Sing, and to you! No — no — with one note jarred
⁠The harmony of life's long chord is broken,
⁠Your words were light and by light lips were spoken,
And yet the music that you loved is marred.

One string, my friend, is dumb beneath your hand,
⁠Strike and it throbs and vibrates at your will.
⁠Falters upon the verge of sound, and still
Falls back as sea waves shattered on the strand.

Touch it no more, for you shall not regain
⁠The sweet lost tone. Take what is left, or let
⁠Life's music sleep to death. Let us forget
The perfect melody we seek in vain:

And yet perchance, some day before we die,
⁠As half in dreams we hear the night wind sweep
⁠Around our windows, when we fain would sleep,
Laden with one long sobbing moaning cry,

One faint, far tone will waken, and will rise
⁠Above the great wave voice of mortal pain;
⁠Hand will touch hand and lips touch lips again,
As in the darkness it recedes and dies;

Or lingering in the summer evening glow,
⁠Then, when the passion of the crimson west
⁠Burning like some great heart that cannot rest,
Stains as with blood the waters as they flow,

Some old forgotten tones may rise and wake
⁠Our dying youth, and set our hearts aflame
⁠With their old sweetness, — to our lips the name
Of love steal softly for the old love's sake.

Wistaria blossoms trail and fall
Above the length of barrier wall;
⁠And softly, now and then,
The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit
From roof to gateway-top, and sit
⁠And watch the ways of men.

The gate's ajar. If one might peep!
Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep
⁠The shadowy garden seems!
And note how dimly to and fro
The grave, grey-hooded sisters go,
⁠Like figures seen in dreams.

Look, there is one that tells her beads;
And yonder one apart that reads
⁠A tiny missal's page;
And see, beside the well, the two
That, kneeling, strive to lure anew
⁠The magpie to its cage!

Not beautiful — not all! But each
With that mild grace, outlying speech,
⁠Which comes of even blood;
The veil unseen that women wear
With heart-whole thought, and quiet care,
⁠And hope of higher good.

"A placid life — a peaceful life!
What need to these the name of wife?
⁠What gentler task (I said) —
What worthier — e'en your arts among —
Than tend the sick, and teach the young,
⁠And give the hungry bread?"

"No worthier task!" re-echoes she,
Who (closelier clinging) turns with me
⁠To face the road again;
And yet, in that warm heart of hers,
She means the doves', for she prefers
⁠To "watch the ways of men."

Helvellyn's height with snows is white,
⁠The forest branches bow and splinter;
No ripple breaks the frozen lakes,
⁠Then shut my door on cold and winter.

On my hearth-dogs pile up the logs, —
⁠Pile high, my boy; and down your throttle
Right freely pour my "thirty-four,"
⁠And never spare the old man's bottle.

Leave all the rest to Him who best
⁠Knows how to still the roar of ocean;
To calm the wind in wildest mind,
⁠And hush the leaflets lightest motion.

Fear not to stay upon the day,
⁠And count for gain each happy pleasure;
Be not above the game of love,
⁠And featly tread the Christmas measure.

Let blood run cold when life grows old,
⁠Stick now to skate and tennis-racquet,
Till westward-ho the sun-wheels go,
⁠Then join the sports of frock and jacket.

When bright eyes smile, laugh back the while,
⁠And find the nook where beauty lingers;
Steal golden charm from rounded arm,
⁠Half-given, half-held, by fairy fingers.