LONGFELLOW'S "BOOK OF SONNETS"
'Twas Sunday evening as I wandered down
The central highway of this swarming place,
And felt a pleasant stillness—not a trace
Of Saturday's harsh turmoil in the town;
Then as a gentle breeze just stirs a gown,
Yet almost motionless, or as the face
Of silence smiles, I heard the chimes of "Grace"
Sound murmuring through the autumn evening's brown.
To-day, again, I past along Broadway
In the fierce tumult and mid-noise of noon,
While 'neath my feet the solid pavement shook;
When lo! it seemed that bells began to play
Upon a Sabbath eve a silver tune—
For as I walked I read the poet's book.
"H. H."
I would that in the verse she loved some word,
Not all unfit, I to her praise might frame—
Some word wherein the memory of her name
Should through long years its incense still afford.
But no, her spirit smote with its own sword;
Herself has lit the fire whose blood-red flame
Shall not be quenched—this is her living fame
Who struck so well the sonnet's subtile chord.
None who e'er knew her can believe her dead;
Tho' should she die they deem it well might be
Her spirit took its everlasting flight
In summer's glory, by the sunset sea—
That onward through the Golden Gate it fled.
Ah, where that bright soul is cannot be night.
