Read Ebook: Poems by Hensley Sophia Margaretta

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Ebook has 66 lines and 7019 words, and 2 pages

AN EVENING IN OCTOBER

Evening has thrown her hushing garment round This little world; no harsh or jarring sound Disturbs my reverie. The room is dark, And kneeling at the window I can mark Each light and shadow of the scene below. The placid glistening pools, the streams that flow Through the red earth, left by the hurrying tide; The ridge of mountain on the farther side Shewing more black for many twinkling lights That come and go about the gathering heights. Below me lie great wharves, dreary and dim, And lumber houses crowding close and grim Like giant shadowed guardians of the port, With towering chimneys outlined tall and swart Against the silver pools. Two figures pace The wharf in ghostly silence, face from face. O'er the black line of mountain, silver-clear In faint rose-tint of vaporous evening air, Sinketh the bright suspicion of a wing, The slim curved moon, who in shy triumphing Hideth her face. Above, the rose-tint pales Into a silver opal, hills and dales Of cloudy glory, fading high alone Into a tender blue-grey monotone.-- And then I thought: "ere that fair, slender moon Has rounded grown and full, Our hearts' desire accomplished we shall see Dear one, all light, and joy, and ecstasy!"

PARTED.

My spirit holds you, Dear, Though worlds away,"-- This to their absent ones Many can say.

"Thoughts, fancies, hopes, desires, All must be yours; Sweetest my memories still Of our past hours."

Feel your arms folding me, Know that quick breath That aye my soul would stir Even in death.

'Tis not a memory, Love, Thoughts of the past, Fleeting remembrances Which may not last,--

But, as I shut my eyes Know I the sign That you are here, yourself, Bodily, mine.--

So, Love, I cannot say "My spirit flies Over the widening space, Under dull skies,

Here to me, now, for you Lean on my heart. Who says that you and I Ever can part?--

TOUT POUR L'AMOUR.

The world may rage without, Quiet is here; Statesmen may toil and shout, Cynics may sneer; The great world,--let it go,-- June warmth be March's snow, I care not,--be it so Since I am here.

Time was when war's alarm Called for a fear, When sorrow's seeming harm Hastened a tear. Naught care I now what foe Threatens, for scarce I know How the year's seasons go Since I am here.

This is my resting-place Holy and dear, Where pain's dejected face May not appear; This is the world to me, Earth's woes I will not see, But rest contentedly Since I am here.

SOOTHING.

I aimless wandered thro' the woods, and flung My idle limbs upon a soft brown bank, Where, thickly strewn, the worn-out russet leaves Rustled a faint remonstrance at my tread. The yellow fungi, shewing pallid stems, The mossy lichen creeping o'er the stones And making green the whitened hemlock-bark, The dull wax of the woodland lily-bud, On these my eye could rest, and I was still. No sound was there save a low murmured cheep From an ambitious nestling, and the slow And oft-recurring plash of myriad waves That spent their strength against the unheeding shore. Over and through a spreading undergrowth I saw the gleaming of the tranquil sea. The woody scent of mosses and sweet ferns, Mingled with the fresh brine, and came to me, Bringing a laudanum to my ceaseless pain; A quietness stole in upon me then, And o'er my soul there passed a wave of peace.

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