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Like the purple lightning playing with the stars in yon blue
sky; — Things we love, because they tell us of the loving heart
within, Feelings of the inmost fountain far beyond the touch of
These, they say, are human frailties, frailties born of sense
But will be no more remember'd when we reach our native
There, they say, we all are one, and none can love thee
least or best, But as brethren all are equal through the myriads of the
It may be an idle question - be my wayward heart for
given How earth's love shall wear the gorgeous bright apparelling
of heaven. It may be we are too venturous, for the light is faint and
dim, And but little knows the pilgrim of the life of seraphim. Yet I love to think, mine own one, I shall love thee there
Best of all created beings, best of all that angel sphere. Read we not of earth the seed-time for the glorious world
Faith receiving there her guerdon, sin her saddest dreariest
Have not all the things of lifetime issues infinite above? And shall love reap there no harvest of the scatter'd seeds
What if now we steep affection oft in weeping, oft in
sighs, – They who sow in tears, beloved, reap the rapture of the
True that we can tell but little how the full flood-tide of
Swells from out a thousand rivulets in a thousand hearts
True we know not now the rapture, nor a thousandth thou
Seeing Him we loved unseen, and face to face and heart to
heart, Not a cloud to dim that sunshine, there no sorrow, no alarms, But around thee and beneath thee spread the Everlasting There untravell’d worlds of beauty slow unfolding on our
sight, Spann'd by heaven's eternal rainbow, interwoven love and
light. But those glories none may utter : how should I then tell it
For how faint and far the glimmerings of the waves of
heaven's Light-sea! Yet, mine own one, tell me truly, think’st thou we shall love
the less ?
Will that ocean whelm the fountains of thine own true
Hark, thy beating heart makes answer in its old familiar
tone, “All thine own on earth, beloved, and in glory all thine TO MY SISTER, ON THE EVE OF HER
Thou art leaving the home of thy childhood,
Sweet sister mine :
Is the song of the bird of the wild wood
Faint and far as thine ?
Listless stray thy fingers through the chords,
What wilt thou for the young glad voices
A father's smile benign,
Sweet sister mine?
Lay thy hand upon thy mouth, brother,
Lay thy hand upon thy mouth ;
Were perhaps too much for truth.
Be when home is in our heart:
Grieving — yes, ’tis grief, if grieving
Be for those who cannot part.
may lengthen, but it cannot sever, For, brother, it was twined — and twined for ever.
Sister, touch again thy passionate lute -
chide no more : Sooner far
voice were ever mute,
But I grieve for hours gone by,