Grandpa and Bess.

241

“There sure is such a country,

I've seen it many a night, Though I never, never could find it Awake in the morning light;

And what is the country over the sea,

Where the beautiful New-Years wait for me?"

"Where do the New-Years come from?"

Says Grandpa, looking away

Through the frosty rime on the window,
To the distant hills so gray,

"They come from the country of youth, I know, And they pass to the land of the long ago.

"And which is the fairest country?

Dear Heart, I never can tell :
Where the New-Years wait their dawning,
Or the beautiful Old-Years dwell;
But the sweetest summers that ever shone,
To the land of the long ago have flown.

"The New-Years wait for you, Darling,
And the Old-Years wait for me;
They have carried my dearest treasures
To the country over the sea,

The eyes that were brightest, the lips that sung
The gladdest carols when life was young.

242

Grandpa and Bess.

"But I know of a better country,

Where the Old-Years all are new;

I shall find its shining pathway

Sooner, Sweet Heart, than you;

And I'll send you a message of Love and cheer
With every dawn of a glad New-Year."

The eyes of the dear old pilgrim
Are looking across the snows,

While closer nestles the merry face,

With its flush like a pink wild-rose:
Dreaming together, the young and old,
Locks of silver, and crown of gold.

A Week of Sonnets.

244

Sweetest, fain would whisper.

I.

Sunday Morning.

WEETEST, I fain would whisper in thine ear,

SWE

This Holy Day when I am on the sea,

And thou art bodily so far from me,

Whisper a word that thou alone canst hear.
Love is that word; and though a hundred score
Of miles 'twixt thee and me are fixed, I know
That where thy hands and feet in duty go,
That word I breathe shall fill thee more and more.
Thy wifely arms, outstretched, shall reach me here;
Nor time nor space can separate such Love
As ours is, made not for a day or year,

But for eternity. Bend thou above

My couch, Sweet Heart, and whisper in my ear That blessed word, God given, — God is - Love.

Let it not grieve thee.

245

II.

Sunday Evening.

L

ET it not grieve thee, Dear, to hear me say
"T is false that absence maketh the fond heart

More fond; that when alone, and far apart
From thee, I love thee more from day to day.
Not so; for then my heart would ever pray
For longer separation, that I might
In absence from thee gain the utmost height
Of love unrealized; nor would I stay
In my swift course, but ever onward press,
Until mine eager hand should touch the goal
Of possible passion. Did I love thee less,
Then might I love thee more; but now my soul
Is filled throughout with perfect tenderness;
No part of me thou hast, but the full whole.