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POEMS.
I saw my idle words had been
Far crueler than I could know,
And made an old wound bleed again.
"These are not leaves," she whispered low,
"That I am burning in the fire,
But days,—it is a funeral-pyre."
Far crueler than I could know,
And made an old wound bleed again.
"These are not leaves," she whispered low,
"That I am burning in the fire,
But days,—it is a funeral-pyre."
BON VOYAGE.
HERE 'S not an hour but from some sparkling beachGo joyful men, in fragile ships to sail,
By unknown seas to unknown lands. They hail
The freshening winds with eager hope, and speech
Of wondrous countries which they soon will reach.
Left on the shore, we wave our hands, with pale,
Wet cheeks, but hearts that are ashamed to quail,
Or own the grief which selfishness would teach.
O Death, the fairest lands beyond thy sea
Lie waiting, and thy barks are swift and stanch
And ready. Why do we reluctant launch?
And when our friends their heritage have claimed
Of thee, and entered on it, rich and free,
Oh, why are we of sorrow not ashamed?
