Circles
Nature centres into balls,
And her proud ephemerals,
Fast to surface and outside,
Scan the profile of the sphere;
Knew they what that signified,
A new genesis were here.
Intellect
Go, speed the stars of Thought
On to their shining goals;—
The sower scatters broad his seed;
The wheat thou strew’st be souls.
Gifts
Gifts of one who loved me,—
’T was high time they came;
When he ceased to love me,
Time they stopped for shame.
Promise
In countless upward-striving waves
The moon-drawn tide-wave strives;
In thousand far-transplanted grafts
The parent fruit survives;
So, in the new-born millions,
The perfect Adam lives.
Not less are summer mornings dear
To every child they wake,
And each with novel life his sphere
Fills for his proper sake.