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POEMS.
Ah, on the brink
Of each new age of great eternity, I think,
After the ages have all countless grown,
Our souls will poise and launch with eager wing,
Forgetting blessedness already known,
In sweet impatience for God's next good thing.
Of each new age of great eternity, I think,
After the ages have all countless grown,
Our souls will poise and launch with eager wing,
Forgetting blessedness already known,
In sweet impatience for God's next good thing.
BELATED.
N a September day I cameSeeking that flower of sweetest name
Of all, from which the lavish June
With boundless fragrance fills the noon,
In woods where her best blossoms hide.
"O sweet Twin-Flower! I longing cried,
Hopeless but eager, "is there still
One tiny pink bell left? And will
Thy guardian fairy condescend
To guide my feet, that I may bend,
In reverent and fond delight,
Once more at the transcendent sight?"
The spicy woods were still and cool;
In many a little mossy pool
Bright leaves were floating round and round;
The partridge mother's watchful sound,
The sighs of dying leaves that fell,
Were all that broke the silent spell.
In mats and tangles everywhere,
The Twin-Flower vines lay, green and fair,
With subtle beauty all their own,
Wreathing each hillock and each stone,
