The Ring of Amethyst

								

Had made me wonder what fate should befall
My first faint singing; now I cannot call

    The singing mine; I gave it him who came

    To place my joy where no harsh touch can maim
Its safe, secure, bright beauty. Like a wall

    Of strong defence to me this blessedness:
That of his love I am so proudly sure,

    Though the whole world should bend to my success,
I think he could not love me any more!
And though the whole world say my book is poor,

    I know he will not love me any less!

JOY.

  My heart was like a flower once,

    That from its jewel-tinted cup
The generous fragrance of its joy

    To all the world sent floating up.
But now ’tis like a humming-bird,

    That in the cup his bright wing dips,
And with most dainty selfishness

    Himself the choicest honey sips,

    With eager, thirsty, longing lips!


And once my heart was like a gem,

    Set in a fair betrothal ring;
Content to light the happy darks

    That shield love’s shy self-wondering.
But now I think my heart is like

    The lady fair who wears the ring;
Pressed closely to her lips at night

    With love’s mysterious wondering

    That hers should be the precious thing!


And once my heart was like a nest,

    Where singing-birds have made their home;
Set where the apple-boughs in bloom

    Fleck the blue air with flower-foam.
But now it is itself a bird;

    And if it does not always sing,
The Heavenly Father knows what thoughts,--

    Too strangely sweet for uttering,--

    Stir faintly underneath its wing!

PAIN.

  My heart was once a folded flower,

    Within whose jewel-tinted cup,--
Still hidden even from itself,--

    A wealth of joy is treasured up.
But now my heart is like a flower

    From which a dainty humming-bird
Has rifled all the choicest sweets,

    And left without one last fond word

    The flower-soul so deeply stirred.


And once my heart was like a gem,

    Set in a rich betrothal ring;
Unconscious in its darkened case

    How fair it lies there glittering.
But now I think my heart is like

    The lady who has worn the ring,
And draws it from her finger slight

    With love’s bewildered wondering

    That love should be a poor bruised thing.


And once my heart was like a nest,

    High in the apple branches hung;
Where in the early April dew

    No happy birds have ever sung.
Now ’tis itself a wounded bird;

    And though sometimes you hear it sing,
The Heavenly Father knows what pain

    It tries to hide by uttering

    The same sweet notes it used to sing.

A STUDY.

  I think, indeed, ’twas only this that made
Her seem peculiar: namely, she had no
Peculiarity. The world to-day
Is disappointed if we are not odd,
And hold decided views on some one point,
Or else unsettled views on all. But she
Was living simply what she wished to live: