Sometimes come pauses of calm, when the rapt bard, holding his heart back,
Over his deep mind muses, as when o’er awe-stricken ocean
Poises a heapt cloud luridly, ripening the gale and the thunder;
Slow rolls onward the verse with a long swell heaving and swinging,
Seeming to wait till, gradually wid’ning from far-off horizons,
Piling the deeps up, heaping the glad-hearted surges before it,
Gathers the thought as a strong wind darkening and cresting the tumult. 
Then every pause, every heave, each trough in the waves, has its meaning;
Full-sailed, forth like a tall ship steadies the theme, and around it,
Leaping beside it in glad strength, running in wild glee beyond it,
Harmonies billow exulting and floating the soul where it lists them,
Swaying the listener’s fantasy hither and thither like drift-weed.

BIRTHDAY VERSES

WRITTEN IN A CHILD’S ALBUM

’Twas sung of old in hut and hall
How once a king in evil hour
Hung musing o’er his castle wall,
And, lost in idle dreams, let fall
Into the sea his ring of power.

Then, let him sorrow as he might,
And pledge his daughter and his throne
To who restored the jewel bright,
The broken spell would ne’er unite;
The grim old ocean held its own.

Those awful powers on man that wait,
On man, the beggar or the king,
To hovel bare or hall of state
A magic ring that masters fate
With each succeeding birthday bring.

Therein are set four jewels rare: 
Pearl winter, summer’s ruby blaze,
Spring’s emerald, and, than all more fair,
Fall’s pensive opal, doomed to bear
A heart of fire bedreamed with haze.

To him the simple spell who knows
The spirits of the ring to sway,
Fresh power with every sunrise flows,
And royal pursuivants are those
That fly his mandates to obey.

But he that with a slackened will
Dreams of things past or things to be,
From him the charm is slipping still,
And drops, ere he suspect the ill,
Into the inexorable sea.

ESTRANGEMENT

The path from me to you that led,
  Untrodden long, with grass is grown,
Mute carpet that his lieges spread
  Before the Prince Oblivion
When he goes visiting the dead.

And who are they but who forget? 
  You, who my coming could surmise
Ere any hint of me as yet
  Warned other ears and other eyes,
See the path blurred without regret.

But when I trace its windings sweet
  With saddened steps, at every spot
That feels the memory in my feet,
  Each grass-blade turns forget-me-not,
Where murmuring bees your name repeat.

PHOEBE

Ere pales in Heaven the morning star,
  A bird, the loneliest of its kind,
Hears Dawn’s faint footfall from afar
  While all its mates are dumb and blind.