Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing Through a long century's ripening fruition Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait Sarah Chauncey Woolsey [1845-1905] "EX LIBRIS" IN an old book at even as I read Fast fading words adown my shadowy page, At Arqua, with his books around him, sped And they who found him whispered, "He is dead!" Interpret not the Messenger aright. Arthur Upson [1877–1908] IN EXTREMIS TILL dawn the Winds' insuperable throng By mariner or sentry heard along The star-usurping battlements of night- And high-blown trumpets mutinous and strong. And deeper on immensity the call And tumult of the empire-forging sea; Spinning But near the eternal Peace I lay, nor stirred, George Sterling [1869 SPINNING LIKE a blind spinner in the sun, I know that all the threads will run I know each day will bring its task, I do not know the use or name I only know that some one came, My hand the thread, and said, "Since you Sometimes the threads so rough and fast I know wild storms are sweeping past, Shall fall; but dare not try to find I know not why, but I am sure In some great fabric to endure My threads will have; so from the first, I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung Said over me when I was young, It, knowing not that God's name signed My brow, and sealed me His, though blind. 3253 But whether this be seal or sign It matters not. The bond divine I know He set me here, and still, But listen, listen, day by day, Who bear the finished web away, And cut the thread, And bring God's message in the sun, "Thou poor blind spinner, work is done." Helen Hunt Jackson [1831-1885] "SOME TIME AT EVE” SOME time at eve when the tide is low, When the night stoops down to embrace the day, And the voices call in the waters' flow Some time at eve when the tide is low, Through the purpling shadows that darkly trail Of a lonely voyager, sailing away To the Mystic Isles where at anchor lay The crafts of those who have sailed before O'er the Unknown Sea to the Unseen Shore. A few who have watched me sail away Will miss my craft from the busy bay; Some friendly barks that were anchored near, Afterwards But I shall have peacefully furled my sail And greeted the friends who have sailed before 3255 NIGHT WHEN the time comes for me to die, O God, Thy world was great and fair; I loved, I toiled, throve ill or well, -Lived certain years and murmured not. For others, Lord, Thy purging fires, The loves reknit, the crown, the palm. For me, the death of all desires In deep, eternal calm. I KNOW that these poor rags of womanhood, What homely neighbors elbow me (hard by 'Neath the black yews) I know I shall not know, Nor take account of changing winds that blow, Shifting the golden arrow, set on high On the gray spire, nor mark who come and go. Yet would I lie in some familiar place, Nor share my rest with uncongenial dead,— Somewhere, may be, where friendly feet will tread.— As if from out some little chink of space Mine eyes might see them tripping overhead. And though too sweet to deck a sepulcher Seem twinkling daisy-buds and meadow-grass; And so would more than serve me, lest they pass Who fain would know what woman rested there, What her demeanor, or her story was,— For these I would that on a sculptured stone With these words carved, "I hoped, but was not sure." OH, where will be the birds that sing, A hundred years to come? The flowers that now in beauty spring, A hundred years to come? The rosy lip, the lofty brow, The heart that beats so gaily now,- Who'll press for gold this crowded street, A hundred years to come? Who'll tread yon church with willing feet, A hundred years to come? Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth, A hundred years to come? |