Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/482

454 A little longer left for human joy;

To win and lose,—man's masterful employ,—

To dream and ponder.

A little longer! But, O, sweeter this

Than any lesser grace or lowlier bliss

In earth's wide blindness:

A little longer left for lifting hearts,

Healing hurt souls, for earth's most heavenly arts—

For love and kindness.

THE SINGING RIVER

THE SOLACE OF THE SKIES

fell the first great sorrow of my life,—

He dying from whom my mortal frame was drawn,—

Into the night I fled, long ere the dawn,

Succor to bring for her, the stricken wife.