And smile triumphant o'er the storm at last. Nor dream these trials are without their use; Between your joys and griefs ye cannot choose, And say your life with either is complete: Ever the bitter mingles with the sweet. The dews must press the petals down at night, If in the dawning they would glisten bright; If sunbeams needs must ripen out the grain Not less the early blades must woo the rain: If now your eyes be wet with weary tears, Ye'll gather them as gems in after years; And if the rains now sodden down your path, Ye'll reap rich harvest in the aftermath. Ye idle mourners, crying in your grief, The souls ye weep have found the long relief: Why grieve for those who fold their hands in peace? Their sore-tried hearts have found a glad release; Their spirits sink into the solemn sea! Mourn ye the prisoner from his chains let free? Nay, ope your ears unto the living cry That pleads for living comfort! Hark, the sigh Of million heartaches rising in your ears! Kiss back the living woes, the living tears! Go down into the felon's gloomy cell; Send there the ray of love: as tree-buds swell When spring's warm breath bids the cold winter cease, So will his heart swell with the hope of peace. Be filled with love, for love is Nature's God; The God which trembles in the tender sod, The God which tints the sunset, lights the dew, Sprinkles with stars the firmament's broad blue, And draws all hearts together in a free Wide sweep of love, broad as the ether-sea. No other law or guidance do we need; The world's our church, to do good is our creed. =St. Johns, Mich., 1887.= TO MY MOTHER Some souls there are which never live their life; Some suns there are which never pierce their cloud; Some hearts there are which cup their perfume in, And yield no incense to the outer air. Cloud-shrouded, flower-cupped heart: such is thine own: So dost thou live with all thy brightness hid; So dost thou dwell with all thy perfume close; Rich in thy treasured wealth, aye, rich indeed-- And they are wrong who say thou "dost not feel." But I--I need blue air and opened bloom; To keep my music means that it must die; And when the thrill, the joy, the love of life is gone, I, too, am dead--a corpse, though not entombed. Let me live then--but a while--the gloom soon comes, The flower closes and the petals shut; Through them the perfume slips out, like a soul-- The long, still sleep of death--and then the Grave. =Cleveland, Ohio=, March, 1889. BETRAYED