Softly she came one twilight from the dead, And in the passionate silence of her look Was more than man has writ in any book: And now my thoughts are restless, and a dread Calls them to the Dim Land discomforted; For down the leafy ways her white feet took, Lightly the newly broken roses shook-- Was it the wind disturbed each rosy head? God! was it joy or sorrow in her face-- That quiet face? Had it grown old or young? Was it sweet memory or sad that stung Her voiceless soul to wander from its place? What do the dead find in the Silence--grace? Or endless grief for which there is no tongue? Infinite Depths The little pool, in street or field apart, Glasses deep heavens and the rushing storm; And into silent depths of every heart, The Eternal throws its awful shadow-form. A Leaf from the Devil’s Jest-Book Beside the sewing-table chained and bent, They stitch for the lady, tyrannous and proud-- For her a wedding-gown, for them a shroud; They stitch and stitch, but never mend the rent Torn in life’s golden curtains. Glad Youth went, And left them alone with Time; and now if bowed With burdens they should sob and cry aloud,-- Wondering, the rich would look from their content. And so this glimmering life at last recedes In unknown, endless depths beyond recall; And what’s the worth of all our ancient creeds, If here at the end of ages this is all-- A white face floating in the whirling ball, A dead face plashing in the river reeds? The Paymaster There is a sacred Something on all ways-- Something that watches through the Universe; One that remembers, reckons and repays, Giving us love for love, and curse for curse. The Last Furrow The Spirit of Earth, with still restoring hands, ’Mid ruin moves, in glimmering chasm gropes, And mosses mantle and the bright flower opes; But Death the Ploughman wanders in all lands, And to the last of Earth his furrow stands. The grave is never hidden; fearful hopes Follow the dead upon the fading slopes, And there wild memories meet upon the sands. When willows fling their banners to the plain, When rumor of winds and sound of sudden showers Disturb the dream of winter--all in vain The grasses hurry to the graves, the flowers Toss their wild torches on their windy towers; Yet are the bleak graves lonely in the rain. In the Storm I huddled close against the mighty cliff. A sense of safety and of brotherhood Broke on the heart: the shelter of a rock Is sweeter than the roofs of all the world. After Reading Shakspere