The heart of God through his creation stirs, We thrill to feel it, trembling as the flowers That die to live again, his messengers, To keep faith firm in these sad souls of ours. The waves of Time may devastate our lives, The frosts of age may check our failing breath, They shall not touch the spirit that survives Triumphant over doubt and pain and death.
"Rockweeds" in The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 21 (March 1868), p. 269.
The summer day was spoiled with fitful storm; At night the wind died and the soft rain dropped; With lulling murmur, and the air was warm, And all the tumult and the trouble stopped.Celia Thaxter
Already the dandelions Are changed into vanishing ghosts.Celia Thaxter
O brief, bright smile of summer! O days divine and dear The voices of winter's sorrow Already we can hear. And we know that the frosts will find us, And the smiling skies grow rude, While we look in the face of Beauty, And worship her every mood.Celia Thaxter
Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sand-piper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit. The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.Celia Thaxter
Dear little head, that lies in calm content Within the gracious hollow that God made In every human shoulder, where He meant Some tired head for comfort should be laid.Celia Thaxter
Graceful , tossing plume of glowing gold, Waving lonely on the rocky ledge; Leaning seaward, lovely to behold, Clinging to the high cliff's ragged edge.Celia Thaxter
Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sand-piper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered drift-wood, bleached and dry, The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sand-piper and I.Celia Thaxter
There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.Celia Thaxter
The barren island dreams in flowers, while blow The south winds, drawing haze o'er sea and land; Yet the great heart of ocean, throbbing slow, Makes the frail blossoms vibrate where they stand; And hints of heavier pulses soon to shake Its mighty breast when summer is no more, And devastating waves sweep on and break, And clasp with girdle white the iron shore.Celia Thaxter