To the eyes that have smiled but in gladness, To the souls that have basked in the sun, She seems in her garments of sadness, A creature to dread and to shun. And lips that have drank but of pleasure Grow pallid and tremble with fears, As she portions the gall from her measure, The merciless Lady of Tears. But in midnight, lone hearts that are quaking, With the agonized numbness of grief, Are saved from the torture of breaking, By her bitter-sweet draught of relief. Oh, then do all graces enfold her; Like a goddess she looks and appears, And the eyes overflow that behold her-- The beautiful Lady of Tears. Though she turns to lamenting, all laughter, Though she gives us despair for delight, Life holds a new meaning thereafter, For those who will greet her aright. They stretch out their hands to each other, For Sorrow unites and endears, The children of one tender mother The sweet, blessed Lady of Tears. THE MASTER HAND. It is something too strange to understand, How all the chords on the instrument, Whether sorrowful, blithe, or grand, Under the touch of your master hand Were into one melody blent. Major, minor, everything--all-- Came at your magic fingers’ call. Why! famed musicians had turned in despair Again and again from those self-same keys; They mayhap brought forth a simple air, But a discord always crept in somewhere, In their fondest efforts to please. Or a jarring, jangling, meaningless strain Angered the silence to noisy pain. “Out of tune,” they would frown and say; Or “a loosened key” or “a broken string;” But sure and certain they were alway, That no man living on earth could play Measures more perfect, or bring Sweeter sounds or a truer air Out of that curious instrument there. And then you came. You swept the scale With a mighty master’s wonderful art. You made the minor keys sob and wail, While the low notes rang like a bell in a gale. And every chord in my heart, From the deep bass tones to the shrill ones above, Joined into that glorious harmony--Love. And now, though I live for a thousand years, On no new chord can a new hand fall. The chords of sorrow, of pain, of tears, The chords of raptures and hopes and fears, I say you have struck them all; And all the meaning put into each strain By the Great Composer, you have made plain. SECRET THOUGHTS. I hold it true that thoughts are things Endowed with bodies, breath, and wings, And that we send them forth to fill The world with good results--or ill. That which we call our secret thought Speeds to the earth’s remotest spot, And leaves its blessings or its woes Like tracks behind it as it goes.