Here let me rest upon this single hope, For oh, my wings are weary of the wind, And with its stress no more may strive or cope. One cry has dulled mine ears, mine eyes are blind,-- Would that o'er all the intervening space, I might fly forth and see thee face to face. I fly; I search, but, love, in gloom I grope. Fly home, far bird, unto thy waiting nest; Spread thy strong wings above the wind-swept sea. Beat the grim breeze with thy unruffled breast Until thou sittest wing to wing with me. Then, let the past bring up its tales of wrong; We shall chant low our sweet connubial song, Till storm and doubt and past no more shall be! HER THOUGHT AND HIS The gray of the sea, and the gray of the sky, A glimpse of the moon like a half-closed eye. The gleam on the waves and the light on the land, A thrill in my heart,--and--my sweetheart's hand. She turned from the sea with a woman's grace, And the light fell soft on her upturned face, And I thought of the flood-tide of infinite bliss That would flow to my heart from a single kiss. But my sweetheart was shy, so I dared not ask For the boon, so bravely I wore the mask. But into her face there came a flame:-- I wonder could she have been thinking the same? THE RIGHT TO DIE I have no fancy for that ancient cant That makes us masters of our destinies, And not our lives, to hold or give them up As will directs; I cannot, will not think That men, the subtle worms, who plot and plan And scheme and calculate with such shrewd wit, Are such great blund'ring fools as not to know When they have lived enough. Men court not death When there are sweets still left in life to taste. Nor will a brave man choose to live when he, Full deeply drunk of life, has reached the dregs, And knows that now but bitterness remains. He is the coward who, outfaced in this, Fears the false goblins of another life. I honor him who being much harassed Drinks of sweet courage until drunk of it,-- Then seizing Death, reluctant, by the hand, Leaps with him, fearless, to eternal peace! BEHIND THE ARRAS As in some dim baronial hall restrained, A prisoner sits, engirt by secret doors And waving tapestries that argue forth Strange passages into the outer air; So in this dimmer room which we call life, Thus sits the soul and marks with eye intent That mystic curtain o'er the portal death; Still deeming that behind the arras lies The lambent way that leads to lasting light. Poor fooled and foolish soul! Know now that death Is but a blind, false door that nowhere leads, And gives no hope of exit final, free. WHEN THE OLD MAN SMOKES