Part 2 (1/2)

Ah, little eyes Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago, That life's storm crushed and left to lie below The benediction of the falling snow!

Sleep, little heart That ceased so long ago its frantic beat!

The years that come and go with silent feet Have naught to tell save this -- that rest is sweet.

Dear little heart.

The Oldest Drama

_”It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers.

And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad, Carry him to his mother. And ... he sat on her knees till noon, and then died. And she went up, and laid him on the bed... .

And shut the door upon him and went out.”_

Immortal story that no mother's heart Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting pain That rent her soul! Immortal not by art Which makes a long past sorrow sting again

Like grief of yesterday: but since it said In simplest word the truth which all may see, Where any mother sobs above her dead And plays anew the silent tragedy.

Recompense

I saw two sowers in Life's field at morn, To whom came one in angel guise and said, ”Is it for labour that a man is born?

Lo: I am Ease. Come ye and eat my bread!”

Then gladly one forsook his task undone And with the Tempter went his slothful way, The other toiled until the setting sun With stealing shadows blurred the dusty day.

Ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast Each laid him down among the unreaping dead.

”Labour hath other recompense than rest, Else were the toiler like the fool,” I said; ”G.o.d meteth him not less, but rather more Because he sowed and others reaped his store.”

Mine Host

There stands a hostel by a travelled way; Life is the road and Death the worthy host; Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say, ”How have ye fared?” They answer him, the most, ”This lodging place is other than we sought; We had intended farther, but the gloom Came on apace, and found us ere we thought: Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant room.”

Within sit haggard men that speak no word, No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed; No voice of fellows.h.i.+p or strife is heard But silence of a mult.i.tude of dead.