The cold, gray mist that stains the city walls Stands silver-columned where the river glides, Or, slow dividing, on the valley falls, Where one I love abides. The wind that trifles round my city door, Or whirls before me all the city's dust, By the sea borrows its triumphant roar, And lends its savage gust; Or shrieking rushes where the sombre pines Hold solemn converse in the ancient vale, And while 't is dying in their dark confines Babbles their mystic tale. Could I but climb a roof above my own, And greet grave Autumn as he walks the earth With secret signal that would make me known, I should not feel my dearth. Then silver mist or loud triumphant wind Might come in sad disguise and misery; I would but ponder in my secret mind How Autumn answers me. "I LOVE YOU, BUT A SENSE OF PAIN." I love you, but a sense of pain Is in my heart and in my brain; Now, when your voice and eyes are kind, May I reveal my complex mind? Though I am yours, it is my curse Some ideal passion to rehearse: I dream of one that's not like you, Never of one that's half so true. To quell these yearnings, vague and wild, I often kneel by our dear child, In still, dark nights (you are asleep), And hold his hands, and try to weep. I cannot weep; I cannot pray-- Why grow so pale, and turn away? Do you expect to hold me fast By pretty legends in the past? It is a woman's province, then, To be content with what has been? To wear the wreath of withered flowers, That crowned her in the bridal hours? Still, I am yours: this idle strife Stirs but the surface of my life: And if you would but ask once more, "How goes the heart?" or at the door Imploring stand, and knock again, I might forget this sense of pain, And down oblivion's sullen stream Would float the memory of my dream! NAMELESS PAIN. I should be happy with my lot: A wife and mother--is it not Enough for me to be content? What other blessing could be sent? A quiet house, and homely ways, That make each day like other days; I only see Time's shadow now Darken the hair on baby's brow! No world's work ever comes to me, No beggar brings his misery; I have no power, no healing art With bruisèd soul or broken heart. I read the poets of the age, 'Tis lotus-eating in a cage; I study Art, but Art is dead To one who clamors to be fed With milk from Nature's rugged breast, Who longs for Labor's lusty rest. O foolish wish! I still should pine If any other lot were mine. A BABY SONG. Come, white angels, to baby and me; Touch his blue eyes with the image of sleep, In his surprise he will cease to weep; Hush, child, the angels are coming to thee! Come, white doves, to baby and me; Softly whirr in the silent air, Flutter about his golden hair: Hark, child, the doves are cooing to thee!