There’s a dear little chamber somewhere in my heart
That opens to only you three;
Though many have tried to unfasten the door,
They picked at the lock till their fingers were sore,
For to file it apart
Vainly proved every art,
And in vain have they sought for the key.
Many times I go into this quaint little room,
The pictures to change or adjust;
I see your sweet faces grouped there with my own,
And I wonder that I feel so strangely alone;
But about through the room
I move briskly the broom,
And sweep from the corners the dust.
The windows I throw open wide to the air
To let in the breeze and the light;
I watch the sunbeams in their mischievous way
Creep into the curtains, like children at play,
And while I am there
I have no thought of care,
For the room is so warm and so bright.
And oft I look up from the balcony’s brink
To a sky that shows many a hue;
A vine clambers thickly the window above,
Where my birds sing together their rhythm of love;
My thoughts with them link
For I sit here and think
And all of my song is for you.
Ah! some day I know you will come back to me
To rest in this queer little room;
And that’s why so tidy and clean it is kept,
The air always fragrant, the floor always swept,
For I long here to see
My sweet roses three,
As from buds into blossoms they bloom.
Then come when you may, be the sky black or blue,
The lock will unclasp as of yore;
For (unless Death should come introspecting my heart,
And break down its barriers and wrench them apart),
A friend that is true
Will be watching for you,
Ever waiting to unbar the door.
The Three Muses.
Methought three muses in disguise
As angels tapped upon my door,
And a dim light from paradise
Fell on the instruments they bore.
One held a zithern in her hand
And lightly swept the throbbing strings;
And, O! it seemed a fairy land
Was stirred by unexpected wings.
I held my breath and prayed that night
Would be extended into day,
But with the thought came morning’s light,
And low the echo died away.
An artist’s canvas, pink with dawn,
The second angel turned to me,
Her brush strayed o’er a grassy lawn
And dotted here and there a tree.
All blooming in immortal dyes,
With streamlets winding clear and blue,
Where, looking from the far off skies,
The clouds were mirrored to my view.
But when the sun blazed from the sky,
And on the painted landscape shone,
I heard the artist angel sigh,
And when I looked she, too, had flown.
The scratching of a pen I heard
And saw a face demure and sweet
With inspiration. Every word
I begged the angel to repeat.
A thousand zephyrs fanned the air,
Tuned low with hum of birds and bees,
No need of zithern music where
Æolian harps were in the trees.
No need of artists to rehearse
Upon the canvas nature, when
I saw the world revolve in verse
Upon the axis of the pen.
“Be thou eternally my guide,
Teach me your mystic pen to use!
O! linger ever near,” I cried,
“Musician, artist, poet--muse!”
A Recollection.
In my heart there is a fragrance not of bursting buds or bloom,
But a faint delicious essence floats as out of memory’s room.
Like a zephyr blown from heaven some sweet message to impart,
Comes a fragile recollection down the by-path to my heart.
Fragile did I say? So fragile that the lace-wrought butterfly
Would not tilt its wings to bear it back from earth into the sky.
Yet perplexed as to its mission down the pathway I retreat,
Hark! an echo in the distance, as of silver-slippered feet.
Why should I evade its coming, when ’tis such a little thing?
Just a tiny recollection that my thoughts have given wing.
Soon, too soon, ’twill overtake me, see! ’tis gaining on me fast--
In my soul the rose leaves quiver--withered rose leaves of the past.
It is useless to dissemble, further fleeing is in vain,
’Round my heart I feel the tight’ning of a slender silken chain.
All the past spreads out around me, as if by the Hand above,
So I turn, and find I’m standing face to face with my first love.
Don’t Question Him Why.
Don’t question him why if at times you can trace
A sorrowful something that looks from his face;
Though it shadows his brow as a raincloud the sky,
Look on it and wonder--don’t question him why.
If he steal from your side when the twilight descends,
And wander away from old comrades and friends,
To rest unobserved in some shady retreat,
Where the past and the present seem always to meet,
Don’t follow him there; let the stars overhead
Their better and holier sympathy shed--
And should an old love-light illumine his eye,
Though you bask in its splendor--don’t question him why.
For, out of the past that is shrouded away,
Looks a face omnipresent, unseen by the day.
A face like no other--a face in the sky
To be looked at and worshipped, but not questioned why.
Should his lips meet your own with an indifferent grace
That hurries the bloom to your averted face,
Though Doubt is a sentinel stationed near by,
Beware of his bayonet--don’t question why.
You may ask if you choose as he moves through the dance,
If ’tis Beauty or Passion that cowers his glance,
But question him not, O! ask him not why
There awoke in his bosom that deep-seated sigh.
Should he turn from the ball-room sometime with disgust
And shake from his sandals its memory and dust,
To bare a sick heart with its fevers of sin,
Beg heaven to filter a dewdrop within,
But question him not, for a word like a spark
Would quicken the pulses reduced by the dark;
Leave, leave him alone with his sorrow and God,
And let Silence spread o’er his heart’s grave the sod.
Why?
Why is it that I keep her glove--
Poor little phantom of lost love--
Why was it that I wore her ring,
And love the songs she used to sing,
And treasure under lock and key,
The letters she has written me?
Why?
Why is it that where’er I go,
As footsteps follow in the snow,
As low and light, she seems to glide
Along the highway at my side?
Yet, when my arms seek to embrace
Her form, then vanishes her face.
Why?
Why is it that no other tone
Falls on my ear as did her own?
No other hand so soft and white,
No other eye so warm and bright--
Though other lips I since have pressed,
I something missed--the truth you’ve guessed.
Why?
A Sunset Longing.