Ah, the storm may be wild and the sea be strong, And man is weak and the darkness long, But while blossoms the flower on the light-house tower There still is place for a smile and a song. AMONG THE LILIES. She stood among the lilies In sunset's brightest ray, Among the tall June lilies, As stately fair as they; And I, a boyish lover then, Looked once, and, lingering, looked again, And life began that day. She sat among the lilies, My sweet, all lily-pale; The summer lilies listened, I whispered low my tale. O golden anthers, breathing balm, O hush of peace, O twilight calm, Did you or I prevail? She lies among the lily-snows, Beneath the wintry sky; All round her and about her The buried lilies lie. They will awake at touch of Spring, And she, my fair and flower-like thing, In spring-time--by and by. NOVEMBER. Dry leaves upon the wall, Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape, A single frosted cluster on the grape Still hangs--and that is all. It hangs forgotten quite,-- Forgotten in the purple vintage-day, Left for the sharp and cruel frosts to slay, The daggers of the night. It knew the thrill of spring; It had its blossom-time, its perfumed noons; Its pale-green spheres were rounded to soft runes Of summer's whispering. Through balmy morns of May; Through fragrances of June and bright July, And August, hot and still, it hung on high And purpled day by day. Of fair and mantling shapes, No braver, fairer cluster on the tree; And what then is this thing has come to thee Among the other grapes, Thou lonely tenant of the leafless vine, Granted the right to grow thy mates beside, To ripen thy sweet juices, but denied Thy place among the wine? Ah! we are dull and blind. The riddle is too hard for us to guess The why of joy or of unhappiness, Chosen or left behind. But everywhere a host Of lonely lives shall read their type in thine: Grapes which may never swell the tale of wine, Left out to meet the frost. EMBALMED. This is the street and the dwelling, Let me count the houses o'er; Yes,--one, two, three from the corner, And the house that I love makes four. That is the very window Where I used to see her head Bent over book or needle, With ivy garlanded. And the very loop of the curtain, And the very curve of the vine, Were full of the grace and the meaning Which was hers by some right divine. I began to be glad at the corner, And all the way to the door My heart outran my footsteps, And frolicked and danced before, In haste for the words of welcome, The voice, the repose and grace, And the smile, like a benediction, Of that beautiful, vanished face.