Sweetheart, I dedicate to thee These Song-Waves from life's voiceful sea. They ebb and flow with swift occasion, Bearing rich freight, and perhaps debris.
Each murmuring low its song apart May hint a symphony of art, Since under all, within, and over, Is diapason of Love's great heart.
For thee, as on the bridal day, (Sweet our November as the May!) Are joined in one our high communings; So take them, dear, as thine own, I pray.
O soul, that art essential change, Bickering beams, a flutter strange, Lightning of thought and gust of passion, A silver thread in this mountain range;
The waters of thy shimmering rill, More real are they than granite hill; Thy tremulous waves of mystic feeling Nourish a life of enduring will.
The sun and moon from spacious height, And stars, may crumble into night; Why shouldst thou cease to move forever, A living glow of eternal light?
Spirit of Song, life's golden ray That burneth in this house of clay, Despite the stress of blast and tempest To quench the flickering light and play;
Rapture of seraphs bright thou art, Yet kindlest in the human heart The fluid soul's upbreathed emotion, Whose light shines clear as a star apart,--
A fairer light of sweeter fame Than science knows to praise or blame, Wherein the soul has open vision, And feels the glow of His holy flame.
Impressions vast and vague flow in From Somewhat that to me is kin. Shall I assemble them all careless In the mind's garret or waste dust-bin?
Nay. In solution in the soul's Own hot equators, frosty poles, I'll more and more their import cherish, Their deeps on deeps to my shelving shoals.
O heart, with tentacles in sea, Like oral-disked anemone, Taste thou the wine of shoreless oceans, And feed on food that was meant for thee!
'Tis fit the bloodroot in white hood Should brave the parting winter's mood,-- Come, thou, pale violet, streaked, sweet-scented, Beside the runs of this tempered wood.
I hunger for thy gentle face, Sweetest of all the wildwood race! O flower, at once ideal and essence, Why stayest thou from thy wonted place?
Thou art not dead? Nay, when death crept Upon thy form, thy full life leapt Defiance at the harsh destroyer, And slept as seed! Thou hast overslept.
The sweep, O heart, of Love's account! Hearken: "I am of life the Fount; All are within My deeps of Being, The toiling city, the sea, the mount.