ast
A belated butterfly.

The crickets sing no more to the stars--
The spiders no more put up silver bars
To entangle silken wings;
But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn,
And here and there--both at night and at morn--
A lonely robin still sings.

A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent
With perfumed winds from the Orient
And they weave o'er her a spell,
For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet--
And while mists like incense curl at her feet,
She lingers her beads to tell.

NOCTURNE

Infold us with thy peace, dear moon-lit night,
And let thy silver silence wrap us round
Till we forget the city's dazzling light,
The city's ceaseless sound.

Here where the sand lies white upon the shore,
And little velvet-fingered breezes blow,
Dear sea, thy world-old wonder-song once more
Sing to us e'er we go.

Give us thy garnered sweets, short summer hour:
Perfume of rose, and balm of sun-steeped pine;
Scent from the lily's cup and horned flower,
Where bees have drained the wine.

Come, small musicians in the rough sea grass,
Pipe us the serenade we love the best;
And winds of midnight, chant for us a mass,
Our hearts would be at rest.

God of all beauty, though the world is thine,
Our faith grows often faint, oft hope is spent;
Show us Thyself in all things fair and fine,
Teach us the stars' content.

A SONG OF LOVE

Love reckons not by time--its May days of delight
Are swifter than the falling stars that pass beyond our sight.

Love reckons not by time--its moments of despair
Are years that march like prisoners, who drag the chains they wear.

Love counts not by the sun--it hath no night or day--
'Tis only light when love is near--'tis dark with love away.

Love hath no measurements of height, or depth, or space,
But yet within a little grave it oft hath found a place.

Love is its own best law--its wrongs seek no redress;
Love is forgiveness--and it only knoweth how to bless.

THE UNKNOWING

If the bird knew how through the wintry weather
An empty nest would swing by day and night,
It would not weave the strands so close together
Or sing for such delight.

And if the rosebud dreamed e'er its awaking
How soon its perfumed leaves would drift apart,
Perchance 'twould fold them close to still the aching
Within its golden heart.

If the brown brook that hurries through the grasses
Knew of drowned sailors--and of storms to be--
Methinks