Sweet sleep will sometimes give the boon,— Possession’s own supreme delight,— Oh, sad that Day dissolves so soon The bright, warm vision—gift of Night! Brief joy! The rapturous dream diffused, Swims round the soul like golden mist, And life a moment seems suffused With dawn’s own rose and amethyst. And shall it be,—this sorest need— To us, eternal, haunting loss? Or will this spirit-hunger lead Up, from this life-enduring cross, With sentience large, evolved by this, (When change the mortal veil shall rift,) To take our own supremest bliss From God’s infinitudes of gift? O, For a Rainy Day. BY REQUEST. These days are hot, and dry, and dreary; The burning sun seems never weary The vine lies limp on the thirsty earth— The grass grows sere in the long, long dearth— The days are dusty, hot and dreary. The sky is cloudless, brassy, dreary, The wind seems ever languid, weary But hope still clings to the gifts of the Past— We trust that the rain will come at last And the days be damp and cheery. O, clouds sweep o’er, veil the sun’s hot shining! With copious rains, come, hush all repining, Swell the shrunken grains of the sun-burnt lands, With new, green grass clothe the arid sands, Then the days will be bright and cheery. August, 1895. The Great Poet. Upon Parnassian heights he walked and gazed below;— From wing of Jove’s high soaring bird he plucked his pen; Attuned to poet soul, his lofty numbers flow— His stately verse ne’er stoops to common needs of men. The earth-born, toiling throng, he saw, but from afar; No interlinking brotherhood bound him to them; For them no warmth his glory shed—a cold, bright star, On which they gazed as on a costly, dazzling gem. To those who nearest reach his altitude of thought He bends himself to speak, but yet, with lofty mien; Of these, but few, familiar comradship, have sought; They stand, his far, dim height and earth’s green vales, between, To take his gift, which often falls like vivid lightning flashes, And crystalize, and link for comprehension’s reach— They trace his subtle thread, entangled with the shining meshes Of universal lore, and weave in wefts of wondrous speech. Sometimes, it seems, an idea vast, his measure strains, When he doth crush the whole, as quartz is crushed for gold, And then, reject and cleanse, until there’s naught remains Of quartz or dross. The massive idea we behold Upon his page, aglow in shining, golden grains. Then alchemistic souls, in study’s crucial heat, Must fuse and integrate—must clothe, and warm, And breathe into it soul, when lo, with life replete, The world will praise for breadth and depth, embracing form. * * * * *