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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 235 pages of information about The Poems of Henry Van Dyke.

So he travelled onward, desolate no longer, patient in his seeking,
Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest;
Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Haemus, far from human dwelling,
Weary Aristaeus laid him down to rest.

Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness, fluttered soft around
him,
Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and deep. 
This is life, beloved:  first a sheltered garden, then a troubled journey,
Joy and pain of seeking,—­and at last we sleep!

1905.

NEW YEAR’S EVE

I

  The other night I had a dream, most clear
  And comforting, complete
  In every line, a crystal sphere,
  And full of intimate and secret cheer. 
  Therefore I will repeat
  That vision, dearest heart, to you,
  As of a thing not feigned, but very true,
  Yes, true as ever in my life befell;
  And you, perhaps, can tell
  Whether my dream was really sad or sweet.

II

  The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street
  I knew so well, long, long ago;
  And on the pillared porch where Marguerite
  Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow. 
  But she, my comrade and my friend of youth,
  Most gaily wise,
  Most innocently loved,—­
  She of the blue-gray eyes
  That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,—­
  From that familiar dwelling, where she moved
  Like mirth incarnate in the years before,
  Had gone into the hidden house of Death. 
  I thought the garden wore
  White mourning for her blessed innocence,
  And the syringa’s breath
  Came from the corner by the fence
  Where she had made her rustic seat,
  With fragrance passionate, intense,
  As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite. 
  My heart was heavy with a sense
  Of something good for ever gone.  I sought
  Vainly for some consoling thought,
  Some comfortable word that I could say
  To her sad father, whom I visited again
  For the first time since she had gone away. 
  The bell rang shrill and lonely,—­then
  The door was opened, and I sent my name
  To him,—­but ah! ’twas Marguerite who came! 
  There in the dear old dusky room she stood
  Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand,
  In tender mocking mood. 
  “You did not ask for me,” she said,
  “And so I will not let you take my hand;
  But I must hear what secret talk you planned
  With father.  Come, my friend, be good,
  And tell me your affairs of state: 
  Why you have stayed away and made me wait
  So long.  Sit down beside me here,—­
  And, do you know, it seems a year
  Since we have talked together,—­why so late?”
  Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy
  I hardly dared to show,
  And stammering like a boy,

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