REQUEST

(To E. M.)

Sing me a song—­a song to ease old sorrows,
  And dull the edge of care—­
A song of Hope to ring through all the morrows
  That be my share.

Unlock the doors where joy hath been in hiding,
  Though barred they be and strong,
And send black grief far down the wind a-riding—­
  Sing me a song.

Sing thou thy sky-lark song of sweetest daring,
  And April ecstasy,
That I may follow it and go a-faring
  To Arcady.

Charm sleep from out the shadows with thy singing,
  And when the light turns grey,
Leave me bright dreams until the dawn comes bringing
  The rose-edged day.

The wind of March taught thee his springtime madness,
  And then in undertone
Whispered the wonder-secret of his gladness
  To thee alone.

And thou hast learned from little brook and river
  Their tender melody—­
The notes that set the thrush’s throat a-quiver
  Are known to thee.

Sing me a song—­a song to ease old sorrows,
  And dull the edge of care—­
A song of Hope, to ring through all the morrows
  That be my share.

A SONG

0 heart of mine—­if I were but a swallow—­
  A thing so fearless, swift of flight, and free—­
On wings unwearied I would find and follow
  Some path that led to thee!

Were I a rose out in the garden growing
  My sweetness I would give the vagrant breeze
For he, perchance, might meet thee all unknowing—­
  Yet bring thee memories.

THE TOAST

A toast to thee, 0 dear old year,
  While the last moments fly,
A toast to thy sweet memory—­
  We’ll lift the glasses high,
And bid to thee a fond farewell
  As thou art passing by!

A toast to those who reaped success
  In this good year of grace;
A toast to every one of them—­
  Come!  Give the victors place! 
Come, wish them well with right good will—­
  The winners in the race!

And one toast more!  To those who failed
  Wherever they may be;—­
With faces white they fought the fight,
  But missed the victory;
So here’s to them—­the ones who strove—­
  On land and on the sea!

Fair dreams to thee, 0 grey old year,
  Thy working time is done,
And gone for thee the silver moon,
  And golden noon-day sun;
Yet sad old year—­and glad old year—­
  We’ll know no better one.

THE SEA-SHELL

Oh, fairy palace of pink and pearl
Frescoed with filigree silver-white,
  Down in the silence beneath the sea
  God by Himself must have fashioned thee
Just for His own delight!

But no!—­For a dumb and shapeless thing
Stirring in darkness its little hour,
  Thy walls were built with infinite care,
  Thou sea-scented home, so fine and fair,
Perfect—­and like a flower!