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 dazzling shape on the dim, far cape, A beckoning shape as it comes and goes. A moment of bloom, and then it dies On the windy cliff 'twixt the sea and skies. The fog laughs low to see it go, And the white waves watch it with cruel eyes. Then suddenly out of the mist-cloud dun, As touched and wooed by unseen sun, Again into sight bursts the rose of light And opens its petals one by one. Ah, the storm may be wild and the sea be strong, And man is weak and the darkness long, But while blossoms the flower on the light-house tower There still is place for a smile and a song.

AMONG THE LILIES

She stood among the lilies In sunset's brightest ray, Among the tall June lilies, As stately fair as they; And I, a boyish lover then, Looked once, and, lingering, looked again, And life began that day. She sat among the lilies, My sweet, all lily-pale; The summer lilies listened, I whispered low my tale. O golden anthers, breathing balm, O hush of peace, O twilight calm, Did you or I prevail? She lies among the lily-snows, Beneath the wintry sky; All round her and about her The buried lilies lie. They will awake at touch of Spring, And she, my fair and flower-like thing, In spring-time—by and by.

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