Ina D. Coolbrith: Verses about Sorrow

Be happy, happy, little maid,
Under the rose in blossom!
Whitely flutter its petals down
Over the whiter bosom.

Beauty and sunshine thine today
With never thought of sorrow...
As glad a day, as fair a sky,
Be thine upon the morrow!

Here’s the volume: stain nor blot
Mars a leaf to-day;
Sin and folly, they are not;
Sorrow is away.
Look! Each page is white and clear,
And’t is morning of the year.

Of the days that swiftly run
This will not be mute:
Good or evil said or done,
Sweet or bitter fruit,
What shall be the record, dear,
At the evening of the year?

I can not count my life a loss,
With all its length of evil days.
I hold them only as the dross
About its gold, whose worth outweighs.
For each and all I give Him praise.

For drawing nearer to the brink
That leadeth down to final rest,
I see with clearer eyes, I think,
And much that vexed me and oppressed,
Have learned was right and just and best.

So, though I may but dimly guess
Its far intent, this gift of His
I honor; nor would know the less
One sorrow, or in pain or bliss
Have other than it was and is.

It must be sweet, O thou, my dead, to lie
With hands that folded are from every task,
Sealed with the seal of the great mystery, -
The lips that nothing answer, nothing ask;
The life-long struggle ended; ended quite
The weariness of patience and of pain;
And the eyes closed to open not again
On desolate dawn or dreariness of night.
It must be sweet to slumber and forget-
To have the poor tired heart so still, at last:
Done with all yearning, done with all regret;
Doubt, fear, hope, sorrow, all for ever past-
Past all the hours, or slow of wing or fleet-
It must be sweet, it must be very sweet!

After the winter rain,
Sing robin! -sing, swallow!
Grasses are in the lane,
Buds and flowers will follow.

Woods shall ring, blith and gay,
With bird-trill and twitter,
Though the sky weep to-day,
And the winds are bitter.

Though deep call unto deep
As calls the thunder,
And white the billows leap
The tempest under;

Softly the waves shall come
Up the long, bright beaches,
With dainty flowers of foam
And tenderest speeches.

* * * * * *

After the wintery pain,
And the long, long sorrow,
Sing heart! -for thee again
Joy comes with the morrow.

Her Raiment was of soft white thistledown,
And two great glowing topazes her eyes,
With depths of dusk, rare as the wondrous dyes
Of Tyre, of Persia-ancient of renown.
Perfect in beauty exquisite, from crown
Of the small head to feet, that, dainty-wise,
Trod, silken-fringed and sandaled; sorceries
Of sweetness hers, that knew nor fret nor frown.
Dear mystic ‘Egypt’! ** Of how tender wile!
My little comrade of the many years,
Who filled so small a space, and left so wide!
Who won from Sorrow’s self a tender smile-
Who paid back love with love that brought no tears,
And never caused a pang-until she died!

* A beautiful favorite Angora cat. ** A pet name.

What do I owe the years, that I should bring
Green leaves to crown the king?
Bloen, barren sands, the thistle, and the brier,
Dead hope, and mocked desire,
And sorrow, vast and pitiless as the sea:
These are their gifts to me.

What do I owe the years, that I should love
And sing the praise thereof?
Perhaps, the lark’s clear carol wakes with morn,
And winds amid the corn
Clash fairy cymbals; but I miss the joys,
Missing the tender voice-
Sweet as a throstle’s after April rain-
That may not sing again.

What do I owe the years, that I should greet
Their bitter, and not sweet,
With wine, and wit, and laughter? Rather thrust
The wine-cup to the dust!
What have they brought to me, these many years?
Silence and bitter tears.

(Eccl. VII,3) To ‘Uncle George Bromley

I hold not that sorrow than laughter
Is better for man;
The storm-clouds that darken the heavens
Than rainbows that span.
Ah! rather the skies in there shinning
Than dreary with rain, -
And the heart that is lightsome in gladness
Than heavy with pain.

