what the future may hold,
Or how to others it seems,
But I know my skies have held more gold
Than I used to find in my dreams.

Though the whole world sings of hopes death chilled,
In grateful truth I say,
That my best hopes have been fulfilled,
And more than fulfilled to-day.

Though oft my arrow I aim at the sun
To see it fall into the sand,
Yet just as often some work I have done
Is better than I have planned.

I do not always grasp the pleasure
For which I reach, maybe;
But quite as frequently over-measure
Is given by joy to me.

To-morrow may bring a grief behind it
That will thoroughly change my mood;
But we only can speak of a thing as we find it--
And I have found life good.

MORE FORTUNATE

I hold that life more fortunate by far
That sits with its sweet memories alone
And cherishes a joy for ever flown
Beyond the reach of accident to mar.
(Some joy that was extinguished like a star)
Than that which makes the prize so much its own
That its poor commonplacenesses are shown;
(Which in all things, when viewed too closely, are.)

Better to mourn a blossom snatched away
Before it reached perfection, than behold
With dry, unhappy eyes, day after day,
The fresh bloom fade, and the fair leaf decay.
Better to lose the dream, with all its gold,
Than keep it till it changes to dull grey.

HE WILL NOT COME

Take out the blossom in your hair abloom,
No more it seemeth beautiful, or bright,
And sickening is its subtly sweet perfume--
He will not come to-night.

Take off the necklace with its sparkling gem,
And rings that glow and glitter in the light,
And fling them in the case that waits for them--
He will not come to-night.

Take off the robe a little while ago
You chose, to make you fairer in his sight;
'Tis ten o'clock. So late you can but know
He will not come to-night.

He will not come. God grant you strength and grace,
For never more upon your mortal sight
Shall dawn a glimpse of that beloved face
That did not come to-night.

He will not come. And through the shadowed years,
The perfume of that blossom that you wore
Shall stir the fount of salt and bitter tears--
For one who comes no more.

WORN OUT

I saw a young heart in the grasp of pain;
With bruised breast, and broken, bleeding wing
Shipwrecked on hopeless love's tempestuous main,
Lay the poor tortured