Sing too, little bird, what my heart sings to-day.

      Dost thou know? —

      I'll speak low —

      "Oh, I do love him so."

      Hold safe, waving grass, in thy rhythmical flow,

      What I say,

      Till the day

      When as sweet new-mown hay

      Thou can'st bear it to him in the fragrance loved best.

      Thou dost fear? —

      Oh, love dear,

      How I wish thou wert here!

      But pause, little cloud, thou canst carry it now,

      I am sure,

      Sweet and pure,

      Though the winds do allure;

      For thou art on the way to the west where he is.

      But dost know? —

      Tell him low,

      "That I do love him so,

      Oh! I do love him so."

      God's love was once enough

      My heart to satisfy,

      When in the days of childhood's faith

      I knew not doubt or sigh.

      But since I saw Roy's face,

      And knew his love's sweet cheer,

      And felt the anguish and despair

      Which come from partings here,

      So hungry have I grown

      No love can satisfy,

      And all my childhood's faith in God

      Doth mock me as a lie.

      But still in these dark hours

      I hold one anchor fast:

      Perhaps this is the woman's way

      To reach God's love at last.

      The deepening years have proved

      Love's conquest justified.

      The woman's hungry heart at last

      In God is satisfied.

      Has Love come?

      Ah, too late!

      Already Death stands o'er me

      With hungry eyes that bore me —

      O cruel fate,

      That after all life's years

      Of sacrifice and tears,

      'Tis Death, not Love, that wins.

      But, stay! This message bear,

      Ere yet Death's work begins:

      "In other realms earth's losses

      Will change from saddening crosses

      To love-crowned joy,

      Where Death shall have no mission,

      But Love his sweet fruition

      Without alloy."

      'Twas much he asked – a virgin heart

      Unknown to worldly ways.

      What could he give? Ah, well he knew

      He lacked sweet virtue's praise.

      The virgin heart was given to him

      Without a doubting thought,

      When, lo! through seeming sacrifice

      A miracle was wrought;

      A miracle of love and grace,

      Revealing woman's power;

      For, clothed in purity, he rose

      To meet the coming hour.

      Last night the ocean's moan

      Was to my ears

      The deep sad undertone

      Of vanished years,

      Bearing a burden,

      A bliss unattained,

      A strife and a longing,

      A life sad and pained,

      To the shores vast and free

      Of eternity's sea.

      But in that undertone

      Of restless pain,

      Came at length a monotone

      Of sweet refrain,

      Bearing a passion

      Long known to the sea —

      Told in moments of silence

      A sad heart to free —

      To be borne me some day

      In the ocean's own way.

      And this rare monotone

      Of mystery

      Was now that passion-moan

      Of secrecy,

      Bearing, "I love her,

      My moaning ne'er'll cease

      Till she on my breast

      Findeth love's perfect peace;

      Till she on my breast

      Findeth love's perfect rest."

      Oh, is there tenderer tone

      For mortal ear,

      Than such a monotone,

      Distinct and clear,

      Bearing its comfort,

      Its heavenly peace,

      Its help for all sorrow,

      Its heart-pain release,

      To a soul waiting long

      For love's tender, true song?

      And now the ocean's moan

      Is to my ears

      The dearest undertone

      Of all the years,

      Bearing a memory,

      A sweet bliss attained,

      A gratified longing,

      A life's joys regained,

      To the shores vast and free

      Of eternity's sea.

      Love's sweet and tender flower

      Of pure, perennial life,

      Blooms ever fresh in power

      O'er all earth's wrong and strife.

      Pluck not in haste, young man,

      This flower of wondrous hue,

      Nor