There are thorns in the smoothest of pathways
Enough and to spare;
No wheat-field so carefully tended
That knows not the tare;
But the harvester gathers the harvest
In the gold of its sheaves,
And the briar is forgot of the branches
In the laugh of its leaves.

The voice in its merriment ringing
The laughter-bells clear!
May their melody linger about him,
And the seed he has sown
Of joy in the heart-fields of others
Find bloom in his own.

So fair the sun rose, yester-morn,
The mountain-cliffs adoring!
The golden tassels of the corn
Danced in the breath of morning;
The cool, clear stream that runs before,
Such happy words was saying;
And in the open cottage door
My pretty babe was playing.
Aslant the sill a sunbeam lay-
I laughed, in carless pleasure,
To see his little hand essay
To grasp the shinning treasure.

To-day no shafts of golden flame
Across the sill are lying;
To-day I call my baby’s name,
And hear no lisped replying:
To-day-ah, baby mine, to-day-
God holds thee in his keeping!
And yet I weep, as one pale ray
Breaks in upon thy sleeping;
I weep to see its shining band
Reach, with a fond endeavor,
To where the little restless hands
Are crossed in rest forever!

Cheeks of an ominous crimson,
Eyebrows arched to a frown,
Pretty red lips a-quiver
With holding their sweetnes down;

Glance that is never lifted
From the hands that, in cruel play,
Are tearing the white rose petals,
And tossing their hearts away.

Only to think that a whisper,
An idle, meaningless jest,
Should stir such a world of passion
In a dear little loving breast.

Yet ever for such light trifles
Will lover and lass fall out,
And the humblest lad grow haughty,
And the gentlest maiden pout.

Of course, I must sue for pardon;
For what, I can hardly say! -
But, deaf to opposing reason,
A woman will have have her way.

And when, in despite her frowning,
The scorn, the grief, and the rue,
She looks so bewitchingly pretty,
Why-what can a fellow do?

When the grass shall cover me,
Head to foot where I am lying;
When not any wind that blows,
Summer-blooms nor winter snows,
Shall awake me to your sighing:
Close above me as you pass,
You will say: 'How kind she was, '
You will say: 'How true she was, '
When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me,
Holden close to earth's warm bosom;
While I laugh, or weep, or sing,
Nevermore, for anything:
You will find in blade and blossom,
Sweet small voices, odorous,
Tender pleaders in my cause,
That shall speak me as I was -
When the grass grows over me.

When the grass shall cover me!
Ah, beloved, in my sorrow
Very patient, I can wait-
Knowing that, or soon or late,
There will dawn a clearer morrow:
When your heart will moan: 'Alas!
Now I know how true she was;
Now I know how dear she was' -
When the grass grows over me!

Shut close the wearied eyes, O Sleep!
So close no dreams may come between,
Of all the sorrows they have seen;
Too long, too sad, their watch hath been.
Be faithful, Sleep:
Lest they should wake-remembering;
Lest they should wake, and waking weep,
O Sleep, sweet Sleep!

Clasp close the wearied hands, O Rest!
Poor hands, so thin and feeble grown
With all the tasks which they have done;
Now they are finished-every one.
O happy Rest,
Fold them at last from laboring,
In quiet on the quiet breast,
O Rest, sweet Rest!

Press close unto her heart, O Death!
So close, not any pulse may stir
The garments of her sepulcher:
Lo, life hath been so sad to her!
O kindest Death,
Within thy safest sheltering
Nor pain nor sorrow entereth-
O Death, sweet Death!

Friends whom I feasted in my luxury,
In sorrow turned from me.

A hundred servitors, that once did wait
Upon my high estate,

Me-desolate, forsaken, old, and poor-
Thrust from my own house-door.

Only that One whom I in joy forgot,
My fault remembered not,

And in my tears of late-born penitence
Drove me not, scorning, hence.

