But, like a child in ocean's arms, We strive against the stream, Each moment farther from the shore Where life's young fountains gleam;-- Each moment fainter wave the fields, And wider rolls the sea; The mist grows dark,--the sun goes down,-- Day breaks,--and where are we? And what a dainty touch is given to this _Song of the Sun-Worshipper's Daughter_! Kiss mine eyelids, beauteous Morn Blushing into life new born! Send me violets for my hair And thy russet robe to wear, And thy ring of rosiest hue Set in drops of diamond dew! * * * * * Kiss my lips, thou Lord of light, Kiss my lips a soft good-night! Westward sinks thy golden car; Leave me but the evening star And my solace that shall be Borrowing all its light from thee. And where will you find a more pathetic picture than that of the old musician in _The Silent Melody_? Bring me my broken harp, he said; We both are wrecks--but as ye will-- Though all its ringing tones have fled, Their echoes linger round it still; It had some golden strings, I know, But that was long--how long!--ago. I cannot see its tarnished gold; I cannot hear its vanished tone; Scarce can my trembling fingers hold The pillared frame so long their own; We both are wrecks--a while ago It had some silver strings, I know. But on them Time too long has played The solemn strain that knows no change, And where of old my fingers strayed The chords they find are new and strange-- Yes; iron strings--I know--I know-- We both are wrecks of long ago. With pitying smiles the broken harp is brought to him. Not a single string remains. But see! like children overjoyed, His fingers rambling through the void! They gather softly around the old musician. Rapt in his tuneful trance he seems; His fingers move; but not a sound! A silence like the song of dreams.... "There! ye have heard the air," he cries, "That brought the tears from Marian's eyes!" The poem closes with these fine stanzas: Ah, smile not at his fond conceit, Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain; To him the unreal sounds are sweet, No discord mars the silent strain Scored on life's latest, starlit page The voiceless melody of age. Sweet are the lips of all that sing, When Nature's music breathes unsought, But never yet could voice or string So truly shape our tenderest thought, As when by life's decaying fire Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre! Though entirely different in style, _Bill and Joe_ is another of those heart-reaching, tear-starting poems. Listen, for instance, to these few verses: