THE SOUL’S FAREWELL TO THE BODY. So we must part forever; and although I long have beat my wings and cried to go, Free from your narrow limiting control, Forth into space, the true home of the soul, Yet now, yet now that hour is drawing near, I pause reluctant, finding you so dear. All joys await me in the realm of God-- Must you, my comrade, moulder in the sod? I was your captive, yet you were my slave: Your prisoner, yet obedience you gave To all my earnest wishes and commands. Now to the worm I leave those willing hands That toiled for me or held the books I read, Those feet that trod where’er I wished to tread, Those arms that clasped my dear ones, and the breast On which one loved and loving heart found rest, Those lips through which my prayers to God have risen, Those eyes that were the windows to my prison. From these, all these, Death’s Angel bids me sever; Dear Comrade Body, fare thee well forever! I go to my inheritance, and go With joy that only the freed soul can know; Yet in my spirit wanderings I trust I may sometimes pause near your sacred dust. THIMBLE ISLANDS. (OFF LONG ISLAND SOUND.) Between the shore and the distant sky-lands, Where a ship’s dim shape seems etched on space, There lies this cluster of lovely islands, Like laughing mermaids grouped in grace. I look out over the waves and wonder, Are they not sirens who dwell in the sea? When the tide runs high they dip down under Like mirthful bathers who sport in glee. When the tide runs low they lift their shoulders Above the billows and gayly spread Their soft green garments along the boulders Of grim gray granite that form their bed. Close by the group, in sheltered places, Many a ship at anchor lies, And drinks the charm of their smiling faces, As lovers drink smiles from maidens’ eyes. But true to the harsh and stern old ocean, As maids in a harem are true to one, They give him all of their hearts’ devotion, Though wooed forever by moon and sun. A ship sails on that has bravely waded Through foaming billows to sue in vain; A whip-poor-will flies that has serenaded And sung unanswered his plaintive strain. In the sea’s great arms I see them lying, Bright and beaming and fond and fair, While the jealous July day is dying In a crimson fury of mad despair. The desolate moon drifts slowly over, And covers its face with the lace of a cloud, While the sea, like a glad triumphant lover, Clasps close his islands and laughs aloud. MY GRAVE.