His strong arm raised me where I prostrate fell:
He made my bruised heart well;

My thirst He quenched; my hunger gave He bread;
And my weak steps he led

Through the blind dark of desert sands, to where
His fresh, green pastures were.

O, calm and fair the days, and all delights
Make beautiful the nights!

O, fair the nights, and beautiful the days,
Within these quiet ways!

What need is there which He may not supply?
Familiar steps go by,

And well-known voices die upon my ear-
But He is ever near!

The vision of all beauty and all grace
Is in His perfect face.

Sweeter His voice is than the melodies
Wherewith I lulled my ease.

Wisdom and truth, and measures of sweet song,
Unto His words belong;

And to my lowly roof His presence brings
Splendor exceeding kings’!

Morning

As in a quiet dream
The mighty waters seem;
Scarcely a ripple shows
Upon their blue repose.

The sea-gulls smoothly ride
Upon the drowsy tide,
And a while sail doth sleep
Far out upon the deep.

A dreamy purple fills
The hollows of the hills;
A single cloud floats through
The sky’s serenest blue;

And far beyond the Gate
The massed vapors wait-
White as the walls that ring
The City of the King.

There is no sound, no word:
Only a happy bird
Trills to her nestling young
A little, sleepy song.

This is the holy calm;
The heavens dropping balm;
The Love made manifest,
And near; the perfect rest.

Evening

The day grows wan and cold.
In through the Gate of Gold
The restless vapors glide,
Like ghosts upon the tide.

The brown bird folds her wing,
Sad, with no song to sing.
Along the streets the dust
Blows sharp, with sudden gust.

The night comes, chill and gray.
Over the the sullen bay,
What mournful echoes pass
From lonely Alcatraz!

O bell, with solemn toll,
As for a passing soul-
As for a soul that waits,
In vain, at heaven’s gates!

This is the utter blight;
The sorrow infinite
Of earth; the closing wave;
The parting, and the grave.

Just for a day to put my sorrow by!
Forget that summer dies, that roses die;
And the swift swallow, circling round the eaves,
Leaves us with falling leaves.

Forget the sky shall lose its gold; the sea
Grow white in tempest, and the long nights be
Forlorn of stars, and dreary with the rains
Beating against the panes.

Forget that change is, and the sorrow is;
That souls grow tired, and sweetest memories
In time turn bitter, and the one sure friend
Is death, that makes an end.

Just a day to put aside the years,
Washed clean of wrongs, of sins, of heavy tears;
And dream that life is fair, and love a truth,
And youth is always youth.

That if the swallow goes, ‘tis for a day,
To come again at dawn, with merrier lay,
Learned in the old fair lands, and the rose brings
New splendors with new springs.

That God is near, and Heaven near, and Death
So far the young heart scarcely reckoneth
The time by years and years; as now by days-
And the whole earth is praise.

And faith is as a spotless dove, with wings
Unclogged with doubt, with many questionings
Unansweared; and the heart not yet doth tire
Of its own vain desire.

Just for a day to pull all sad things by,
Forget that dreams are dead, that dreams must die-
Joy is a breath, and hope a star that sets;
Forget, as love forgets!

Love and I, one summer day,
Took a walk together:
Oh, how beautiful the way
Through the blooming heather!
Far-off bells rang matin-chimes,
Birds sang, silver-voicing;
And our happy hearts beat time
To the earth’s rejoicing.
Well-a-day! ah well-a-day!
Then pale Grief had missed me,
And Mirth and I kept company,
Ere Cupid kissed me.

Love ran idly where he would,
Child-like, all unheeding;
I as carelessly pursued
The pathway he was leading,
Till upon the shadowed side
Of a cool, swift river,
Where the sunbeams smote the tide
Goldenly a-quiver:
Well-a-day! Ah well-a-day!
“Love, ” I cried, “come, rest thee.”
Ah, but Heart and I were gay,
Ere Cupid kissed me!

