HELEN

THE autumn seems to cry for thee,
Best lover of the autumn days!
Each scarlet-tipped and wine-red tree,

Each russet branch and branch of gold,
Gleams through its veil of shimmering haze,
And seeks thee as they sought of old:
For all the glory of their dress,
They wear a look of wistfulness.

In every wood I see thee stand,

The ruddy boughs above thy head, And heaped in either slender hand

The frosted white and amber ferns, The sumach's deep, resplendent red, Which like a fiery feather burns, And, over all, thy happy eyes, Shining as clear as autumn skies.

I hear thy call upon the breeze,

Gay as the dancing wind, and sweet, And, underneath the radiant trees,

O'er lichens gray and darkling moss,
Follow the trace of those light feet

Which never were at fault or loss,
But, by some forest instinct led,
Knew where to turn and how to tread.

Where art thou, comrade true and tried?
The woodlands call for thee in vain,
And sadly burns the autumn-tide

Before my eyes, made dim and blind
By blurring, puzzling mists of pain.
I look before, I look behind;
Beauty and loss seem everywhere,
And grief and glory fill the air.

Already, in these few short weeks,

A hundred things I leave unsaid,
Because there is no voice that speaks
In answer, and no listening ear,
No one to care now thou art dead!

And month by month, and year by year,
I shall but miss thee more, and go
With half my thought untold, I know.

I do not think thou hast forgot,
I know that I shall not forget,

But all my anger, all my pain and woe, Are vain to daunt her gladness; all the while

She goes rejoicing, and I do not know, Catching the soft irradiance of her smile, If I am most her lover or her foe.

NIGHT AFTER NIGHT

NIGHT after night we dauntlessly embark On slumber's stream, in whose deep waves are drowned

Sorrow and care, and with all senses bound Drift for a while beneath the sombre arc Of that full circle made of light and dark Called life, yet have no fear, and know refound

Lost consciousness shall be, even at the sound

Of the first warble of some early lark

Or touch of sunbeam. Oh, and why not then

Lie down to our last sleep, still trusting Him

Who guided us so oft through shadows dim, Believing somewhere on our sense again Some lark's sweet note, some golden beam, shall break,

And with glad voices cry, "Awake!

awake!

But it's never gone back on us for nineteen or twenty years;

An' I won't go back on it now, or go to pokin' fun

There's such a thing as praisin' a thing for the good that it has done.

Probably you remember how rich we was that night,

When we was fairly settled, an' had things snug and tight:

We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, over our house that's new, But we felt as proud under this old roof, and a good deal prouder, too.

Never a handsomer house was seen beneath the sun :

Kitchen and parlor and bedroom had 'em all in one;

we

And the fat old wooden clock, that we bought when we come West,

Was tickin' away in the corner there, and doin' its level best.

Trees was all around us, a-whisperin' cheering words;

Loud was the squirrel's chatter, and sweet the songs of birds;

And home grew sweeter and brighter- our courage began to mountAnd things looked hearty and happy then, and work appeared to count.

And here one night it happened, when things was goin' bad,

We fell in a deep old quarrel — the first we ever had;

And when you give out and cried, then I, like a fool, give in,

And then we agreed to rub all out, and start the thing ag'in.

Here it was, you remember, we sat when the day was done,

And you was a-makin' clothing that was n't for either one;

And often a soft word of love I was soft enough to say,

And the wolves was howlin' in the woods not twenty rods away.