most lovely thou of all I see,
Most potent thou of all that can!
As child
