WE cannot sing of life, whose years are brief,

      Nor sad heart-stories tell, who know no grief,

      Nor write of shipwrecks on the seas of Fate,

      Whose ship from out the harbor sailed but late.

      But we may sing of fair and sunny days,

      Of Love that walks in peace through quiet ways;

      And unto him who turns the page to see

      Our simple story, haply it may be

      As when in some mild day in early spring,

      One through the budding woods goes wandering;

      And finds, where late the snow has blown across,

      Beneath the leaves, a violet in the moss.

      NOW I can sing of life, whose days are brief,

      For I have walked close hand in hand with grief.

      And I may tell of shipwrecked hopes, since mine

      Sank just outside the happy harbor line.

      But still my song is of those sunny days

      When Love was with me in those quiet ways.

      And unto him who turns the page to see

      That day's short story, haply it may be,

      The joy of those old memories he feels:

      As one who through the wintry twilight steals,

      And sees, across the chilly wastes of snow,

      The darkened sunset's rosy afterglow.

      WHENCE came the ember

      That touched our young souls' candles first with light;

      In shadowy years, too distant to remember,

      Where childhood merges backward into night?

      I know not, but the halo of those tapers

      Has ever since around all nature shone;

      And we have looked at life through golden vapors

      Because of that one ember touch alone.

      THOSE, who have heard the whispered breath

      Of Nature's secret "Shibboleth,"

      And learned the pass-word to unroll

      The veil that hides her inmost soul,

      May follow; but this by-path leads

      Through mullein stalks and jimson-weeds.

      And he who scorning treads them down

      Would deem but poor and common-place

      Those whom he'll meet in homespun gown.

      But they who lovingly retrace

      Their steps to scenes I dream about,

      Will find the latch-string hanging out.

      With them I claim companionship,

      And for them burn my tallow-dip,

      At early candle-lighting.

      To these low hills, around which cling

      My fondest thoughts, I would not bring

      An alien eye long used to sights

      Among the snow-crowned Alpine heights.

      An eagle does not bend its wing

      To low-built nests where robins sing.

      Between the fence's zigzag rails,

      The stranger sees the road that trails

      Its winding way into the dark,

      Fern-scented woods. He does not mark

      The old log cabin at the end

      As I, or hail it as a friend,

      Or catch, when daylight's last rays wane,

      The glimmer through its narrow pane

      Of early candle-lighting.

      As anglers sit and half in dream

      Dip lazy lines into the stream,

      And watch the swimming life below,

      So I watch pictures come and go.

      And in the flame, Alladin-wise,

      See genii of the past arise.

      If it be so that common things

      Can fledge your fancy with fast wings;

      If you the language can translate

      Of lowly life, and make it great,

      And can the beauty understand

      That dignifies a toil-worn hand,

      Look in this halo, and see how

      The homely seems transfigured now

      At early candle-lighting.

      A fire-place where the great logs roar

      And shine across the puncheon floor,

      And through the chinked walls, here and there,

      The snow steals, and the frosty air.

      Meager and bare the furnishings,

      But hospitality that kings

      Might well dispense, transmutes to gold,

      The welcome given young and old.

      Plain and uncouth in speech and dress,

      But richly clad in kindliness,

      The neighbors gather, one by one,

      At rustic rout when day is done.

      Vanish all else in this soft light, —

      The past is ours again tonight;

      'Tis early candle-lighting.

      Oh, well-remembered scenes like these:

      The candy-pullings, husking-bees —

      The evenings when the quilting frames

      Were laid aside for romping games;

      The singing school! The spelling match!

      My hand still lingers on the latch,

      I fain would wider swing the door

      And enter with the guests once more.

      Though into ashes long ago

      That fire faded, still the glow

      That warmed the hearts around it met,

      Immortal, burns within me yet.

      Still to that cabin in the wood

      I turn for highest types of good

      At early candle-lighting.

      How fast the scenes come flocking to

      My mind, as white sheep jostle through

      The gap, when pasture bars are down,

      And pass into the twilight brown.

      Grandmother's face and snowy cap,

      The knitting work upon her lap,

      The creaking, high-backed rocking-chair;

      The spinning-wheel, the big loom where

      The shuttle carried song and thread;

      The