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Steel them with judgment, darken them with


But by the ways of light ineffable

You bade me go and I have faltered from, By the low waters moaning out of hell Whereto my feet have come,

Lay not on me these intolerable

Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust!

Nothing dismayed?

By all I say and all I hint not made

O then, stay by me! Let

These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet,

Brave eyes and true!

See how the shriveled heart, that long has lain

Dead to delight and pain,

Stirs, and begins again

To utter pleasant life, as if it knew

The wintry days were through;

As if in its awakening boughs it heard
The quick, sweet-spoken bird.

Strong eyes and brave,

Inexorable to save!

William Vaughn Moody


WOULD you know the baby's skies?
Baby's skies are mother's eyes.
Mother's eyes and smile together
Make the baby's pleasant weather.

Mother, keep your eyes from tears,
Keep your heart from foolish fears.
Keep your lips from dull complaining
Lest the baby think 't is raining.
M. C. Bartlett


A MONTH, Sweet little ones, is past
Since dear mother went away,


And she to-morrow will return;

To-morrow is the happy day.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee:
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,-
And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout, With witless hope to bring her near; "Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the Mystery
Of time and distance, night and day;
The bonds of our humanity,

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her brother now takes up the note,
And answers back his sister's glee:
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,-
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.

We talked of change, of winter gone,
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
Of birds that build their nests and sing,
And all "since mother went away!"

To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.

But see, the evening star comes forth!
To bed the children must depart;
A moment's heaviness they feel,
A sadness at the heart:

'Tis gone-and in a merry fit
They run up stairs in gamesome race;
I, too, infected by their mood,

I could have joined the wanton chase.

Five minutes past—and, O the change!
Asleep upon their beds they lie ;
Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
And closed the sparkling eye.

Dorothy Wordsworth


HOME they brought her warrior dead;
She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry.
All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her kneeLike summer tempest came her tears "Sweet my child, I live for thee."

Alfred Tennyson


BROOK, of the listening grass,

Brook of the sun-fleckt wings,

Brook of the same wild way and flicker

ing spell!

Must you begone? begone? Will Will you forever


After so many years and dear to tell?

Brook of all hoverings

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Brook that I kneel above;
Brook of my love.

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