Thy heart is like some icy lake, On whose cold brink I stand; Oh, buckle on my spirit’s skate, And take me by the hand! And lead, thou living saint, the way To where the ice is thin, That it may break beneath my feet, And let a lover in. _Spiritualistic Poetry._ Since Soul first basked in Passion’s sun, I always ran to seed In seeking One who’d gone and done Some great heroic deed; And deemed I’d find Life’s Earnest Truth In Gloriana Clarke, Whose eyes were like two carriage lamps Advancing through the dark. But as the rose of morning fades Before the fire of noon, Or sparrows yield in sylvan glades To mocking-birds in June, My Gloriana’s stock went down— Its wheat all turned to chaff— When I got in with Mary Miles, Who ran the telegraph. Her brow betokened serious life; I knew my final queen; A soul divine in gaiter-boots, A Dream in crinoline. Her parasol a glory seemed Around a vivid saint, The whole one spirit-photograph Illumed with heavenly paint. And thus she lifted up her voice, That mission-mantled maid; And thus she spoke with golden grace, And sacredly she said— A-pointing at me all the time With that same parasol, The light which gleams from silent lands Around her seemed to fall— “You’ve told of great and holy deeds— I s’pose they all are true— But in our telegraphic line We’ve some adventures, too; And though I do not like to boast Of what I ever done, _One_ thing my Moral Consciousness Declares was Number One. “Last Fall I was in Tennessee A-travelling might and main, When all at once the engine broke— They couldn’t run the train; And if another train should come ’Twould rather make us scream.” List to the glorious deed she did, This angel of my dream. “I saw a telegraphic line Was running by our _rout_, Though not a house or a machine Was anywhere about. And the conductor said, said he, With his wild eyes of light: ‘Miss Miles, if we’d a battery, I’d fix this scrape all right. “‘I’d send ’em down a telegram Some twenty miles below, And ask for help.’ I looked at him— ‘I’ll fix the business, Joe. Is there a pair of nippers here? If so, those nippers bring; And if you can’t, a sharp-edged file Would be a heaven-sent thing.’” “Unshadowed girl! I see the dodge,” I cried in rapturous joy; “And didst thou climb the post thyself?” Said she, “I did, my boy. A higher law of moral truth Gave courage to my soul; I did not show my garters once In going up the pole.