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Serving New Thought is pleased to present
Three Women
"Evolution is better than Revolution. New Thought Library's New Thought Archives encompass a full range of New Thought media from Abrahamic to Vedic reflecting the ongoing evolution of human thought. New Thought's unique inclusion of science, art and philosophy contrasts with 'old thought' Religion. Today's 'New Thought 3.0' teaches personal responsibility, self-development, human rights and compassionate action as essential spiritual paradigms." ~ Avalon de Rossett
Contents - Preface - a man with the eye - The short-sighted minister - love is like the dawnlight - luscious and fair like a woman of thirty - God grinds His poor people to powder - The flower breathes low to the bee - Mabel grieved for her child - Roger's Letter to Mabel - Songs from the Turret - Better and greater - Ruth's Letter to Maurice, Six Months Later. - Maurice's Letter to Ruth:
SONGS FROM THE TURRET.IX.
I.
In the day my thoughts are tender
When I muse on my ladye fair.
There is never one to offend her,
For each is pure as a prayer.
They float like spirits above her,
About her and always near;
And they scarce dare sigh that they love her,
Because she would blush to hear.
But in dreams my thoughts grow bolder;
And close to my lips of fire,
I reach out my arms and enfold her,
My ladye, my heart's desire.
And she who, in earthly places,
Seems cold as the stars above,
Unmasks in those fair dream spaces
And gives me love for love.
On day, with your thoughts of duty
Cross over the sunset streams,
And give me the night of beauty
And love in the Land of Dreams.
For there in the mystic, shady,
Fair isle of the Slumber Sea,
I read the heart of my ladye
That here she hides from me.
Some day, some beauteous day,II.
Hope, on her harp will play
The old inspiring strain
Some day, some beauteous day.
Through the long hours I say,
"The night must fade and wane,
Sorrow must fly away. "
The morn's bewildering ray
Shall pierce the night of rain,
Some day, some beauteous day.
Autumn shall bloom like May,
Delight shall spring from pain;
Sorrow must fly away.
Though on my life, grief's gray
Bleak shadow long hath lain,
Some day, some beauteous day,
Sorrow must fly away.
When love is lost, the day sets toward the night.III.
No splendor rests on any mountain height,
No scene spreads fair, and beauteous, to the sight.
All, all seems dull and dreary to the eye,
When love is lost.
Love lends to life its grandeur and its might,
Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight.
Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by,
And grief's one happy thought is that we die.
Ah! what can recompense us for its flight,
When love is lost.
Life is a ponderous lesson book, and FateIV.
Cruel the task; and yet it was not vain.
Now the great book of life I know by heart.
In that one lesson of love's loss and pain
Fate doth the whole impart.
For, by the depths of woe, the mind can measure
The beauteous unscaled summits of love's pleasure.
Now, with the book of life upon her knee,
Fate sits! the unread page of love's delight
By her firm hand is half concealed from me,
And half revealed to sight.
Ah Fate! be kind! so well I learned love's sorrow,
Give me its full delight to learn to-morrow.
If I were a rain drop, and you were a leaf,V.
If I were a brown bee, and you were a rose,
I would fly to you, love, nor miss you;
I would sip and sip from your nectared lip,
And kiss you, kiss you, kiss you.
If I were a doe, dear, and you were a brook,
Ah, what would I do then, think you?
I would kneel by your bank, in the grasses dank,
And drink you, drink you, drink you.
Time owes me such a heavy debt,VI.
For dreams that no fruition met,
For joys that passed from bud to blight,
Time owes me such a heavy debt;
How can he ever make things right?
For passions balked, with strain and fret
Of hopes delayed, or perished quite,
For kisses that I did not get
On many a love impelling night,
Time owes me such a heavy debt;
How can he ever make things right?
As the king bird feeds on the heart of the bee,VII.
As the south wind kisses the leaf at will,
From the leaf of thy lips I would drink my fill.
As the sun pries into the heart of a rose,
I would pry in thy heart, and its thoughts disclose.
