Will he accept from me
  My worship, gifts—­the heavens are very still,
No answer do I hear, no sign I see,
  If I but knew His will;
Would He would come a-walking on the sea.

* * * * *

The storm is overpast, for sweet and fair
  A sudden radiance shone o’er wave and lea;
And in the glory trembling through the air,
  He came unto me walking on the sea.

The heavy waves that had rushed to and fro
  Cowered at His feet in sudden melody;
And all transfigured in the shining glow
  Did He come to me walking on the sea.

Far off I saw His form, but knew it not;
  He nearer drew, He smiled, my fears did flee;
His loving look dispelled a lingering doubt,
  As He came to me o’er the twilight sea.

I dropped my burden on the shelving sand
  So I might meet Him, if such bliss could be,
I reached the shore, I knelt and kissed His hand
  With blissful tears beside the twilight sea.

Such love He woke, I would my life have lain
  Low down to pave His way, “He loveth me
Who loveth this sad world, and blesseth man,”
  Came blown to me across the twilight sea.

Perplexing questions died within my breast,
  “Deep peace hath he who doeth lovingly
My will, who loveth most, he loveth best,”
  Came blown to me across the twilight sea.

The storm was overpast, a breath of balm
  Lapped the low waves, and lingered on the lea,
For in the twilight fell a holy calm,
  He came unto me walking on the sea.

* * * * *

Was this a dream?  If it were not a dream
  My life is blest in truth, and if it be,
I know across the deep has fallen a gleam,
  A bridge of glory spans the twilight sea.

NIGHTFALL.

Soft o’er the meadow, and murmuring mere,
Falleth a shadow, near and more near;
Day like a white dove floats down the sky,
Cometh the night, love, darkness is nigh;
         So dies the happiest day.

Slow in thy dark eye riseth a tear,
Hear I thy sad sigh, Sorrow is near;
Hope smiling bright, love, dies on my breast,
As day like a white dove flies down the west;
         So dies the happiest day.

HIS PLACE.

So all things come to our mind at last,
  He is close by your side in the twilight gloom,
  And you two are alone in the dim old room,
Yet he is mute, as you bade him be, time past.

You bade him to weary you, never again
  With his idle love, in truth he was wise,
  For he spake no more, although in his eyes
You read, you fancied, a language of pain.

But this is past, and vex you he never will,
  With loving glance, or look of sad reproach;
  His lips move not, smile not at your approach;
The flowers he clasps are not more calm and still.