Though for the soul a lovely Heaven awaits,
Through years of woe,
The Paradise with angels in its gates
Is Long Ago.

The heart's lost Home! Ah, thither winging ever,
In silence, show
Vanishing faces! but they vanish never
In Long Ago!

Ye toil'd through desert sands to reach To-morrow,
With footsteps slow,
Poor Yesterdays! Immortal gleams ye borrow
In Long Ago.

The world is dark: backward our thoughts are yearning,
Our eyes o'erflow:
Sweet Memories, angels to our tears returning,
Leave Long Ago.

We climb: child-roses to our knees are climbing,
From valleys low;
To call us back, dear birds and brooks are rhyming
In Long Ago.

Hands clasp'd, tears shed, sad songs are sung!--the fair
Beloved ones, lo!
Shine yonder, through the angel gates of air,
In Long Ago.

[Footnote 99: Of Western birth and education. His verse though somewhat
crude, has a flow of tenderness and freshness.]

* * * * *

=_Celia Thaxter,[100] 1835-._=

From The Atlantic Monthly.

=_425._= "REGRET."

Softly Death touched her, and she passed away,
Out of this glad, bright world she made more fair;
Sweet as the apple blossoms, when in May,
The orchards flush, of summer grown aware.

All that fresh delicate beauty gone from sight,
That gentle, gracious presence felt no more!
How must the house be emptied of delight!
What shadows on the threshold she passed o'er!

She loved me. Surely I was grateful, yet
I could not give her back all she gave me,--
Ever I think of it with vain regret,
Musing upon a summer by the sea:

Remembering troops of merry girls who pressed
About me, clinging arms and tender eyes,
And love, light scent of roses. With the rest
She came to fill my heart with new surprise.

The day I left them all and sailed away,
While o'er the calm sea, 'neath the soft gray sky
They waved farewell, she followed me to say
Yet once again her wistful, sweet "good by."

At the boat's bow she drooped; her light green dress
Swept o'er the skiff in many a graceful fold,
Her glowing face, bright with a mute caress,
Crowned with her lovely hair of shadowy gold:

And tears she dropped into the crystal brine
For me, unworthy, as we slowly swung
Free of the mooring. Her last look was mine,
Seeking me still the motle