Who has not welcomed, even as we, That jocund minstrel and his lays Beside the idle summer sea And in the vacant summer days? We listened, we were fancy-free; And lo! in terror and amaze We stood alone—alone at gaze With an implacable memory Beside the idle summer sea. I. M. R. G. C. B. 1878 THE ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. From camp and church, the fireside and the street, She beckons forth—and strife and song have been. A summer night descending cool and green And dark on daytime’s dust and stress and heat, The ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien And radiant faces look upon, and greet This last of all your lovers, and to meet Her kiss, the Comforter’s, your spirit lean . . . The ways of Death are soothing and serene. WE SHALL SURELY DIE WE shall surely die: Must we needs grow old? Grow old and cold, And we know not why? O, the By-and-By, And the tale that’s told! We shall surely die: Must we needs grow old? Grow old and sigh, Grudge and withhold, Resent and scold? . . . Not you and I? We shall surely die! WHAT IS TO COME WHAT is to come we know not. But we know That what has been was good—was good to show, Better to hide, and best of all to bear. We are the masters of the days that were: We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered . . . even so. Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow? Life was our friend. Now, if it be our foe— Dear, though it spoil and break us!—need we care What is to come? Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow, Or the gold weather round us mellow slow: We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare And we can conquer, though we may not share In the rich quiet of the afterglow What is to come. ECHOES 1872–1889 _Aquí está encerrada el alma del licenciado Pedro Garcías_. GIL BLAS _AU LECTEUR_. I TO MY MOTHER CHIMING a dream by the way With ocean’s rapture and roar, I met a maiden to-day Walking alone on the shore: Walking in maiden wise, Modest and kind and fair, The freshness of spring in her eyes And the fulness of spring in her hair. Cloud-shadow and scudding sun-burst Were swift on the floor of the sea, And a mad wind was romping its worst, But what was their magic to me? Or the charm of the midsummer skies? I only saw she was there, A dream of the sea in her eyes And the kiss of the sea in her hair.