Spare her at least:  look, you have taken from me
The Present, and I murmur not, nor moan;
The Future too, with all her glorious promise;
But do not leave me utterly alone.

Spare me the Past—­for, see, she cannot harm you,
She lies so white and cold, wrapped in her shroud;
All, all my own! and, trust me, I will hide her
Within my soul, nor speak to her aloud.

I folded her soft hands upon her bosom,
And strewed my flowers upon her—­they still live—­
Sometimes I like to kiss her closed white eye-lids,
And think of all the joy she used to give.

Cruel indeed it were to take her from me;
She sleeps, she will not wake—­no fear—­again: 
And so I laid her, such a gentle burthen,
Quietly on my heart to still its pain.

I do not think that any smiling Present,
Any vague Future, spite of all her charms,
Could ever rival her.  You know you laid her,
Long years ago, then living, in my arms.

Leave her at least—­while my tears fall upon her,
I dream she smiles, just as she did of yore;
As dear as ever to me—­nay, it may be,
Even dearer still—­since I have nothing more.

VERSE:  A DOUBTING HEART

Where are the swallows fled? 
Frozen and dead,
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. 
Oh doubting heart! 
Far over purple seas,
They wait, in sunny ease,
The balmy southern breeze,
To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die? 
Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. 
Oh doubting heart! 
They only sleep below
The soft white ermine snow,
While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays
These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth? 
Oh doubting heart! 
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky,
That soon (for spring is nigh)
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night. 
What sound can break the silence of despair? 
Oh doubting heart! 
Thy sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,
Brighter for darkness past,
And angels’ silver voices stir the air.

VERSE:  A STUDENT

Over an ancient scroll I bent,
Steeping my soul in wise content,
Nor paused a moment, save to chide
A low voice whispering at my side.

I wove beneath the stars’ pale shine
A dream, half human, half divine;
And shook off (not to break the charm)
A little hand laid on my arm.

I read; until my heart would glow
With the great deeds of long ago;
Nor heard, while with those mighty dead,
Pass to and fro a faltering tread.

On the old theme I pondered long—­
The struggle between right and wrong;
I could not check such visions high,
To soothe a little quivering sigh.