Shadows of the summer-cloud
Fell on near and far land,
Fragrantly the branches bowed
Every leafy garland;
While, with shining head at rest,
Next my heart reclining,
Love’s white arms, with soft caress,
Round my neck were twining;
Till—ah, well! Ah, well-a-day!
Love, who can resist thee? —
On the river-banks that day,
Cupid kissed me.

Woe is me! In cheerless plight,
By the cold sad river,
Seek I Love, who, taken flight,
Comes no more forever—
Love, from whom more pain than bliss
Every heart obtaineth;
For the joy soon vanishes,
While the pang remaineth.
Well-a-day! ah, well-a-day!
Would, Love, I had missed thee!
Peace and I are twain for aye,
Since Cupid kissed me!

Mine, to loose or to hold,
I held it, thus, in my hand.
Mine, to fetter or free-
Which should it be?
Dear little wings of gold,
Dear little voice that trilled
All the gay summer long,
Making each day a song!
Well, but one tires, at times,
Of even one’s favorite rhymes;
Of roses, oversweet;
Of joys that are too complete;
Of all things in one’s reach:
And just to be alone
With silence sweeter than speech,
Seems best of all things known.
Mine to command,
Hold captive, as I willed:
Little light wings, away!
Into the golden day-
Away, away,
Into the golden sky-
Good-by! Good-by!

That was a year ago.
Was it well-was it wiser so?
Shall I ever know?
A whole long weary year,
And summer is here.
But the rose a redness lacks,
And the sun is chill,
And the world, somehow, too still,
And time a dreary tax
On body and heart and brain.
Would it be less, I wonder,

If I could only hear
A piping, soft and clear,
A little mellow strain
Come back again?
Or see the flutterings
Of dainty golden wings,
That clove heaven’s blue asunder,
Away and away from me
Away and away,
On one poor foolish day?
Ah, well! Was it so to be,
And better so?
I shall never, never know.
It is gone-let it go.
But O! for the dear love-strain
Mine once, mine never again!
For the fluttering wings of gold,
Mine to loose or to hold-
Held lightly, loosened-so,
A year ago!

Most fair is Earth!
This side sweet Heaven, I think, no thing more fair
Than the still face
She turns to her white sisterhood of space-
The milky blossoms of the fields of air.
Ermined, or in rich guise
Of rainbow draperies,
And emerald crowned, and mystical-with wide
Flowing cloud-gossamer veiled, as is a bride-
Wondrous and beautiful beyond compare.

Most glad is Earth!
No sweeter sounds-save those the angels hear-
Ring through and clear
And vast expanse of ether, than the voices
Wherein my Earth rejoices.
Rustle of leaves and trees,
And water-lullabies,
And song of bird, untaught, and free and wild,
And lisp and laughter of the little child,
And, all glad things above,
The thought, and speech, and heart of perfect love.

Most sad is Earth!
So sad, the face her sisters look upon
Is pale and wan-
Is wan and pale with memory of the Sin
Whence Sorrow entered in;
Through which sweet questioning, and sweet reply,
And love’s sweet laughter die-
And jar and jangle of the wrong and pain
Clash in her sweet refrain,
And discord all the strain.

Most blest is Earth!
The gleaming pathway through the heavens spread,
That angels tread,
Thick sown with stars as is her breast with flowers
By April showers,
Holds none so blest! - because of One who came
To burden all the blame,
And turn aside
The curse of sin and death-in that He died.
Most blest is Earth
Of all the Word gave birth-
In that her God so loved her that He gave
His SON to save!

J.F.B. Died April 29,1882

Forth from this low estate,
Fetterless now of fate,
Pass, spirit blest!
Out of the cark and care,
Out of the griefs that were,
Into thy rest.

Done with the weary round
Daily thy soul that bound
From its true aim, -
Little can matter now
Fame’s wreath upon the brow,
Earth-praise or blame.

