Stray Pebbles from the Shores of Thought

ROBERT BROWNING

 
"A peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast.
O thou soul of my soul, I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!"
 

– Prospice.

Fulfilled December 12, 1889

 
Oh, the blessed fruition
Of peace out of pain!
Of a light without darkness,
A clasping again!
Of a full soul reunion
In Love's endless reign!
 
 
Sing, O earth, with new joy
At this victory won!
For the faith that endured
Till the setting of sun!
 
 
For the hope that shone clear
Through the mighty work done!
For the love that sought God
To guide love here begun!
Sing, O earth, with new joy
For such victory won!
 

TO NEPTUNE, IN BEHALF OF S. C. G

 
O Neptune, in thy vast survey
Of all the ships that sail,
Watch lovingly the well-known way
Of one we wait to hail.
 
 
The Cephalonia is her name —
But why need I tell more?
Thou knowest indeed the well earned fame
She bears from shore to shore.
 
 
But since among her company's band
Is one who's life to me,
O Neptune, bear her in thy hand
E'en yet more tenderly,
 
 
O'er gentle waves, 'neath fair blue sky,
'Midst winds that only blow
To make the time more swiftly fly
For hearts that hunger so.
 

Boston, September 4, 1886.

TO THE PANSIES GROWING ON THE GRAVE OF A. S. D

 
Beautiful pansies, ye must know
Your sacred mission here,
For how could otherwise ye grow
So sweet and full of cheer?
 
 
Your watchful love we can't o'errate,
As, lingering here in tears,
Fond memory brings the precious weight
Of friendship's golden years.
 
 
Ye are the symbols, pure and sweet,
Of heartsease and of life,
Through which our thought may dare retreat
From pain and death so rife,
 
 
To realms of light and peace above,
From earth's alloy set free,
Wherein abide immortal love
And deathless ministry.
 
 
But still, while we your comfort seek,
Our hearts will wildly yearn
To hear once more the loved one speak,
Once more the form discern.
 

At Woodlawn Cemetery, May, 1886.

A BROKEN HEART

I

 
Must I always look for sorrow
On the morrow?
Must I never have the hope
That a life of larger scope
Will before my vision ope?
 

II

 
Ah, 'tis true there is but sorrow
On the morrow
For the broken hearts that wait,
Bearing secretly their fate.
Yet the opening of the gate
To the blessed heaven's morrow,
When the aching, longing heart
Shall be free from pain and sorrow,
Comes before my tired eyes
With a wondrous sweet surprise.
 

III

 
But this joy is not for me,
Not for me.
Alas! for my poor broken heart,
With its poisoned arrow's dart.
Without hope, alone, apart.
 

MY RELEASE

 
I hear in the ocean's restless moan
My soul's lament.
Will it ever cease?
 
 
I feel in the rumbling earthquake's groan
Deep anguish spent.
Shall I now know peace?
 
 
I see in the smallest heaven's loan
Enough for content —
But is that release?
 
 
O no!
My release is but found in the pure undertone,
Coming nearer and dearer to me,
 
 
Of a great human love beyond Nature at best,
Eternal, inspiring, and free.
Oh, that's my release.
Happy me, happy me!
 

THE GOD OF MUSIC

TO E. T. G

 
Out from the depths of silence
The god of music came,
To echo heavenly cadence
On earth's fair shores of fame.
 
 
Full-orbed, with heavenly glory,
He met the lords of earth.
But 'twas the old, old story,
They blind were to his worth.
 
 
So back to depths of silence
He flew on wings of light,
"To bide their time of nonsense,"
He sang when out of sight.
 
 
And as rolled on the ages,
He ever and anon
Sent down to earth his pages
The lords to breathe upon.
 
 
At length he felt vibrations,
From Germany's fair clime,
Of sweetest modulations
E'er heard in realms of time.
 
 
So forth he flew in rapture
To that dear father-land,
To seize – ere earth could capture —
A spirit pure and grand,
 
 
To which he could surrender
Himself with perfect ease,
And weave the music tender,
Of heaven's own harmonies.
 
 
He found the child Beethoven;
On him his blessing fell.
And in his soul was woven
The sounds we know so well.
 

TO WILHELM GERICKE

(On the completion of his conductorship of the Boston Symphony Orchestra.)

1884–1889

 
Great poets can without the aid
Of kindred mind
Reveal to us the secrets laid
On them to find;
But music-kings need ministries
To sound their hidden harmonies.
 
 
For showing us the inmost heart
Of these great kings,
And making clear with wondrous art
Their wanderings,
We thank thee, while we tender here
A "bon voyage" to home's loved sphere.
 

FOR E. T. F

I

AFTER THE BIRTH OF HER SON, R. A. F

May 28, 1887

 
I'd rather hear my baby's coo,
That little gurgling coo,
Than rarest song or symphony
Born out of music's mystery
Which once did woo.
 
 
I'd rather see my baby's face,
That lovely dimpled face,
Than all the choicest works of art,
Inspired by loving hand or heart,
Contained in space.
 
 
I'd rather feel my baby's eyes,
Such deep blue heavenly eyes,
Than all the world's delighted gaze,
Proclaiming with continued praise
My power to rise.
 
 
O yes, 'tis true, my baby dear,
My precious baby dear,
Is more than music, art, or fame,
Or anything that bears the name
Of pleasure here.
 
 
For in this joy I find a rest,
A soul-inspiring rest,
Beyond the wealth of fame or art,
To satisfy my woman-heart,
Or make it blest.
 
