When the clouds are full,
    And the tempest master
      Lets the loud winds sweep
      From his bosom deep
    Like heralds of some dire disaster,
      Then the heart alone
      To itself makes moan;
  And the songs come slow,
      While the tears fall fleeter,
      And silence than song by far seems sweeter. 
      Oh, few are they along the way
      Who sing when skies are gray!

ONE LIFE

  Oh, I am hurt to death, my Love;
    The shafts of Fate have pierced my striving heart,
  And I am sick and weary of
    The endless pain and smart. 
  My soul is weary of the strife,
  And chafes at life, and chafes at life.

  Time mocks me with fair promises;
    A blooming future grows a barren past,
  Like rain my fair full-blossomed trees
    Unburden in the blast. 
  The harvest fails on grain and tree,
  Nor comes to me, nor comes to me.

  The stream that bears my hopes abreast
    Turns ever from my way its pregnant tide. 
  My laden boat, torn from its rest,
    Drifts to the other side. 
  So all my hopes are set astray,
  And drift away, and drift away.

  The lark sings to me at the morn,
    And near me wings her skyward-soaring flight;
  But pleasure dies as soon as born,
    The owl takes up the night,
  And night seems long and doubly dark;
  I miss the lark, I miss the lark.

  Let others labor as they may,
    I’ll sing and sigh alone, and write my line. 
  Their fate is theirs, or grave or gay,
    And mine shall still be mine. 
  I know the world holds joy and glee,
  But not for me,—­’t is not for me.

CHANGING TIME

  The cloud looked in at the window,
    And said to the day, “Be dark!”
  And the roguish rain tapped hard on the pane,
    To stifle the song of the lark.

  The wind sprang up in the tree tops
    And shrieked with a voice of death,
  But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,
    Was touched with a violet’s breath.

DEAD

  A knock is at her door, but she is weak;
  Strange dews have washed the paint streaks from her cheek;
  She does not rise, but, ah, this friend is known,
  And knows that he will find her all alone. 
  So opens he the door, and with soft tread
  Goes straightway to the richly curtained bed. 
  His soft hand on her dewy head he lays. 
  A strange white light she gives him for his gaze. 
  Then, looking on the glory of her charms,
  He crushes her resistless in his arms.

  Stand back! look not upon this bold embrace,
  Nor view the calmness of the wanton’s face;
  With joy unspeakable and ’bated breath,
  She keeps her last, long liaison with death!

A CONFIDENCE