Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward: Verses about Heaven

The wave goes down, the wind goes down,
The gray tide glitters on the sea,
The moon seems praying in the sky.
Gates of the New Jerusalem
(A perfect pearl each gate of them)
Wide as all heaven swing on high;
Whose shall the welcome be?


The wave went down, the wind went down,
The tide of life turned out to sea;
Patience of pain and grace of deed,
The glories of the heart and brain,
Treasure that shall not come again;
The human singing that we need,
Set to a heavenly key.


The wave goes down, the wind goes down,
All tides at last turn to the sea.
We learn to take the thing we have.
Thou who hast taught us strength in grief,
As moon to shadow, high and chief,
Shine out, white soul, beyond the grave,
And light our loss of thee!

Cold Care and I have run a race,
And I, fleet-foot, have won
A little space, a little hour,
To find the May alone.


I sit beneath the apple-tree,
I see nor sky nor sun;
I only know the apple-buds
Are opening one by one.


You asked me once a little thing,-
A lecture or a song
To hear with you; and yet I thought
To find my whole life long


Too short to bear the happiness
That bounded through the day,
That made the look of apple-blooms,
And you, and me, and May!


For long between us there had hung
The mist of love's young doubt;
Sweet, shy, uncertain, all the world
Of trust and May burst out.


I wore the flowers in my hair,
Their color on my dress;
Dear Love! whenever apples bloom
In Heaven, do they bless


Your heart with memories so small,
So strong, so cruel-glad?
If ever apples bloom in Heaven,
I wonder are you sad?


Heart! yield thee up thy fruitless quest
Beneath the apple-tree;
Youth comes but once, love only once,
And May but once to thee!

The shadows watch about the house;
Silent as they, I come.
Oh, it is true that life is deaf,
And not that death is dumb.


The Christmas thrill is on the earth,
The stars throb in the sky.
Love listens in a thousand homes,-
The Christmas bells ring by.


I cross the old familiar door
And take the dear old chair.
You look with desolated eyes
Upon me sitting there.


You gaze and see not, though the tears
In gazing burn and start.
Believe, the living are the blind,
Not that the dead depart.


A year ago some words we said
Kept sacred 'twixt us twain,
'T is you, poor Love, who answer not,
The while I speak again.


I lean above you as before,
Faithful, my arms enfold.
Oh, could you know that life is numb,
Nor think that death is cold!


Senses of earth, how weak ye are!
Joys, joys of Heaven how strong!
Loves of the earth, how short and sad,
Of Heaven how glad and long!


Heart of my heart! if earth or Heaven
Had speech or language fine
Enough, or death or life could give
Me symbol, sound, or sign


To reach you-thought, or touch, or eye,
Body or soul-I 'd die
Again, to make you understand:
My darling! This is I!

I like that old, kind legend
Not found in Holy Writ,
And wish that John or Matthew
Had made Bible out of it.


But though it is not Gospel,
There is no law to hold
The heart from growing better
That hears the story told:-


How the little Jewish children
Upon a summer day,
Went down across the meadows
With the Child Christ to play.


And in the gold-green valley,
Where low the reed-grass lay,
They made them mock mud-sparrows
Out of the meadow clay.


So, when these all were fashioned,
And ranged in rows about,
'Now,' said the little Jesus,
'We'll let the birds fly out.'


Then all the happy children
Did call, and coax, and cry-
Each to his own mud-sparrow:
'Fly, as I bid you! Fly!'


But earthen were the sparrows,
And earth they did remain,
Though loud the Jewish children
Cried out, and cried again.


Except the one bird only
The little Lord Christ made;
The earth that owned Him Master,
-His earth heard and obeyed.


Softly He leaned and whispered:
'Fly up to Heaven! Fly!'
And swift, His little sparrow
Went soaring to the sky,


And silent, all the children
Stood, awestruck, looking on,
Till, deep into the heavens,
The bird of earth had gone.


I like to think, for playmate
We have the Lord Christ still,
And that still above our weakness
He works His mighty will,


That all our little playthings
Of earthen hopes and joys
Shall be, by His commandment,
Changed into heavenly toys.


Our souls are like the sparrows
Imprisoned in the clay,
Bless Him who came to give them wings
Upon a Christmas Day!