Julia Ward Howe

The shell of objects inwardly consumed Will stand, till some convulsive wind awakes; Such sense hath Fire to waste the heart of things, Nature, such love to hold the form she makes. Thus, wasted joys will show their early bloom, Yet crumble at the breath of a caress; The golden fruitage hides the scathèd bough, Snatch it, thou scatterest wide its emptiness. For pleasure bidden, I went forth last night To where, thick hung, the festal torches gleamed; Here were the flowers, the music, as of old, Almost the very olden time it seemed. For one with cheek unfaded, (though he brings My buried brothers to me, in his look,) Said, Will you dance?' At the accustomed words I gave my hand, the old position took. Sound, gladsome measure! at whose bidding once I felt the flush of pleasure to my brow, While my soul shook the burthen of the flesh, And in its young pride said, Lie lightly thou!' Then, like a gallant swimmer, flinging high My breast against the golden waves of sound, I rode the madd'ning tumult of the dance, Mocking fatigue, that never could be found. Chide not,—it was not vanity, nor sense, (The brutish scorn such vaporous delight,) But Nature, cadencing her joy of strength To the harmonious limits of her right. She gave her impulse to the dancing Hours, To winds that sweep, to stars that noiseless turn; She marked the measure rapid hearts must keep Devised each pace that glancing feet should learn. And sure, that prodigal o'erflow of life, Unvow'd as yet to family or state, Sweet sounds, white garments, flowery coronals Make holy, in the pageant of our fate. Sound, measure! but to stir my heart no more— For, as I moved to join the dizzy race, My youth fell from me; all its blooms were gone, And others showed them, smiling, in my face. Faintly I met the shock of circling forms Linked each to other, Fashion's galley-slaves, Dream-wondering, like an unaccustomed ghost That starts, surprised, to stumble over graves. For graves were 'neath my feet, whose placid masks Smiled out upon my folly mournfully, While all the host of the departed said, Tread lightly—thou art ashes, even as we.'

I never made a poem, dear friend— I never sat me down, and said, This cunning brain and patient hand Shall fashion something to be read. Men often came to me, and prayed I should indite a fitting verse For fast, or festival, or in Some stately pageant to rehearse. (As if, than Balaam more endowed, I of myself could bless or curse.) Reluctantly I bade them go, Ungladdened by my poet-mite; My heart is not so churlish but Its loves to minister delight. But not a word I breathe is mine To sing, in praise of man or God; My Master calls, at noon or night, I know his whisper and his nod. Yet all my thoyghts to rhythms run, To rhyme, my wisdom and my wit? True, I consume my life in verse, But wouldst thou know how that is writ? 'T is thus—through weary length of days, I bear a thought within my breast That greatens from my growth of soul, And waits, and will not be expressed. It greatens, till its hour has come, Not without pain, it sees the light; 'Twixt smiles and tears I view it o'er, And dare not deem it perfect, quite. These children of my soul I keep Where scarce a mortal man may see, Yet not unconsecrate, dear friend, Baptismal rites they claim of thee.

Street Yarn Roses caged in windows, heighten Your faint blooms today; Silks and sheeny satins, brighten; He has passed this way! Could ye keep his fleeting presence Gone beyond recall, But a little of his essence, I would have you all. Arabesque so quaint and shady, That mightst catch his eye To adorn a stately lady Ere her hour went by, Canst assure me that his glancing Rested on they fold? Did that set your purples dancing? Wake the sleepy gold? Ye neglected apple-venders Mouldering in the street, Did he curse between your tenders, Spurning with his feet? Then must I an alms deliver For his graceless pride; Could I buy his sins forever, I’d not be denied. Paying patiently his ransom Never conscience-pricked; Cheating Justice of her handsome Heartless derelict. Did he view thee, ancient steeple, With thy weird clock-face, Frowning down on sinful people Passing out of grace? Nay, respond not to my question With thy prate of time: Things to which my soul must hasten Lie beyond thy chime. With no circumstance to screen us, We must meet again: I shall bid God judge between us, Answering Amen.

Outside the Party Thick throng the snow-flakes, the evening is dreary, Glad rings the music in yonder gay hall; On her who listens here, friendless and weary, Heavier chill than the winter’s doth fall. At yon clear window, light-opened before me, Glances the face I have worshipped so well: There’s the fine gentleman, grand in his glory; There, the fair smile by whose sweetness I fell. This is akin to him, shunned and forsaken, That at my bosom sobs low, without bread; Had not such pleading my marble heart shaken, I had been quiet, long since, with the dead. Oh! Could I enter there, ghastly and squalid, Stand in men’s eyes with my spirit o’erborne, Show them where roses bloomed, crushed now and pallid, What he found innocent, leaving forlorn,— How the fair ladies would fail from their dances, Trembling, aghast at my horrible tale! How would he shrink from my words and my glances! How would they shrink from him, swooning and pale! This is the hair that was soft to enchain him; Snakelike, it snarls on my beautiless brow: These are the hands that were fond to detain him With a sense-magic then, powerless now! No: could I come, like a ghost, to affright him, How should that heal my wound, silence my pain? Had I the wrath of God’s lightning to smite him, That could not bring me my lost peace again. Ne’er let him grieve while good fortunes betide him, Ne’er count again the poor game lost of old; When he comes forth, with his young bride beside him, Here shall they find us both, dead in the cold.

I will build a house of rest, Square the corners every one: At each angle on his breast Shall a cherub take the sun; Rising, risen, sinking, down, Weaving day’s unequal crown. In the chambers, light as air, Shall responsive footsteps fall: Brother, sister, art thou there? Hush! we need not jar nor call; Need not turn to seek the face Shut in rapture’s hiding-place. Heavy load and mocking care Shall from back and bosom part; Thought shall reach the thrill of prayer, Patience plan the dome of art. None shall praise or merit claim, Not a joy be called by name. With a free, unmeasured tread Shall we pace the cloisters through: Rest, enfranchised, like the Dead; Rest till Love be born anew. Weary Thought shall take his time, Free of task-work, loosed from rhyme. No reproof shall grieve or chill; Every sin doth stand confest; None need murmur, ‘This was ill’: Therefore do they grant us rest; Contemplation making whole Every ruin of the soul. Pictures shall as softly look As in distance shows delight; Slowly shall each saintly book Turn its pages in our sight; Not the study’s wealth confuse, Urging zeal to pale abuse. Children through the windows peep, Not reproachful, though our own; Hushed the parent passion deep, And the household’s eager tone. One above, divine and true, Makes us children like to you. Measured bread shall build us up At the hospitable board; In Contentment’s golden cup Is the guileless liquor poured. May the beggar pledge the king In that spirit gathering, Oh! my house is far away; Yet it sometimes shuts me in. Imperfection mars each day While the perfect works begin. In the house of labor best Can I build the house of rest.

What is thy thought of me? What is thy feeling? Lov'st thou the veil of sense, Or its revealing? Leav'st thou the maiden rose Drooping and blushing, Or rend'st its bosom with Kissing and crushing? I would be beautiful That thou should'st woo me, Gentle, delightsome, but To draw thee to me. Yet should thy longing eye Ever caress me, And quickened Fantasy Only, possess me, Thus thy heart's highest need Long would I cherish, Lest its more trivial wish Pall, and then perish. Would that Love's fond pursuit Were crownèd never, Or that his virgin kiss Lasted for ever!

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His Day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on.” He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.