Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows, One must always be as quiet as a mouse; But to write one seems to me Quite superfluous to be, When you 've got a little sonnet in the house. Just a dainty little poem, true and fine, That is full of love and life in every line, Earnest, delicate, and sweet, Altogether so complete That I wonder what's the use of writing mine. DISTINCTION "I am but clay," the sinner plead, Who fed each vain desire. "Not only clay," another said, "But worse, for thou art mire." THE SUM A little dreaming by the way, A little toiling day by day; A little pain, a little strife, A little joy,--and that is life. A little short-lived summer's morn, When joy seems all so newly born, When one day's sky is blue above, And one bird sings,--and that is love. A little sickening of the years, The tribute of a few hot tears Two folded hands, the failing breath, And peace at last,--and that is death. Just dreaming, loving, dying so, The actors in the drama go-- A flitting picture on a wall, Love, Death, the themes; but is that all? SONNET ON AN OLD BOOK WITH UNCUT LEAVES Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire, No finger ever traced thy yellow page Save Time's. Thou hast not wrought to noble rage The hearts thou wouldst have stirred. Not any fire Save sad flames set to light a funeral pyre Dost thou suggest. Nay,--impotent in age, Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stage And ceasest even dumbly to aspire. How different was the thought of him that writ. What promised he to love of ease and wealth, When men should read and kindle at his wit. But here decay eats up the book by stealth, While it, like some old maiden, solemnly, Hugs its incongruous virginity! ON THE SEA WALL I sit upon the old sea wall, And watch the shimmering sea, Where soft and white the moonbeams fall, Till, in a fantasy, Some pure white maiden's funeral pall The strange light seems to me. The waters break upon the shore And shiver at my feet, While I dream old dreams o'er and o'er, And dim old scenes repeat; Tho' all have dreamed the same before, They still seem new and sweet. The waves still sing the same old song That knew an elder time; The breakers' beat is not more strong, Their music more sublime; And poets thro' the ages long Have set these notes to rhyme. But this shall not deter my lyre, Nor check my simple strain; If I have not the old-time fire, I know the ancient pain: The hurt of unfulfilled desire,-- The ember quenched by rain. I know the softly shining sea That rolls this gentle swell Has snarled and licked its tongues at me And bared its fangs as well; That 'neath its smile so heavenly, There lurks the scowl of hell!