God! is there of despair
Keener than this to bear,
Under the sun:
Tasked, like a slave in chains,
While our true work remains
Waiting, undone?

Feeling, as life sweeps by,
All the pure majesty
Of that we miss?
Fettered and tortured so,
Christ, pity all who know
Sorrow like this!

Not here was given his wage:
Of his best heritage
Barred and denied.
Man of the silver tongue,
Poet of songs unsung,
Dreamer, clear-eyed;

Slave not to gain or greed;
Bound by no narrow creed
By priestcraft taught:
In God’s fair universe
Seeing nor hate, nor curse
Of Him that wrought;

Trusting the love divine, -
Carless of church or shrine,
Blessing or ban;
His prayer the common good,
His faith the brotherhood
Of man with man.

And if unto his eyes
Veiled were the mysteries
Of the far shore,
Who of us all may be
Wiser, in truth, than he?
Who knoweth more?

Never the kindly wit
Lighter, because of it,
Sad hearts shall make;
No more the earnest thought,
With its deep lesson fraught,
Souls shall awake.

Eloquent eye and lip,
Peerless companionship,
Passed from the earth.
Friend of the many years,
Well for thee fall my tears,
Knowing thy worth.

Flowers on the gentle breast,
Lay the frail form to rest
Under the sod.
Passed from earth’s low estate,
Fetterless now of fate,
Leave him with God.

No flower in all the land-
No leaf upon the tree,
Blossom, or bud, or fruit,
But an icy fringe instead;
And the birds are flown, or dead,
And the world is mute.
The white, cold moonbeams shiver
On the dark face of the river,
While still and slow the waters flow
Out to the open sea;
The moveless pine-trees stand,
Black fortressed on the hill;
And white, and cold, and still,
Wherever the eye may go,
The ghostly snow:
The vast, unbroken silence of snow.

I l; ook out upon the night,
And the darkly flowing river,
And the near stars, with no quiver
In their calm and steady light,
And listen for the voice of the great sea,
And the silence answers me.
O Sea of the West, that comes
With a sound as of rolling drums,
With a muffled beat
As of marching feet,
Up the long lifts of sand,
The golden drifts of sand,
On the long, long shining strand.
An opal, rimmed with blue,
An emerald, shinning through
The pearl’s and ruby’s dyes,
And crests that catch the blaze
Of the diamond’s rays,
Under thy perfect skies!

O Land of the West, I know
How the field flowers bud and blow,
And the grass springs and the grain,
To the first soft touch and summons of the rain.
O, the music of the rain!
O, the music of the streams!
Dream music, heard in dreams,
As I listen through the night,
While the snow falls, still and white.
I hear the branches sway
In the breeze’s play,
And the forests’ solemn hymns:
Almost I hear the stir
Of the sap in their mighty limbs
Like blood in living veins!
The rose is in the lanes,
And the insects buzz and whir;
And where the purple fills
The spaces of the hills,
In one swift month the poppy will lift up
Its golden cup.
And O, and O, in the sunshine and the rain,
Rings out that perfect strain, -
The earth’s divinest song!
My bird with the plain, brown breast,
My lark of the golden west,
Up, up, thy joy notes soar,
And sorrow is no more,
And pain has passed away
In the rapture of thy lay!
Up, up, the glad notes throng,
And the soul is borne along
On the pinions of thy song,
Up from the meadow’s sod,
Up from the world’s unrest,
To peace, to heaven, to God!

And I listen through the silence of the night,
While the snow falls, still and white.

WRITTEN FOR THE GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC,
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, DECORATION DAY,1881

The sea-tides ebb and flow;
The seasons come and go,
Summer and sun succeed the cloud and snow,
And April rain awakes the violet.
Earth puts away
Her somber robes, and cheeks with tear-drops wet
In some sad yesterday
Dimple again with smiles, and half forget
Their grief, as the warm rose
Forgets the night-dews when the noontide glows.

