_"A rosy child, Sitting and singing, in a garden fair, The joy of hearing, seeing, The simple joy of being-- Or twining rosebuds in the golden hair That ripples free and wild. "A sweet pale child-- Wearily looking to the purple West-- Waiting the great For-ever That suddenly shall sever The cruel chains that hold her from her rest-- By earth-joys unbeguiled. "An angel-child-- Gazing with living eyes on a dead face: The mortal form forsaken, That none may now awaken, That lieth painless, moveless in her place, As though in death she smiled! "Be as a child-- So shalt thou sing for very joy of breath-- So shalt thou wait thy dying, In holy transport lying-- So pass rejoicing through the gate of death, In garment undefiled."_ Then call me what they will, I know That now my soul is glad: If this be madness, better so, Far better to be mad, Weeping or smiling as I go. For if I weep, it is that now I see how deep a loss is mine, And feel how brightly round my brow The coronal might shine, Had I but kept mine early vow: And if I smile, it is that now I see the promise of the years-- The garland waiting for my brow, That must be won with tears, With pain--with death--I care not how. _May 9, 1862._ [Illustration] THE WILLOW-TREE. The morn was bright, the steeds were light, The wedding guests were gay: Young Ellen stood within the wood And watched them pass away. She scarcely saw the gallant train: The tear-drop dimmed her ee: Unheard the maiden did complain Beneath the Willow-Tree. "Oh Robin, thou didst love me well, Till, on a bitter day, She came, the Lady Isabel, And stole thy heart away. My tears are vain: I live again In days that used to be, When I could meet thy welcome feet Beneath the Willow-Tree. "Oh Willow gray, I may not stay Till Spring renew thy leaf; But I will hide myself away, And nurse a lonely grief. It shall not dim Life's joy for him: My tears he shall not see: While he is by, I'll come not nigh My weeping Willow-Tree. "But when I die, oh let me lie Beneath thy loving shade, That he may loiter careless by, Where I am lowly laid. And let the white white marble tell, If he should stoop to see, 'Here lies a maid that loved thee well, Beneath the Willow-Tree.'" 1859. ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. 'Only a woman's hair'! Fling it aside! A bubble on Life's mighty stream: Heed it not, man, but watch the broadening tide Bright with the western beam. Nay! In those words there rings from other years The echo of a long low cry, Where a proud spirit wrestles with its tears In loneliest agony.