- O Death, the Consecrator!
- Nothing so sanctifies a name
- As to be written--Dead.
- Nothing so wins a life from blame,
- So covers it from wrath and shame,
- As doth the burial-bed.
CAROLINE SPENCER, "Death the Consecrator"
Joy is good--the angel's food.
CAROLINE SPENCER, "The Old Is Better"
- The poor know well what wealth can do--
- The rich their happiest chances miss;
- We sit too close to grasp the view,
- Or stand too far to feel the bliss.
CAROLINE SPENCER, "Outside"
- And unto them too, souls are born,
- Those wondrous things, so slowly wrought,
- That breathes a subtler thing in air,
- And daily at the altar fare
- Upon the living bread of thought.
CAROLINE SPENCER, "Humanity"
- A heart is that which opens
- To trouble's thousand ways;
- An unseen arrow wounds it,
- To halt through all its days.
- An evil eye may scatter blight,
- A flitting mite may sting;
- No wonder that a heartache
- Is such a common thing!
CAROLINE SPENCER, "Heartache"
- That life is brief hath seemed a piteous thing
- Since the first mortal watched it glide away.
- And sad it is that flowers have but one day,
- And sad that birds have little time to sing;
- That joy is fleeting as the bloom of Spring;
- That youth so soon is startled from its play,
- And manhood from its labor, to essay
- The old vain struggle with the shadowy King.
- But sadder far it is that life is long;
- Ay, long enough for bliss to turn to bale,
- For innocence to lose the dread of wrong,
- For hearts to harden, love itself to fail;
- And faith be wearied out (O, sad and strange!)
- Unless Death save us from the deathly change.
- Joy's the shyest bird
- Mortal ever heard;
- Listen rapt and silent while he sings;
- Do not seek to see,
- Less the vision be
- But a flutter of departing wings.
CAROLINE SPENCER, "A Strange Singer"
- What are the days but islands,
- So many little islands,
- And sleep the sea of silence,
- That flows about them all?
CAROLINE SPENCER, "Cruising"
- To find love round your ways,
- A shield in evil days;
- A robe that keeps you warm,
- As ermine, from the storm;
- To wear it as a jewel-flame,
- A cross of honor, with a royal name;
- To sit a queen, unmoved
- By want or grief--this is to be beloved.
CAROLINE SPENCER, "The Difference"
Each for himself creates the world in which he dwells.
CAROLINE SPENCER, "Half-Heard"
- Time puts out all other flames
- But the glory of his eyes;
- His are all the sacred names,
- His the solemn mysteries.
- Crown him! In his darkest day,
- He has heaven to give away!
CAROLINE SPENCER, "The Royal Name"
- Where sorrow lieth buried
- The greenest herbage springs.
CAROLINE SPENCER, "Afterward"
Fairer than all fancies is the truth.
CAROLINE SPENCER, "A Vigil"