If only—love were not poured out to waste, If only—discord spared sweet music’s closes, If only—blight and canker did not haste To mar the lily’s white, the stainless roses!
If only—sentinels beside the ways, Death, suffering, and sin stood not to daunt us, If shadows from the vanished yesterdays And fears for the to-morrows did not haunt us.
If only!—human grief unceasingly Repeats in myriad tongues the wistful sighing. Mighty and mournful is the mingled cry, But never comes there any full replying,
Except when, o’er the tumult and the pain, Above the upraised, questioning, tear-stained faces, We catch at times a half heard, answering strain, An antiphone from the high, heavenly places.
“If only, Lord,” the happy voices sing, “If only—we have Thee, who faileth never, Nor life, nor death, nor any other thing Can hurt our joy forever and forever.
“If men could know how quickly pain is spent, What compensations heaven has in keeping, What home means after earth’s bleak banishment, If only—they would smile instead of weeping.”
Sing louder, radiant host, wake our dull ears, Till, though the path be hard and the day lonely, We, too, shall answer through the mists of tears, “If only—we have Thee, Lord, have Thee only.”
A FEW notes, half harmonious And half discordant, subtly blent, The master sounds and touches, thus To test and try his instrument.
Not music’s self, but its presage; Not tune, but hint of tune it is; Of better things the pledge and gage, And prized for what it promises.
Just so the sweet musician, Spring, ’Mid blowing winds and dropping rains, Tightens and sounds each vagrant string, In odd, capricious, sudden strains.
It is not music she essays, But just a hint of what shall be When earth and sky and nights and days Join in the summer harmony.
And do we dream, or is it true, The grass so brown but yester-morn Has caught a subtly greener hue In sheltered corners of the lawn?
Can there be buds upon the hedge— Wee, starry pointlets half unrolled? And were we blind to read the pledge Written in the willow’s pencilled gold?
And is it fancy that there breathes A vagrant perfume in the air, A scent of freshly opened leaves? There are no leaves yet anywhere.
Ah, dear Spring, stay thy flying feet; Try all thy chords; play leisurely; Though if thy preludes are so sweet What will the finished music be?