The surf upon the sandbars called the price of sugar cane; It was mounting every moment down upon the Spanish Main. The trades were in the topsails, in the scuppers raced the foam, But never did we get beyond the gateway of our home. We have notions that the motions of a lugger ’neath a tree Do not exactly tally with the leagues she makes at sea; Yet the glory of the ocean lies in no far distant goal, But reflections in the water, and the port to starboard roll. THE VESTAL Once a pallid vestal Doubted truth in blue; Listed red as ruin, Harried every hue; Barricaded vision, Garbed herself in sighs; Ridiculed the birth marks Of the butterflies. Dormant and disdainful, Never could she see Why the golden powder Decorates the bee; Why a summer pasture Lends itself to paint; Why love unappareled Still remains the saint. Finally she faltered; Saw at last, forsooth, Every gaudy color Is a bit of truth. Then the gates were opened; Miracles were seen; That instructed damsel Donned a gown of green; Wore it in a churchyard, All arrayed with care; And a painted rainbow Shone above her there. THE BLIND GIRL In the darkness, who would answer for the color of a rose, Or the vestments of the May moth and the pilgrimage it goes. In the darkness who would answer, in the darkness who would care, If the odor of the roses and the winged things were there. In the darkness who would cavil o’er the question of a line. Since the darkness holds all loveliness, beyond the mere design. Oh night, thy soothing prophecies companion all our ways, Until releasing hands let fall the catalogue of days. In the darkness, who would answer for the color of a rose, Or the vestments of the May moth and the pilgrimage it goes. In the darkness who would answer, in the darkness who would care, If the odor of the roses and the better things were there. PRESCIENCE A precious place is Paradise and none may know its worth, But Eden ever longeth for the knickknacks of the earth. The angels grow quite wistful over worldly things below; They hear the hurdy-gurdies in the Candle Maker’s Row. They listen for the laughter from the attics of the earth; They lower pails from heaven’s walls to catch the milkmaids’ mirth. By turns they scan the shadow of the dial on the wall; The rams’ heads of that drawbridge never lowered since the fall. They sway with sweet misgivings, that on rising somewhat late They may hear unusual noises by the battlemented gate. See warders at each windlass, every rusty chain a-cry; See a ponderous portcullis rise, a drawbridge downward fly. Perchance some summer morning and with no one on the wall, The warders may get orders and the drawbridge swiftly fall. A wingless one may be the first to stumble on the scene And vision earth and heaven, with a rustic bridge between. LOVE