To ----- Poem by Annie Adams Fields

AFAR! afar! the rosy sails are far,
And far sound all the voices of the world;
Tenderly hither bends the evening star,
And with an uttered hush the waves are curled;
Thy loneliness hath thrown a viewless bar
Across thy life, as when a storm has hurled
The mountain downward, and the shepherd's track
Is lost, and wearily he wanders back.

Must thou then wander while the years decay
And carry with them hopes that feed the soul?
'T was here the little loves were wont to stray;
Now they have vanished with their laughter droll;
They elsewhere music heard and ran away
Beyond the desert and the greening knoll;
Sweet was their presence, but they pined and fled
Where music, dance, and feasting are not dead.

Dead they are not! earth's gladness cannot die
While still live human hearts who seek to find
Each other, longing to pour forth the sigh
That broods within the breast of all mankind;
Nor while the clouded days go slowly by
And many-handed cares our spirits bind,
Till suddenly Love vanishes and alone
We dwell and listen to his echo, not his tone.

Knowledge by suffering entereth; therefore ye,
Who have lost all, alone can know how dear
The voice which in the silence speaks to me,
Bidding depart the shuddering face of fear.
Companion in earth's grief! the evening sea
Is calmer now for us, the sky more clear;
Over these rosy waves the voice divine
Cries, Comfort ye! this beauty all is Mine!

Mine are the painted petals and the hues
That shine in all things; Mine the power that fills
This empty vessel of the world; the dews
Freshening the grass; the awful flood that spills
From the mountain-top: my messengers infuse
Color and speech in all; and Nature wills
Through gladness of her beauty thus to bring
Man home, where all the fountains of desire spring.

Turn then, and find the consolations borne
In on the lonely spirit from the fields
That fade and die, their loveliness outworn.
Would I could tell the harvest autumn yields!
O ye who sorrow! stand not now forlorn
As envious archers must, deprived of shields!
Ye are the blessëd ones! the heavens rain down
On your sad hearts a joy till now unknown.

Alone indeed ye are, and so must stand:
The desert places will not bloom again;
The frost of winter covers all the land
The air is only laden with one strain;
The blossoming pastures are now swept with sand,
And everywhere we bear a cry of pain;
Listen! the Word saith: All shall die save thou,
Spirit, who liveth in the Eternal Now.