What sin didst thou commit, or whom offend? That doomed thee to a carnal cell so gross That scarce a hint of what thou really art Has ever reached the world,--who couldst transcend In matchless music, purged of all thy dross, The great Beethoven or divine Mozart. A SONNET OF THE SEASON The carol in my heart I send to you: It comes from out the depths of brooding time To cheer and bless in every place and clime; To purge the false, to chasten and subdue; To lift the drooping life, inspire the true To nobler deeds and thoughts of love sublime. This anthem--which I sing in sonnet rhyme-- Judean shepherds heard and angels knew! And now we fear no longer war's alarms, For red-eyed Mars has fled at last our home: Christ took the little children in his arms And blessed them, saying, Suffer them to come To me that all the sons of men may find My kingdom here within the child-like mind. EUTERPE O lyric muse, thou didst not tune alone The lyre that loving Orpheus smote With subtle touch, who struck the golden note That pierced dread Pluto's heart of stone, And won again Eurydice his own; Nor yet Erate's lute, nor Sappho's throat That thrilled the ear in Grecian isles remote, Where Homer sang, and Art had built her throne: But thou, Euterpe, touched blind Milton's tongue, And swept the thousand chords of Shakespeare's soul; Woke Byron from his hours of idle dream, And then he sang mankind a deathless song. But thou at last didst reach the lyric goal Of art in Tennyson's immortal theme. SCARLET DAYS _To F. W. B. Family_ Those scarlet days come back to me to-night Across the span of many happy years-- Dreams, haunted by the music of the spheres, And glowing skies of gold and chrysolite. The world of science bursting on my sight, And words of wisdom falling on my ears, The rhythmic thought of poets, priests, and seers, Wrought in my life a spell of wild delight. Not all: three figures--Faith and Hope and Love-- I see them still through years of mist and haze-- Hope crowned with light, and Faith of godly ken; And Love was like a meek unconscious dove. Dear God, although I count those scarlet days, To-night I would not have them back again. HER EYES ARE BROWN Her eyes are brown, oh, Edith's eyes are brown! I will not boast the midnight of her hair, Nor yet because her radiant cheek is fair, And like the touch of autumn's thistle down; I will not swear I have not seen her frown; She may be rich and proud and debonair, For aught I know, I'm sure I do not care: But oh, her eyes, her eyes are Edith's crown!