Back to the breast of thy mother—­
  To rest. 
  Long hast thou striven;
  Dared where the hills by the lightning of heaven were riven;
  Go now, pure shriven. 
  Who shall come after thee, out of the clay—­
  Learned one and leader to show us the way? 
  Who shall rise up when the world gives the test? 
  Think thou no more of this—­
  Rest!

WHEN ALL IS DONE

  When all is done, and my last word is said,
  And ye who loved me murmur, “He is dead,”
  Let no one weep, for fear that I should know,
  And sorrow too that ye should sorrow so.

  When all is done and in the oozing clay,
  Ye lay this cast-off hull of mine away,
  Pray not for me, for, after long despair,
  The quiet of the grave will be a prayer.

  For I have suffered loss and grievous pain,
  The hurts of hatred and the world’s disdain,
  And wounds so deep that love, well-tried and pure,
  Had not the pow’r to ease them or to cure.

  When all is done, say not my day is o’er,
  And that thro’ night I seek a dimmer shore: 
  Say rather that my morn has just begun,—­
  I greet the dawn and not a setting sun,
          When all is done.

THE POET AND THE BABY

  How’s a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,—­
  How’s he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,—­
    When a-toddling on the floor
    Is the muse he must adore,
  And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?

  Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,
  One must always be as quiet as a mouse;
    But to write one seems to me
    Quite superfluous to be,
  When you ’ve got a little sonnet in the house.

  Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,
  That is full of love and life in every line,
    Earnest, delicate, and sweet,
    Altogether so complete
  That I wonder what’s the use of writing mine.

DISTINCTION

  “I am but clay,” the sinner plead,
    Who fed each vain desire. 
  “Not only clay,” another said,
    “But worse, for thou art mire.”

THE SUM

  A little dreaming by the way,
  A little toiling day by day;
  A little pain, a little strife,
  A little joy,—­and that is life.

  A little short-lived summer’s morn,
  When joy seems all so newly born,
  When one day’s sky is blue above,
  And one bird sings,—­and that is love.

  A little sickening of the years,
  The tribute of a few hot tears
  Two folded hands, the failing breath,
  And peace at last,—­and that is death.

  Just dreaming, loving, dying so,
  The actors in the drama go—­
  A flitting picture on a wall,
  Love, Death, the themes; but is that all?

SONNET