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Poems from Florence Earle Coates

Song : "Friendship from its Moorings Strays"

Friendship from its moorings strays,
Love binds fast together;
Friendship is for balmy days,
Love for stormy weather.

For itself the one contends,
Fancied wrongs regretting—
Love the thing it loves defends,
All besides forgetting.

Friendship is the morning lark
Toward the sunrise winging,
Love the nightingale, at dark
Most divinely singing!

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Stanza : "The Voices of All Waters"

The voices of all waters that make moan—
Loudly upbraiding the impassive sky,
Have not the meaning of one human groan,
Have not the pathos of one human sigh;
And neither that blithe strain whereby
The brook doth wintry doubts destroy,
Nor that pure rhapsody the woodland sings,
When Summer to its heart contentment brings,—
Breathes unto Heaven such praise as human joy!

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Love Conquers Death

Love conquers Death by night and day,
Beguiles him long of his destined prey;
And when, at last, that seems to perish
Which he hath striven still to cherish,
Love plucks the soul from the fallen clay.

Death is not master, but Love's slave:
He smites the timid and the brave;
Yet as he fares, with sweet low laughter,
Love, the sower, follows after,
Scattering seed in each new-made grave!

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Rejected

The World denies her prophets with rash breath,
Makes rich her slaves, her flatterers adorns;
To wisdom's lips she presses drowsy death,
And on the brow Divine a crown of thorns.
Yet blessèd, though neglected and despised—
Who for the World himself hath sacrificed,
Who hears unmoved her witless mockery,
While to his spirit, slighted and misprized,
Whisper the voices of Eternity!

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Love Sailed at Morn

Love sailed at morn in a fragile bark,
With broidered pennants flying:
His skies with sudden storm grew dark,
Yet gallant Love, with courage gay,
Rode jocund on his conquering way,
The winds and the waves defying.

But when, all peril overpast,
In tranquil harbor lying,
He felt no more the billowing blast
Oppose his sails, Love, joy-becalmed,
Each foe subdued, each effort balmed,
Without a wound, lay dying.

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Song : "If Love Were Not"

If love were not, the wilding rose
Would in its leafy heart inclose
No chalice of perfume;

By mossy bank, in glen, or grot,
No bird would build, if love were not,
No flower complacent bloom.

The sunset clouds would lose their dyes,
The light would fade from beauty's eyes,
The stars their fires consume,

And something missed from hall and cot
Would leave the world, if love were not,
A wilderness of gloom!

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Rhapsody

As the mother-bird to the waiting nest,
As the regnant moon to the sea,
As joy to the heart that hath first been blest—
So is my love to me!

Sweet as the song of the lark that soars
From the net of the fowler free,
Sweet as the morning that song adores—
So is my love to me!

As the rose that blossoms in matchless grace
Where the canker may not be,
As the well that springs in a desert place—
So is my love to me!

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October

Sweet are the woodland notes
That gush melodious at morn from palpitating throats,
In anthems fresh as dew! Ay, they are sweet!
But from that dim retreat
Where Evening muses through the pensive hours,
There sometimes floats along
A more appealing song.
So, love, thy voice breathes a diviner music in the chill
Of autumn, when the glen is still
And Flora's gold all tarnished on the hill,
Than in the time when merry May calls forth her bashful flowers.

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In April

When beeches bud and lilacs blow,
And Earth puts on her magic green;
When dogwoods bear their vernal snow
And skies grow deep the stars between,—
Then, O ye birds! awake and sing
The gladness at the heart of Spring!

When flowers blossom for the poor,
And Nature heals the hurt of years,
When wondering Love resists the cure,
Yet hopes again, and smiles through tears,—
Then, O ye birds! awake and sing
The gladness at the heart of Spring!

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Pilgrimage

Wanderer from a fading strand
Unto shadowy shores unknown,
Thou whose sails are onward fanned
By flattering breezes,—hast thou planned
All thy course alone?

Canst thou tell, now clouds begin
To gather in thy path of day,
To what harbor thou shalt win,
As the long night closes in
On a wilder way?

Pilgrim, no: I cannot tell.
Strange my course, and stormy woes
And darkness may obscure its close;
Yet I feel that all is well,
For my Pilot knows!

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