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Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 80 pages of information about Poems.

Mayhap, your heart in maiden peace is like a closed bud sleeping,
Wrapped in pure folds of saintly thought, its tender freshness
        keeping. 
Yet like a dream that comes in sleep, your soul sweet quiet
        breaking,
Is a thought of me, my darling, that shall come true on waking.

Perchance you turn from passionate vows, words wild with
        love’s sweet madness,
With soft eyes looking far sway, in yearning trust and sadness;
A look that tells his alien soul how widely you are parted,
Though he knows not whom your rapt eyes seek, my sweet,
        my loving-hearted.

Oh, the world is rough; the heart against its sneers, its cold
        derision,
Locks all its better feelings, making it a gloomy prison;
But your hand, my angel, shall unlock its rocky, dust-strewn
        portal,
Your smile shall rouse its dying dreams of good to life immortal.

You will make me better, purer, for love, the true refiner,
Burning out the baser passions, will kindle the diviner,
Will plead and wind my spirit, not to shame its heavenly station,
You will trust me, and that trust will prove my tempted soul’s
        salvation.

God keep you tenderly, my life’s dear hope and unseen blessing;
Oh, night wind, touch her tresses till I come with fond caressing,
Thy crown of pearl-linked light, oh, royal moon stoop down
        and give her,
Till queen of love’s own kingdom, I crown her mine forever.

A SONG FOR TWILIGHT.

Oh! the day was dark and dreary,
  For clouds swept o’er the sun,
The burden of life seemed heavy,
  And its warfare never done;
But I heard a voice at twilight,
  It whispered in my ear,
“Oh, doubting heart, look upward,
  Dear soul, be of good cheer. 
Oh, weary heart, look upward,
  Dear soul, be of good cheer.”

And lo! on looking upward
  The stars lit up the sky
Like the lights of an endless city,
  A city set on high. 
And my heart forgot its sorrow
  These heavenly homes to see—­
Sure in those many mansions
  Is room for even me,
Sure in those many mansions,
  Is room for thee and me.

THE FLIGHT.

Here in the silent doorway let me linger
  One moment, for the porch is still and lonely;
That shadow’s but the rose vine in the moonlight;
  All are asleep in peace, I waken only,
And he I wait, by my own heart’s beating
  I know how slow to him the tide creeps by,
Nor life, nor death, could bar our hearts from meeting;
  Were worlds between, his soul to mine would fly.

Oh, shame! to think a heap of paltry metal
  Should overbalance manhood’s noblest graces;
A film of gold had gilt his worth and honor,
  Warming to smiles the coldness of their faces;
Gentle to me, they rise in condemnation,
  And plead with me than words more powerfully. 
Oh! well I love them—­but they have wealth and station
  To fill their hearts, and he has only me.

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