Left Out.

OVER parchèd hill and plain
Sweep the legions of the rain.
Here its bounty knows no stay,
Here in showers it ebbs away,
Here, unslaked, the summer burns;
Downward, to the mother, turns
Choicest flower of all the fields,
With a sigh its spirit yields.
You may blame the rain or no,
But it ever hath been so, —
Something loveliest of its race
Perisheth from out its place,
For the lack of freshening care,
While the rain pours otherwhere.
From the caverned shores and seas
Springs the wafting, sail-loved breeze;
To its port speeds many a bark,
Like an arrow to the mark.
Here, a zephyr’s might, it blows,
Here the sea unruffled flows;
Here is held, with sails asleep,
Swiftest ship that swept the deep.
You may blame the wind or no,
But it ever hath been so, —
Something bravest of its kind
Leads a frustrate life and blind,
For the lack of favoring gales,
Blowing blithe on other sails.


Gray Hair in Youth.

What does youth with silvered crown ?
Snows of winter come not down
Till the frost hath made its way,
And the night outmeasured day ;
Till the harvest all is stored,
And the cordial vintage poured,
That can heavy memories drown.
What does youth with silvered crown?
Passion’s fires have burned apace,
Laying waste the summer’s grace,
Than the frost more cruel keen,
Making youth as age be seen,
Save upon his silken hairs
Ashes white, not snow, he bears, —
Mournful frame for morning face!
Passion’s fires have burned apace.


Rose Color.

Send me thorns a half year through,
Branches hung with frozen dew,
Blight-leaf feuds and blanching hates,
(If ye will) ye cankered Fates:
All your leaden seasons’ toil
To fair weather lends a foil!
’Gainst December how June glows, —
Hey ! the color of the rose!
Bid the morning of my day
(If ye will) be dull and gray;
Chase afar the shining hours
With a scourge of braided showers,
Lightning-flash, and thunder-crack :
But at eve the cloudy rack
Blossoms like a garden-close, —
Hey ! the color of the rose!
Beauty, on whom homage waits,
I appeal to thee from Fates.
As my year and as my day
Genial turn from cold and gray,
Let the selfsame sign bespeak
Thy rich heart upon thy cheek:
Up the gracious June warmth goes, —
Hey! the color of the rose!


In Trust.

Love itself cannot bestow;
Heaven bestowed Love long ago.
Sweet the error of thy thought,
If it deem I give thee aught,
Who but render back thine own,
Destined thine from time unknown.
Gladly it reverts to thee,
Casting off my regency:
So the carrier-dove, when freed,
Cannot choose but homeward speed ;
So the flower-lent dewdrop flies
Back unto its native skies ;
So the brightness of the wave
But returns what Titan gave;
So the voice from out the hill
Runneth at the bidder’s will;
So the soul that hidden lies
In the flute now lives, now dies,
Mastered by a breath and touch.
Only this I marvel much :
Heaven, designing gifts for thee,
Placed them here in trust with me.
Edith M. Thomas.