JOHN JAMES PIATT. READING THE MILESTONE. I STOPPED to read the milestone here, A finger, westward, cut in stone: Across the dust and distance shown. Around me lay the farms asleep In hazes of autumnal air, I read the milestone, day by day: Below, a violet in the dew THE GOLDEN HAND. Lo, from the city's heat and dust I see it when the morning brings Breathed through the dark its And the great world awakes: behold, That lifted hand in morning gold! vague perfume; Above, a star in quiet blue I see it when the noontide beats Touched with a gracious ray the Pulses of fire in busy streets; gloom. "Sing, friend, of me," the violet sighed, "That I may haunt your grave with love;' "Sing, friend, of me," the star replied, "That I may light the dark above." THE SIGHT OF ANGELS. THE angels come, the angels go, Through open doors of purer air; The dust flies in the flaming air: To the dark earth with hovering Good-night, then, lost darlings of It is nothing to see one's own tears mine It is nothing to hear one's own I heart beat, The sun will set. pray you think how warm and sweet The heart can beat; pray you think how soon the rose From grave-dust grows. The Pilgrim exile sainted name! The hill, whose icy brow there. I walk my parlor floor, And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair, Rejoiced, when he came, in the morn- And then bethink me that he is ing's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hill-side and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head; But the Pilgrim - where is he? The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest: When summer is throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day, On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last. not there: I thread the crowded street, With the same beaming eyes and col ored hair: And, as he 's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there! I know his face is hid Closed are his eyes: cold is his forehead fair; My hand that marble felt: Yet my heart whispers that he is not there. |