Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

In covert of a leafy porch, Where woodbine clings, And roses drop their crimson leaves,

Go, sun, since go you must, The dusky evening lowers above our sky, Our sky which was so blue and sweetly fair;

What is a home? A guarded space, Wherein a few, unfairly blest, Shall sit together, face to face,

I sit alone in the gray, The snow falls thick and fast, And never a sound have I heard all day

All sweet and various things do lend themselves And blend and intermix in her rare soul, As chorded notes, which were untuneful else,

The day was hot and the day was dumb, Save for cricket's chirr or the bee's low hum, Not a bird was seen or a butterfly,

She has been just a year in Heaven. Unmarked by white moon or gold sun, By stroke of clock or clang of bell,

My morn was all dewy rose and pearl, Peace brimmed the skies, a cool and fragrant air Caressed my going forth, and everywhere

She stood among the lilies In sunset's brightest ray, Among the tall June lilies,

Softly drops the crimson sun: Softly down from overhead, Drop the bell-notes, one by one,

Hark! upon the east-wind, piping, creeping, Comes a voice all clamorous with despair; It is April, crying sore and weeping,

"For behold, the kingdom of God is within you." Thy kingdom here? Lord, can it be?

I. Over the lapsing lagune all the day Urging my gondola with oar-strokes light,

Thank God for life: life is not sweet always. Hands may he heavy-laden, hearts care full, Unwelcome nights follow unwelcome days,

In the deep shadow of the porch A slender bind-weed springs, And climbs, like airy acrobat,

The baby Summer lies asleep and dreaming-- Dreaming and blooming like a guarded rose; And March, a kindly nurse, though rude of seeming,

How did they keep his birthday then, The little fair Christ, so long ago? O, many there were to be housed and fed,

"Do their errands; enter into the sacrifice with them; be a link yourself in the divine chain, and feel the joy and life of it." - ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY What can I do for thee, Beloved,

What is it to commune? It is when soul meets soul, and they embrace As souls may, stooping from each separate sphere

Darlings of June and brides of summer sun, Chill pipes the stormy wind, the skies are drear; Dull and despoiled the gardens every one:

When dawns on earth the Easter sun The dear saints feel an answering thrill. With whitest flowers their hands they fill;

When first thou on me, Lord, wrought'st thy sweet print, My heart was made thy tinder box. My ’ffections were thy tinder in’t:

Long reaches of wet grasses sway Where ran the sea but yesterday, And white-winged boats at sunset drew

Ah! grown a dim and fairy shade, Dear child, who, fifteen years ago, Out of our arms escaped and fled

This is the street and the dwelling, Let me count the houses o'er; Yes,--one, two, three from the corner,

All night the thirsty beach has listening lain, With patience dumb, Counting the slow, sad moments of her pain;

The boat cast loose her moorings; "Good-by" was all we said. "Good-by, Old World," we said with a smile,

So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head, Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without,

Lonely and cold and fierce I keep my way, Scourge of the lands, companioned by the storm, Tossing to heaven my frontlet, wild and gray,

The aloes grow upon the sand, The aloes thirst with parching heat; Year after year they waiting stand,

She stood in the open door, She blessed them faint and low: "I must go," she said, "must go

Hope stood one morning by the way, And stretched her fair right hand to me, And softly whispered, "For this day

I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great Tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,

Sitting all day in a silver mist, In silver silence all the day, Save for the low, soft kiss of spray,

"Although St. Franceses was unwearied in her devotions, yet if, during her prayers, she was called away by her husband or any domestic duty, she would close the book cheerfully, saying that a wife and a mother, when called upon, must quit her God at the alter to find Him in her domestic affairs." - Legends of the Monastic Orders, How infinite and sweet, Thou everywhere

We started in the morning, a morning full of glee, All in the early morning, a goodly company; And some were full of merriment, and all were kind and dear:

The drowsy summer in the flowering limes Had laid her down at ease, Lulled by soft, sportive winds, whose tinkling chimes

New flowery scents strewed everywhere, New sunshine poured in largesse fair, "We shall be happy now," we say.

All green and fair the Summer lies, Just budded from the bud of Spring, With tender blue of wistful skies,

O word and thing most beautiful! Our yesterday was cold and dull, Gray mists obscured the setting sun,

Who is this who gently slips Through my door, and stands and sighs, Hovering in a soft eclipse,

I know where it lurks and hides, In the midst of the busy house, In the midst of the children's glee,

Yes, God has made me a woman, And I am content to be Just what He meant, not reaching out

As purely white as is the drifted snow, More dazzling fair than summer roses are, Petalled with rays like a clear rounded star,

Dry leaves upon the wall, Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape, A single frosted cluster on the grape

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,

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

A grievous day of wrathful winds, Of low-hung clouds, which scud and fly, And drop cold rains, then lift and show

"Insomuch that they brought forth the sick into the streets, and laid them on beds and couches, that at the least the shadow of Peter, passing by, might overshadow some of them." Mid the thronged bustle of the city street, In the hot hush of noon,

Poems are heavenly things, And only souls with wings May reach them where they grow,

After the earthquake shock or lightning dart Comes a recoil of silence o'er the lands, And then, with pulses hot and quivering hands,

Myriad rivers seek the sea, The sea rejects not any one; A myriad rays of light may be

In the long, bright summer, dear to bird and bee, When the woods are standing in liveries green and gay, Merry little voices sound from every tree,

I. I sit at evening's scented close, In fulness of the summer-tide;

A little, rudely sculptured bed, With shadowing folds of marble lace, And quilt of marble, primly spread

When earth was young and men were few, And all things freshly born and new Seemed made for blessing, not for ban,

Slow buds the pink dawn like a rose From out night's gray and cloudy sheath; Softly and still it grows and grows,

The angel opened the door A little way, And she vanished, as melts a star,

Why should I weary you, dear heart, with words, Words all discordant with a foolish pain? Thoughts cannot interrupt or prayers do wrong,

They know the time to go! The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour In field and woodland, and each punctual flower

Six of us once, my darlings, played together Beneath green boughs, which faded long ago, Made merry in the golden summer weather,

Nourished by peaceful suns and gracious dew, Your sweet youth budded and your sweet lives grew, And all the world seemed rose-beset for you.

When youth was high, and life was new And days sped musical and fleet, She stood amid the morning dew,

Each day upon the yellow Nile, 'tis said. Joseph, the youthful ruler, cast forth wheat, That haply, floating to his father's feet,--

"Entre deux amants il y a toujours l'an qui baise et l'autre qui tend la joue." I says he loves me well, and I Believe it; in my hands, to make

My darling once lived by my side, She scarcely ever went away; We shared our studies and our play,

What whispered Love the day he fled? Ah! this was what Love whispered; "You sought to hold me with a chain;

If I were told that I must die to-morrow, That the next sun Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow

Could my heart hold another one? I cannot tell. Sometimes it seems an ample dome,