Change follows upon change
Swift as the hours; and far away, and strange
As the dim memory of night’s troubled dream
In dawn’s returning beam,
Seem the dark, troubled years,
The sad, but glorious years,
Writ on the nation’s heart in blood and tears.

Ah, God! and yet we know
It was no dream in those days, long ago:
It was no dream, the beat
To arms, the steady tramp along the street
Of answering thousands, quick with word and deed
Unto their country’s need;
No dream the banners, flinging, fresh and fair
Their colors on the air-
Not stained and worn like these
Returning witnesses,
With sad, dumb lips, most eloquent of those
Returning nevermore!
Of those on many a hard-fought battlefield,
From hand to hand that bore
Their starry folds, and, knowing not to yield,
Fell, with a brave front steady to their foes.

Year after year the spring steals back again,
Bringing the bird and blossom in her train,
Beauty and melody,
But they return no more!
Borne on what tides of pain,
Over the unknown sea,
Unto the unknown shore:
Amid the pomp and show
Of glittering ranks, the cannon’s smoke and roar,
Tossed in the rock and reel
Of the wild waves of battle to and fro,
Amid the roll of drums, the ring of steel,
The clash of sabre, and the fiery hell
Of bursting shot and shell,
The scream of wounded steeds, the thunder tones
Of firm command, the prayers, the cheers, the groans, -
War’s mingled sounds of triumph and despair.
Blending with trumpet-blast and bugle-blare.

But not alone amid the battle wrack
They died, - our brave true men.
By southern glade and glen,
In dark morass, within whose pathless deeps,
The serpent coils and creeps,
They fell, with the fierce bloodhound on their track.
Amid the poisonous breath
Of crowded cells, and the rank, festering death
Of the dread prison-pen;
From dreary hospital,
And the dear, sheltering wall
Of home, that claimed them but to lose again,
They passed away, - the army of our slain!

O leader! Tried and true,
What words may speak of thee?
Last sacrifice divine,
Upon our country’s shrine!
O man, that toward above
Thy follow-men, with heart the tenderest,
And “whitest soul the nation ever knew! ”
Bravest and kingliest!
We lay our sorrow down
Before thee, as a crown;
We fold thee with our love
In silence: where are words to speak of thee?

For us the budded laughter of the May
Is beautiful to-day,
Upon the land, but nevermore for them,
Our heroes gone the rose upon its stem
Unfolds, or the fair lily blooms to bless
Their living eyes, with its pure loveliness;
No song-bird at the morn
Greets them with gladness of a day new-born;
No kiss of a child or wife
Warms their cold lips again to love and life,
Breaking sweet slumbers with as sweet release.
They may not wake again!
But from the precious soil,
Born of their toil-
Nursed with what crimson rain-
We pluck to-day the snow-white flower of peace.

He does not die, who in a noble cause
Renders his life: immortal as the laws
By which God rules the universe is he.
Silence his name may hold,
His fame untold
In all the annals of earth’s great may be,
But, bounded by no span
Of years which rounds the common lot of man,
Lo! he is one
Henceforward, with the work which he has done,
Whose meed and measure is Eternity.

They are not lost to us, they still are ours,
They do not rest. Cover their graves with flowers-
Earth’s fairest treasures, fashioned with skill,
Which makes the daisy’s disk a miracle
No less than man. On monument and urn,
Let their rich fragrance burn,
Like incense on a altar; softly spread
A royal mantle o’er each unmarked bed,
And, as a jeweled-rain,
Drop their bright petals for the nameless dead
And lonely, scattered wide
On plain and mountain-side,
Beneath the wave, and by the river-tide.
So let them rest
Upon their country’s breast.
They have not died in vain:
Through them she lives, with head no longer bowed
Among the nations, but erect and proud-
Washed clean of wrong and shame,
Her freedom never more an empty name,
Her all her scattered stars as one again.