The Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses, by Susan Coolidge
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Author: Susan Coolidge
Posting Date: August 8, 2009 [EBook #4560] Release Date: October, 2003 First Posted: February 11, 2002
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TO J. H. AND E. W. H.
Nourished by peaceful suns and gracious dew,
Your sweet youth budded and your sweet lives grew,
And all the world seemed rose-beset for you.
The rose of beauty was your mutual dower,
The stainless rose of love, an early flower,
The stately blooms of ease and wealth and power.
And treading thus on pathways flower-bestrewn,
It well might be, that, cold and careless grown,
You both had lived for your own joys alone.
But, holding all these fair things as in trust.
Gently you walked, still scattering on the dust
Of harder roads, which others tread, and must,—
Your heritage of brightness, not a ray
Of noontide sought you out, but straight away
You caught and halved it with some darker day:
And as the sweet saint's loaves were turned, it is said,
To roses, so your roses turned to bread,
That hungering souls and weary might be fed.
Dear friends, my poor words do but paint you wrong,
Nor can I utter, in one trivial song,
The goodness I have honored for so long.
Only this leaf, a single petal flung,
One chord from a full harmony unsung,
May speak the life-long love that lacks a tongue.
To J. H. and E. W. H.
The Cradle Tomb in Westminster Abbey
"Of such as I have"
On the Shore
Among the Lilies
Ginevra Degli Amieri
A Lonely Moment
Ebb and Flow
The Morning Comes Before the Sun
Laborare est Orare
From East to West
Two Ways to Love
Hope and I
Savoir c'est Pardonner
A Blind Singer
When Love went
Time to Go
My White Chrysanthemum
Till the Day Dawn
By the Cradle
A Thunder Storm
Through the Door
At the Gate
The Legend of Kintu
How the Leaves Came Down
In the Mist
"He That Believeth Shall Not Make Haste"
My Little Ghost
Poems are heavenly things,
And only souls with wings
May reach them where they grow,
May pluck and bear below,
Feeding the nations thus
With food all glorious.
Verses are not of these;
They bloom on earthly trees,
Poised on a low-hung stem,
And those may gather them
Who cannot fly to where
The heavenly gardens are.
So I by devious ways
Have pulled some easy sprays
From the down-dropping bough
Which all may reach, and now
I knot them, bud and leaf,
Into a rhymed sheaf.
Not mine the pinion strong
To win the nobler song;
I only cull and bring
A hedge-row offering
Of berry, flower, and brake,
If haply some may take.
"Do their errands; enter into the sacrifice with them; be a link yourself in the divine chain, and feel the joy and life of it."—ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY
What can I do for thee, Beloved,
Whose feet so little while ago
Trod the same way-side dust with mine,
And now up paths I do not know
Speed, without sound or sign?
What can I do? The perfect life
All fresh and fair and beautiful
Has opened its wide arms to thee;
Thy cup is over-brimmed and full;
Nothing remains for me.
I used to do so many things,—
Love thee and chide thee and caress;
Brush little straws from off thy way,
Tempering with my poor tenderness
The heat of thy short day.
Not much, but very sweet to give;
And it is grief of griefs to bear
That all these ministries are o'er,
And thou, so happy, Love, elsewhere,
Never can need me more:—
And I can do for thee but this
(Working on blindly, knowing not
If I may give thee pleasure so):
Out of my own dull, burdened lot
I can arise, and go
To sadder lives and darker homes,
A messenger, dear heart, from thee
Who wast on earth a comforter,
And say to those who welcome me,
I am sent forth by her.
Feeling the while how good it is
To do thy errands thus, and think
It may be, in the blue, far space,
Thou watchest from the heaven's brink,—
A smile upon my face.
And when the day's work ends with day,
And star-eyed evening, stealing in,
Waves a cool hand to flying noon,
And restless, surging thoughts begin,
Like sad bells out of tune,
I'll pray: "Dear Lord, to whose great love
Nor bound nor limit line is set,
Give to my darling, I implore,
Some new sweet joy not tasted yet,
For I can give no more."
And with the words my thoughts shall climb
With following feet the heavenly stair
Up which thy steps so lately sped,
And, seeing thee so happy there,
Come back half comforted.
THE CRADLE TOMB IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
A little, rudely sculptured bed,