Part 3 (1/2)

The earth grows white with harvest; all day long The sickles gleam, until the darkness weaves Her web of silence o'er the thankful song Of reapers bringing home the golden sheaves.

The wave tops whiten on the sea fields drear, And men go forth at haggard dawn to reap; But ever 'mid the gleaners' song we hear The half-hushed sobbing of the hearts that weep.

The Dying of Pere Pierre

”... with two other priests; the same night he died, and was buried by the sh.o.r.es of the lake that bears his name.”

Chronicle.

”Nay, grieve not that ye can no honour give To these poor bones that presently must be But carrion; since I have sought to live Upon G.o.d's earth, as He hath guided me, I shall not lack! Where would ye have me lie?

High heaven is higher than cathedral nave: Do men paint chancels fairer than the sky?”

Beside the darkened lake they made his grave, Below the altar of the hills; and night Swung incense clouds of mist in creeping lines That twisted through the tree-trunks, where the light Groped through the arches of the silent pines: And he, beside the lonely path he trod, Lay, tombed in splendour, in the House of G.o.d.

Eventide

The day is past and the toilers cease; The land grows dim 'mid the shadows grey, And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace At the close of day.

Each weary toiler, with lingering pace, As he homeward turns, with the long day done, Looks out to the west, with the light on his face Of the setting sun.

Yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes) The promise of rest in the fading light; But the clouds loom dark in the angry skies At the fall of night.

And some see only a golden sky Where the elms their welcoming arms stretch wide To the calling rooks, as they homeward fly At the eventide.

It speaks of peace that comes after strife, Of the rest He sends to the hearts He tried, Of the calm that follows the stormiest life -- G.o.d's eventide.

Upon Watts' Picture ”Sic Transit”

_”What I spent I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have.”_

But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life, The waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears, The clash of sword and harness, and the madness of the strife; To-night begin the silence and the peace of endless years.

(One sings within.)

But yesterday the glory and the prize, And best of all, to lay it at her feet, To find my guerdon in her speaking eyes: I grudge them not, -- they pa.s.s, albeit sweet.

The ring of spears, the winning of the fight, The careless song, the cup, the love of friends, The earth in spring -- to live, to feel the light -- 'Twas good the while it lasted: here it ends.