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Straight thro’ a fold of purple mist The sun goes down—a crimson wheel— And like an opal burns the sea That once was cold as steel. With pomp of purple, gold and red, Thou wilt come back at morrow’s dawn… But thou can’st never bring, O Sun, The Christmas that is gone!
This poem was published in When the Birds Go North Again (The Macmillan Company, 1898). It is in the public domain.
I know a place where the sun is like gold,
And the cherry blooms burst with snow,
And down underneath is the loveliest nook,
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.
One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith,
And one is for love, you know,
And God put another in for luck—
If you search, you will find where they grow.
But you must have hope, and you must have faith,
You must love and be strong—and so—
If you work, if you wait, you will find the place
Where the four-leaf clovers grow.
Lord God, the winter has been sweet and brief
In this fair land;
For us the budded willow and the leaf,
The peaceful strand.
For us the silver nights and golden days,
The violet mist;
The pearly clouds pierced with vibrating rays
Of amethyst.
At evening, every wave of our blue sea
Hollowed to hold
A fragment of the sunset’s mystery—
A fleck of gold.
The crimson haze is on the alder trees
In places lush;
Already sings with sweet and lyric ease
The hours steal by with still, unasking lips—
So lightly that I cannot hear their tread;
And softly touch me with their finger-tips
To find if I be dreaming, or be dead.
And yet however still their flight may be,
Their ceaseless going weights my heart with tears;
These touches will have wrought deep scars on me—
When the light hours have worn to heavy years.