She never loved him; but she loved Love so, So reverenced Love, that all her being shook At his demand whose entrance she denied. Her thoughts of him such tender colour took As western skies that keep the afterglow. The words he spoke were with her till she died. TRIUMPH This windy sunlit morning after rain, The wet bright laurel laughs with beckoning gleam In the blown wood, whence breaks the wild white stream Rushing and flashing, glorying in its gain; Nor swerves nor parts, but with a swift disdain O’erleaps the boulders lying in long dream, Lapped in cold moss; and in its joy doth seem A wood-born creature bursting from a chain. And “Triumph, triumph, triumph!” is its hoarse Fierce-whispered word. O fond, and dost not know Thy triumph on another wise must be,-- To render all the tribute of thy force, And lose thy little being in the flow Of the unvaunting river toward the sea! A MYSTERY That sunless day no living shadow swept Across the hills, fleet shadow chasing light, Twin of the sailing cloud: but mists wool-white, Slow-stealing mists, on those heaved shoulders crept, And wrought about the strong hills while they slept In witches’ wise, and rapt their forms from sight. Dreams were they; less than dream, the noblest height And farthest; and the chilly woodland wept. A sunless day and sad: yet all the while Within the grave green twilight of the wood, Inscrutable, immutable, apart, Hearkening the brook, whose song she understood, The secret birch-tree kept her silver smile, Strange as the peace that gleams at sorrow’s heart. THE COMMON STREET The common street climbed up against the sky, Gray meeting gray; and wearily to and fro I saw the patient, common people go, Each with his sordid burden trudging by. And the rain dropped; there was not any sigh Or stir of a live wind; dull, dull and slow All motion; as a tale told long ago The faded world; and creeping night drew nigh. Then burst the sunset, flooding far and fleet, Leavening the whole of life with magic leaven. Suddenly down the long wet glistening hill Pure splendour poured--and lo! the common street, A golden highway into golden heaven, With the dark shapes of men ascending still. ABRAHAM LINCOLN _February 12, 1909_ I