Frost

HOW small a tooth hath mined the season's heart!

How cold a touch hath set the wood on fire,

Until it blazes like a costly pyre

Built for some Ganges emperor, old and swart,

Soul-sped on clouds of incense! Whose the art

That webs the streams, each morn, with silver wire,

Delicate as the tension of a lyre,--

Whose falchion pries the chest-nut burr apart?

It is the Frost, a rude and Gothic sprite,

Who doth unbuild the Summer's palaced wealth,

And puts her dear loves all to sword or flight;

Yet in the hushed, unmindful winter's night

The spoiler builds again with jealous stealth,

And set a mimic garden, cold and bright.

Edith Matilda Thomas

The Betrayal of the Rose

A WHITE rose had a sorrow--

And a strange sorrow!

For her sisters they had none,

As they all sat around her

Each on her feudal throne.

  A strange sorrow

For one with no to-morrow,

No yesterday, to call her own,

  But only to-day.

A white rose had a sorrow--

And a sweet sorrow!

She locked it in her breast

Save that one outer petal,

Less guarded than the rest

  (Oh, fond sorrow!),

From the red rose did borrow

Blushes, and the truth confessed

  In the red rose's way!

Edith Matilda Thomas

Breath of Hampstead Heath

THE wind of Hampstead Heath still burns my cheek

As, home returned, I muse, and see arise

Those rounded hills beneath the low, gray skies,

With gleams of haze-lapped cities far to seek.

These I can picture, but how fitly speak

Of what might not be seen with searching eyes,

And all beyond the listening ear that lies,

Best known to bards and seers in times antique?

The winds that of the spirit rise and blow

Kindle my thought, and shall for many a day,

Recalling what blithe presence filled the place

Of one who oftentimes passed up that way,

By garden close and lane where boughs bend low,

Until the breath of Hampstead touched his face.

Edith Matilda Thomas

A Far Cry to Heaven

WHAT! doest thou pray that the outgone tide be rolled back on the strand,

The flame be rekindled that mounted away from the smouldering brand,

The past-summer harvest flow golden through stubble-lands naked and sere,

The winter-gray woods upgather and quicken the leaves of last year?--

Thy prayers are as clouds in a drouth; regardless, unfruitful, they roll;

For this, that thou prayest vain things, 't is a far cry to Heaven, my soul,--

     Oh, a far cry to Heaven!

Thou dreamest the word shall return, shot arrow-like into the air,

The wound in the breast where it lodged be balmed and closed for thy prayer,

The ear of the dead be unsealed, till thou whisper a boon once denied,

The white hour of life be restored, that passed thee unprized, undescribed!--

Thy prayers are as runners that faint, that fail, within sight of the goal,

For this, that thou prayest fond things, 't is a far cry to Heaven, my soul,--

     Oh, a far cry to Heaven!

And cravest thou fondly the quivering sands shall be firm to thy feet,

The brackish pool of the waste to thy lips be made wholesome and sweet?

And cravest thou subtly the bane thou desirest be wrought to thy good,

As forth from a poisonous flower a bee conveyeth safe food?

For this, that thou prayest ill things, thy prayers are an anger-rent scroll;

The chamber of audit is closed,--'t is a far cry to Heaven, my soul,--

     Oh, a far cry to Heaven!

Edith Matilda Thomas

Thefts of the Morning

BIND us the Morning, mother of the stars

And of the winds that usher in the day!

Ere her light fingers slide the eastern bars,

A netted snare before her footsteps lay;

Ere the pale roses of the mist be strown,

Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!

With her has passed all things we held most dear,

Must subtly guarded from her amorous stealth;

We nothing gathered, toiling year by year,

But she hath claimed it for increase of wealth;

Our gems make bright her crown, incrust her throne:

Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!

Where are they gone, who round our myrtles played,

Or bent the vines' rich fruitage to our hands,

Or breathed deep song from out the laurels' shade?

She drew them to her,--who can slack the bands?

What lure she used, what toils, was never known:

Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!

Enough that for her sake Orion died,

Slain by the silver Archer of the sky,--

That Ilion's prince amid her splendors wide

Lies chained by age, nor wins his prayer to die;

Enough! but hark! Our captive loves make moan:

Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!

We have beheld them whom we lost of old,

Among her choiring Hours, in sorrow bowed.

A moment gleam their faces, faint and cold,

Through some high oriel window wreathed with cloud,

Or on the wind before her they are blown:

Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!

They do her service at the noiseless looms

That weave the misty vesture of the hills;

Their tears are drink to thirsting grass and blooms,

Their breath the darkling wood-bird wakes and thrills;

Us too they seek, but far adrift are thrown:

Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!

Yea, cry her Thief! from where the light doth break

To where it merges in the western deep!

If aught of ours she, startled, should forsake,

Such waifs the waiting Night for us will keep.

But stay not; still pursue her, falsely flown:

Bind us the Morning, and restore our own!

Edith Matilda Thomas

Winter Sleep

I KNOW it must be winter (though I sleep)--

  I know it must be winter, for I dream

  I dip my bare feet in the running stream,

And flowers are many, and the grass grows deep.

I know I must be old (how age deceives!)--

  I know I must be old, for, all unseen,

  My heart grows young, as autumn fields grow green,

When late rains patter on the falling sheaves.

I know I must be tired (and tired souls err)--

  I know I must be tired, for all my soul

  To deeds of daring beats a glad, faint roll,

As storms the riven pine to music stir.

I know I must be dying (Death draws near)--

  I know I must be dying, for I crave

  Life--life, strong life, and think not of the grave,

And turf-bound silence, in the frosty year.

Edith Matilda Thomas