As a dewdrop mirrors the loving sky,
I would see myself in thy tear wet eye.
As the deep night shelters the day in its arms,
I would hide thee, dear, from the world's alarms.
Now do I know how Paradise doth seem,VIII.
Love is the source of all supreme delight,IX.
Courage needs he who would with bold Love fare,
Let him set forth with all his strength bedight;
Yet in his heart this song to banish care--
"Love is the source of all supreme delight."
And he must sing this song both day and night,
Though he be led down shadowy pathways where
Black waters moan, through valleys struck with blight,
"Love is the bitter fountain of despair."
Let him be brave, and bravely let him dare
Whate'er betide, and feel no coward fright.
Who shares the worst, the best deserves to share;
Who follows Love shall stand upon the height.
Ah! sweet is peace to those who faced the fight,
And bright the crown those faithful ones shall wear,
Who whispered, when the shadows veiled their sight,
"Yet through the darkest depths, Love, too, leads there."
To hearts that best know Love, his dark is fair,
His sorrow gladness, and his wrong is right.
All joys lie waiting on his winding stair;
All ways, all paths of Love lead to the light.
Love is the source.
My ladye's eyes are wishing wells,X.
Three things my ladye seemeth like to me--XI.
And like the delicate fragrance, which exhales,
When Day's warm garments brush the dewy vales.
And when my heart grows weary of earth's sound,
She seems like silence--restful and profound.
The moon flower, grown from a slip so slender,XII.
Again, like a queen, who would rashly spend her
Dower of wealth in a single night,
The proud moon seems, on her track of splendor,
Enriching the world with her silver light.
She flings on the crest of each billow a bright
Pure gem, from the casket of jewels above.
But I sigh as I gaze on the glorious sight,
"This is a night that is lost to love."
Oh, I would that the moon might never wend her
Way through the skies in royal might,
Till the haughty heart of my lady surrender
And the faithful love of a life requite.
For the moon was made for a lover's delight;
And grayer than gloom must its luster prove
To the soul that sighs under sorrow's blight,
"This is a night that is lost to love."
L'Envoi.
Fate, have pity upon my plight,
And the heart of my lady to mercy move.
For the saddest words that youth can write
Are, "This is a night that is lost to love."
As the waves of the outgoing seaXIII.
As the incoming waves of the sea,
The rocks and the sandbar hide,
When your thoughts flow back to me,
My heart leaps up on the tide--
Beloved,
Where my glad hopes ride
With joy at the wheel, and the sun above
In a glorious sky of love.
There was a bard all in the olden time,XIV.
Sweetheart, my soul is heavy now with fear,
Lest thou shalt frown upon me for all time.
Ah! would that I had skill to weave a rhyme
Worthy to win the favor of thine ear.
Tho' all the world were deaf, if thou didst hear
And smile, my song would seem to me sublime.
But ah! too vast, too awful and sublime,
Is my great passion, born of grief and fear,
To clothe in verse. Why, if the world could hear
And understand my love, then for all time,
So long as there was sound or listening ear,
All space would ring and echo with my rhyme.
Such passion seems belittled by a rhyme
It needs the voice of nature. The sublime,
Loud thunder crash, that hurts the startled ear,
And stirs the heart with awe, akin to fear,
The weird, wild winds of equinoctial time;
These voices tell my love, wouldst thou but hear.
And listening at the flood tides, thou might'st hear
The love I bear thee surging through the rhyme
Of breaking billows, many a moon full time.
Why, I have heard thee call the sea sublime,
When every wave but voiced the anguished fear
Of my man's heart to thy unconscious ear.
Vain, then, the hope that thou wilt lend thine ear
To any song of mine, or deign to hear
My lays of longing or my strains of fear.
Vain is the hope to weave for thee a rhyme,
Or sweet or sad, or subtle or sublime,
Which wins thy gracious favor for all time.
Oh, cruel time! my lady will not hear,
Though in her ear love sings a song sublime,
And my sad rhyme ends, like my love, in fear.
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