POEM

“The stardust, that is whirled aloft and flies
From the invisible chariot-wheels of God.”

“No endeavor is in vain:
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing
Is the prize the vanquished gain.”

“And inspirations that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.”

SNOW-FLAKES
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

THE DAY IS DONE
The day is done, and darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight. ...

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.