 
And as I live in this my gift,
My heaven-sent, blessed gift,
Thoughts such as Mary pondered o'er
Deep in her heart in days of yore
Come to uplift,
 
 
And make the claims of motherhood,
Dear sacred motherhood,
Become creation's mountain height,
Whereon e'er shines the beacon-light
Of womanhood.
 

Chelsea, Mass.

II

AFTER THE DEATH OF R. A. F

February 5, 1888

 
Would I could see my baby's face,
That lovely dimpled face, —
O God, how can I bear the pain
Of never seeing it again,
My baby's face;
 
 
Of never seeing in those eyes,
Those deep blue heavenly eyes,
The wondrous glimpses of soul-light
Which filled my heart with strange delight
And sweet surprise;
 
 
Of never hearing baby's coo,
That little gurgling coo —
O God, how can I bear the pain
Of never hearing it again,
My baby's coo.
 
 
Alas! "Thy will, not mine, be done."
Not mine, but Thine, be done.
I can but breathe again this prayer,
As in the days of past despair,
When peace was won.
 

TO C. H. F

(Upon receiving a twig of green from the grave of Helen Hunt Jackson, October, 1888.)

 
With reverent touch and grateful heart,
Dear thoughtful friend,
I hold this precious bit of green
You kindly send
From Cheyenne's holy, lonely grave,
Where pilgrims tend.
 
 
It touches springs of tenderest life
Inspired by her,
Who, child of poetry and ease,
Did not demur
From sacrificing all to be
Wrong's arbiter.
 
 
That rare mosaic it suggests
Made by the hand
Of those who seek this favored spot
In chosen land,
Where, oft in life, she penned her soul
At Truth's command.
 
 
'Tis true, she wished no monument
To mark the place;
But must she not be satisfied
To see the space
Thus blessed and open to the heart
Of every race?
 
 
O brain of power and heart of fire,
America's pride,
No wonder that the mountain height,
Above sin's tide,
Was chosen as the resting place
With death to hide;
 
 
For such could give the needed rest
On earth denied,
Could satisfy the poet's thought,
Unsatisfied,
And symbolize the soul's true rest
When glorified.
 

AN ANNIVERSARY POEM

 
And is time marked in heaven? Dost know, O spirit friend,
'Tis just a year ago to-day
Thou went so suddenly away,
And left me in my loneliness the weary days to spend? —
Ah, weary days,
Denied thy praise
And all thy many helpful ways!
 
 
And is earth known in heaven? Dost see, O clear-eyed soul,
The present changing life of man
Still working out the wondrous plan
Of making even broken lives add to the complete whole? —
Ah, broken lives
That death deprives
Of help like thine that heavenward strives!
 
 
And are we known in heaven? Do I, thy once fond care,
Still have that patient yearning love
Which longed to lift my soul above
The sweet though transitory joys of even earth's best fare? —
Ah, earth's best fare
Cannot compare
With thy ideal of me laid bare!
 

A COMFORT

TO S. R. H

 
I have sowed in tears, —
Shall I reap in joy?
Shall my human heart be satisfied,
And sorrow and pain be justified?
Shall full fruition free my soul
From limitation's sad control,
And all my faculties of mind
Their perfect rest and freedom find?
 
 
"They that sow in tears
Shall reap in joy,"
Sang a poet-heart in the long ago,
'Midst depths of sorrow, pain, and woe;
And what to him was truth and life
Has shone through all the ages' strife,
To be at last our beacon-light
Of comfort in the darkest night.
 

AN ANNIVERSARY

 
The autumn tints of these loved hills
Outlined against the sky,
Are dearer far to me this year
Than in the years gone by;
 
 
For they are colors Nature wears
To celebrate the time
When her pet child changed life on earth
For that of heavenly clime.
 
 
She thus rejoices, while our hearts
Wear not their flowers of joy.
Alas! could she but give us back
Our gifted artist boy!
 
 
But then she sees that it was best
That he, like her, should know
Death, and the Resurrection too,
The fullest life to show.
 

A THANK-OFFERING

TO MISS ELIZABETH P. PEABODY

 
Thou priestess of pure childhood's heart,
Wherein God's spirit lies,
Thou willing priestess of the art
Of true self-sacrifice,
 
 
Ere thy rare spirit takes its flight
To realms beyond our praise,
Where childhood's pure eternal light
Shines through the blessed days,
 
 
We thank thee for thy legacy
Of thought wrought out in deed,
By which love's sweet supremacy
Becomes man's potent need.
 

******

 
Our nation must thy secret share,
Ere it can fully rise
To heights of truth and insight where
True wisdom's glory lies.
 

AT LIFE'S SETTING

 
Put your arms around me.
There – like that.
I want a little petting
At life's setting.
For 'tis harder to be brave
When feeble age comes creeping,
And finds me weeping
(Dear ones gone),
Or brings before my tired eyes
Sweet visions of my youth's fair prize
(There is a pain in sacrifice),
Denied me then and ever.
Left me alone? No, never.
For in God's love I nestled,
While with deep thought I wrestled,
Till all my busy life at length
Was spent in giving others strength,
In making others' homes more bright,
In making others' burdens light.
 
 
But now, alone and weary,
I am hungry
For a human love's sweet petting
At life's setting.
Keep your arms around me,
Kiss my fevered brow,
Whisper that you love me
I can bear it now.
 
 
Oh, how this does rest me
Now my work is done!
I've all my life loved others,
Now I want love, dear one.
Just a little petting
At life's setting;
For I'm old, alone, and tired,
And my long life's work is done.