With shadowing folds of marble lace,
  And quilt of marble, primly spread
    And folded round a baby's face.

  Smoothly the mimic coverlet,
    With royal blazonries bedight,
  Hangs, as by tender fingers set
    And straightened for the last good-night.

  And traced upon the pillowing stone
    A dent is seen, as if to bless
  The quiet sleep some grieving one
    Had leaned, and left a soft impress.

  It seems no more than yesterday
    Since the sad mother down the stair
  And down the long aisle stole away,
    And left her darling sleeping there.

  But dust upon the cradle lies,
    And those who prized the baby so,
  And laid her down to rest with sighs,
    Were turned to dust long years ago.

  Above the peaceful pillowed head
    Three centuries brood, and strangers peep
  And wonder at the carven bed,—
    But not unwept the baby's sleep,

  For wistful mother-eyes are blurred
    With sudden mists, as lingerers stay,
  And the old dusts are roused and stirred
    By the warm tear-drops of to-day.

  Soft, furtive hands caress the stone,
    And hearts, o'erleaping place and age,
  Melt into memories, and own
    A thrill of common parentage.

  Men die, but sorrow never dies;
    The crowding years divide in vain,
  And the wide world is knit with ties
    Of common brotherhood in pain;

  Of common share in grief and loss,
    And heritage in the immortal bloom
  Of Love, which, flowering round its cross,
    Made beautiful a baby's tomb.

"OF SUCH AS I HAVE."

  Love me for what I am, Love. Not for sake
  Of some imagined thing which I might be,
  Some brightness or some goodness not in me,
  Born of your hope, as dawn to eyes that wake
  Imagined morns before the morning break.
  If I, to please you (whom I fain would please),
  Reset myself like new key to old tune,
  Chained thought, remodelled action, very soon
  My hand would slip from yours, and by degrees
  The loving, faulty friend, so close to-day,
  Would vanish, and another take her place,—
  A stranger with a stranger's scrutinies,
  A new regard, an unfamiliar face.
  Love me for what I am, then, if you may;
  But, if you cannot,—love me either way.

A PORTRAIT.

  All sweet and various things do lend themselves
    And blend and intermix in her rare soul,
  As chorded notes, which were untuneful else,
    Clasp each the other in a perfect whole.

  Within her spirit, dawn, all dewy-pearled,
    Seems held and folded in by golden noons,
  While past the sunshine gleams a further world
    Of deep star-spaces and mysterious moons.

  Like widths of blowing ocean wet with spray,
    Like breath of early blooms at morning caught,
  Like cool airs on the cheek of heated day,
    Come the fair emanations of her thought.

  Her movement, like the curving of a vine,
    Seems an unerring accident of grace,
  And like a flower's the subtle change and shine
    And meaning of her brightly tranquil face.

  And like a tree, unconscious of her shade,
    She spreads her helpful branches everywhere
  For wandering bird or bee, nor is afraid
    Too many guests shall crowd to harbor there.

  For she is kinder than all others are,
    And weak things, sad things, gather where she dwells,
  To reach and taste her strength and drink of her,
    As thirsty creatures of clear water-wells.

  Why vex with words where words are poor and vain?
    In one brief sentence lies the riddle's key,
  Which those who love her read and read again,
    Finding each time new meanings: SHE IS SHE!

WHEN?

  If I were told that I must die to-morrow,
             That the next sun
  Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow
             For any one,
  All the fight fought, all the short journey through:
             What should I do?

  I do not think that I should shrink or falter,
             But just go on,
  Doing my work, nor change, nor seek to alter
             Aught that is gone;
  But rise and move and love and smile and pray
             For one more day.

  And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,
             Say in that ear
  Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy keeping
             How should I fear?
  And when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still.
             Do Thou Thy will."

  I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,
             My soul would lie
  All the night long; and when the morning splendor
             Flashed o'er the sky,
  I think that I could smile—could calmly say,
             "It is His day."

  But, if instead a hand from the blue yonder
             Held out a scroll,
  On which my life was, writ, and I with wonder
             Beheld unroll
  To a long century's end its mystic clew,
             What should I do?

  What COULD I do, O blessed Guide and Master,
             Other than this:
  Still to go on as now, not slower, faster,
             Nor fear to miss
  The road, although so very long it be,
             While led by Thee?

  Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me,
             Although unseen,
  Through thorns, through flowers, whether the tempest hide Thee,
              Or heavens serene,
  Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray,
             Thy love decay.

  I may not know, my God; no hand revealeth
             Thy counsels wise;
  Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth,
             No voice replies
  To all my questioning thought, the time to tell,
             And it is well.

  Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing
               Thy will always,
  Through a long century's ripening fruition,
               Or a short day's.
  Thou canst not come too soon; and I can wait
             If thou come late.

ON THE SHORE.

    The punctual tide draws up the bay,
    With ripple of wave and hiss of spray,
  And the great red flower of the light-house tower
    Blooms on the headland far away.

    Petal by petal its fiery rose
    Out of the darkness buds and grows;
  A