LITMIR.BIZ

      All things have power to hold us back.

      Our very hopes build up a wall

      Of doubt, whose shadow stretches black

      O'er all.

      The dreams, that helped us once, become

      Dread disappointments, that oppose

      Dead eyes to ours, and lips made dumb

      With woes.

      The thoughts that opened doors before

      Within the mind's house, hide away;

      Discouragement hath locked each door

      For aye.

      Come, loss, more frequently than gain!

      And failure than success! until

      The spirit's struggle to attain

      Is still!

      There is a woodland witch who lies

      With bloom-bright limbs and beam-bright eyes,

      Among the water-flags, that rank

      The slow brook's heron-haunted bank:

      The dragon-flies, in brass and blue,

      Are signs she works her sorcery through;

      Weird, wizard characters she weaves

      Her spells by under forest leaves, —

      These wait her word, like imps, upon

      The gray flag-pods; their wings, of lawn

      And gauze; their bodies gleamy green.

      While o'er the wet sand, – left between

      The running water and the still, —

      In pansy hues and daffodil,

      The fancies that she meditates

      Take on most sumptuous shapes, with traits

      Like butterflies. 'Tis she you hear,

      Whose sleepy rune, hummed in the ear

      Of silence, bees and beetles purr,

      And the dry-droning locusts whirr;

      Till, where the wood is very lone,

      Vague monotone meets monotone,

      And slumber is begot and born,

      A faery child, beneath the thorn.

      There is no mortal who may scorn

      The witchery she spreads around

      Her dim demesne, wherein is bound

      The beauty of abandoned time,

      As some sweet thought 'twixt rhyme and rhyme.

      And by her spell you shall behold

      The blue turn gray, the gray turn gold

      Of hollow heaven; and the brown

      Of twilight vistas twinkled down

      With fire-flies; and, in the gloom,

      Feel the cool vowels of perfume

      Slow-syllabled of weed and bloom.

      But, in the night, at languid rest, —

      When like a spirit's naked breast

      The moon slips from a silver mist, —

      With star-bound brow, and star-wreathed wrist,

      If you should see her rise and wave

      You welcome, – ah! what thing shall save

      You then? forevermore her slave!

      Into the sunset's turquoise marge

      The moon dips, like a pearly barge

      Enchantment sails through magic seas,

      To fairyland Hesperides,

      Over the hills and away.

      Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown,

      The young-eyed Dusk comes slowly down;

      Her apron filled with stars she stands,

      And one or two slip from her hands

      Over the hills and away.

      Above the wood's black caldron bends

      The witch-faced Night and, muttering, blends

      The dew and heat, whose bubbles make