MIRRORS OF LIFE AND DEATH.

The mystery of Life, the mystery

Of Death, I see

Darkly as in a glass;

Their shadows pass,

And talk with me.

As the flush of a Morning Sky,

As a Morning Sky colorless —

Each yields its measure of light

To a wet world or a dry;

Each fares through day to night

With equal pace,

And then each one

Is done.

As the Sun with glory and grace

In his face,

Benignantly hot,

Graciously radiant and keen,

Ready to rise and to run,—

Not without spot,

Not even the Sun.

As the Moon

On the wax, on the wane,

With night for her noon;

Vanishing soon,

To appear again.

As Roses that droop

Half warm, half chill, in the languid May,

And breathe out a scent

Sweet and faint;

Till the wind gives one swoop

To scatter their beauty away.

As Lilies a multitude,

One dipping, one rising, one sinking,

On rippling waters, clear blue

And pure for their drinking;

One new dead, and one opened anew,

And all good.

As a cankered pale Flower,

With death for a dower,

Each hour of its life half dead;

With death for a crown

Weighing down

Its head.

As an Eagle, half strength and half grace,

Most potent to face

Unwinking the splendor of light;

Harrying the East and the West,

Soaring aloft from our sight;

Yet one day or one night dropped to rest,

On the low common earth

Of his birth.

As a Dove,

Not alone,

In a world of her own

Full of fluttering soft noises

And tender sweet voices

Of love.

As a Mouse

Keeping house

In the fork of a tree,

With nuts in a crevice,

And an acorn or two;

What cares he

For blossoming boughs,

Or the song-singing bevies

Of birds in their glee,

Scarlet, or golden, or blue?

As a Mole grubbing underground;

When it comes to the light

It grubs its way back again,

Feeling no bias of fur

To hamper it in its stir,

Scant of pleasure and pain,

Sinking itself out of sight

Without sound.

As Waters that drop and drop,

Weariness without end,

That drop and never stop,

Wear that nothing can mend,

Till one day they drop —

Stop —

And there's an end,

And matters mend.

As Trees, beneath whose skin

We mark not the sap begin

To swell and rise,

Till the whole bursts out in green:

We mark the falling leaves

When the wide world grieves

And sighs.

As a Forest on fire,

Where maddened creatures desire

Wet mud or wings

Beyond all those things

Which could assuage desire

On this side the flaming fire.

As Wind with a sob and sigh

To which there comes no reply

But a rustle and shiver

From rushes of the river;

As Wind with a desolate moan,

Moaning on alone.

As a Desert all sand,

Blank, neither water nor land

For solace, or dwelling, or culture,

Where the storms and the wild creatures howl;

Given over to lion and vulture,

To ostrich, and jackal, and owl:

Yet somewhere an oasis lies;

There waters arise

To nourish one seedling of balm,

Perhaps, or one palm.

As the Sea,

Murmuring, shifting, swaying;

One time sunnily playing,

One time wrecking and slaying;

In whichever mood it be,

Worst or best,

Never at rest.

As still Waters and deep,

As shallow Waters that brawl,

As rapid Waters that leap

To their fall.

As Music, as Color, as Shape,

Keys of rapture and pain

Turning in vain

In a lock which turns not again,

While breaths and moments escape.

As Spring, all bloom and desire;

As Summer, all gift and fire;

As Autumn, a dying glow;

As Winter, with nought to show:

Winter which lays its dead all out of sight,

All clothed in white,

All waiting for the long-awaited light.