LITMIR.BIZ

      The human heart is cradle of deep love,

      Which growing and expanding from its birth,

      Ever finds space within that living cot;

      Howe’er remotely o’er this beauteous earth

      Its subtle influences may joy impart,

      Whilst nestling in the human heart.

      The human mind is cradle of high thought,

      Ever aspiring to extend its sphere,

      To penetrate those mysteries of life

      Philosophy has fail’d to render clear.

      Howe’er expansive, thought will ever find

      Its cradle in the human mind.

      The human soul is cradle of deep faith,

      Of aspirations, and of purpose strong,

      To kindle into life the seeds of truth —

      Eradicate the germs of vice and wrong.

      Howe’er these seeds develop and increase,

      Within man’s soul they’ll find their place.

      Three living cradles in one living form,

      Expanding ever from their early birth;

      High thought and sweet affection in ye dwell,

      And Faith which hallows all things on this earth.

      Each human being in himself may find

      Three living cradles – soul, heart, mind.

      O HAPPY bells that thrill the air

         Of tranquil English summer-eves,

         When stirless hang the aspen leaves,

      And Silence listens everywhere.

      And sinks and swells the tender chime,

         Sad, as regret for buried fears,

         Sweet, as repentant yearning tears —

      The fit voice of the holy time.

      O wond’rous voice!  O mystic sound!

         We listen, and our thoughts aspire

         Like spiritual flame, from fire

      That idly smoulders on the ground.

      Forgotten longings have new birth

         For better, purer, nobler life,

         Lifted above the noisy strife

      That drowns the music of this earth.

      And human sorrow seems to be

         A link unto diviner things,

         The budding of the spirit’s wings

      That only thus can soar – and see.

      The twilight fades – the sweet bells cease,

         The common world’s come back again,

         But for a little space, its pain

      And weariness are steep’d in peace.

      I SEE myself reflected in thine eyes,

      The dainty mirrors set in golden frame

      Of eyelash, quiver with a sweet surprise,

         And most ingenuous shame.

      Like Eve, who hid her from the dread command

      Deep in the dewy blooms of paradise;

      So thy shy soul, love calling, fears to stand

         Discover’d at thine eyes.

      Or, like a tender little fawn, which lies

      Asleep amid the fern, and waking, hears

      Some careless footstep drawing near, and flies,

         Yet knows not what she fears.

      So shrinks thy soul, but, dearest, shrink not so;

      Look thou into mine eyes as I in thine,

      So our reflected souls shall meet and grow,

         And each with each combine

      In something nobler; as when one has laid

      Opposite mirrors on a cottage wall;

      And lo! the never-ending colonnade,

         The vast palatial hall.

      So our twin souls, by one sweet suicide,

      Shall fade into an essence more sublime;

      Living through death, and dying glorified,

         Beyond the reach of time.

      Shadow gives to sunshine brightness,

      And it gives to joy its lightness;

      Shadow gives to honour meekness,

      And imparts its strength to weakness;

      Shadow deepens human kindness,

      Draws the veil from mental blindness;

      Shadow sweetens love’s own sweetness,

      And gives to life its deep intenseness;

      Shadow is earth’s sacredness,

      And the heaven’s loveliness;

      Shadow is day’s tenderness,

      And the night’s calm holiness;

      Shadow’s deepest night of darkness

      Will break in day’s eternal brightness.

      In the band of noble workers,

         Seems no place for such as I —

      They have faith, where I have yearning,

         They can speak where I but sigh,

      They can point the way distinctly

      Where for me the shadows lie.

      Lofty purpose, strong endeavour,

         These are not ordain’d for me —

      Wayside flower might strive for ever,

         Never could it grow a tree —

      Yet a child may laugh to gather,

      Or a sick man smile to see.

      So I too in God’s creation

         Have my own peculiar part,

      He must have some purpose surely

         For weak hand and timid heart,

      Transient joys for my diffusing,

      For my healing transient smart.

      Just to fling a moment’s brightness

         Over dreary down-trod ways,

      Just to fan a better impulse

         By a full and ready praise —

      Pitying where I may not succour,

      Loving where I cannot raise.

      In days – not old – a Demon lived,

      And a terrible

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