Part 8 (2/2)

And the ocean of man's existence,-- The surges of toil and care, Shall break and die in the distance, But never reach me there.

And yet--I fancy it often-- I should stir in my shrouded sleep, And struggle to rise in my coffin, If he came there to weep.

Among the dead--or the angels-- Though ever so faint and dim, I should know that voice in a thousand, And stretch my hands to him.

But the trouble of life and living, And the burden of daily care, And the endless sin, and forgiving, Are greater than I can bear.

So rain, Summer Rain, and cover The meadows dewy and deep, And freshen the blossoming clover, And sing me to dreamless sleep.

A BABY'S DEATH

A little white soul went up to G.o.d, Out of the mire of the city street; It grew like a flower in the highway broad, Close to the trample of heedless feet.

It fell like a snow-flake over night, Into the ways by vile ones trod; It sparkled--dissolved in the morning light, And the little white soul went up to G.o.d.

Dainty, flower-soft, waxen thing, Its clear eyes opened on this bad earth, And the little shuddering soul took wing, By the gate of death, from the gate of birth.

Not for those innocent lips and eyes, The words and the ways of sin and strife; The pure flower opened in paradise, Fast by the banks of the river of life.

Yea, little victors, who never fought; And crowned, though ye never ran the race, His blood your innocent lives hath bought, And ye stand before Him and see His face!

For this, oh Father! we give Thee thanks, By the little graves, and the tear-wet sod, They stand before Thee in s.h.i.+ning ranks, And the little white souls are safe with G.o.d!

CHRISTMAS

The birth day of the Christ child dawneth slow Out of the opal east in rosy flame, As if a luminous picture in its frame-- A great cathedral window, toward the sun Lifted a form divine, which still below Stretched hands of benediction;--while the air Swayed the bright aureole of the flowing hair Which lit our upturned faces;--even so Look on us from the heavens, divinest One And let us hear through the slow moving years.

Long centuries of wrongs, and crimes, and tears,-- The echo of the angel's song again, Peace and good will, good will and peace to men, A little s.p.a.ce make silence,--that our ears, Filled with the din of toil and moil and pain May catch the jubilant rapture of the skies,-- The glories of the choirs of paradise.

The hills still tremble when the thunders cease Of the loud diapason,--and again Through the rapt stillness steals the hymn of peace; Melodious and sweet its far refrain Dying in distance, as the shadows die Of white wings vanished up the morning sky, As farther still--and thinner--more remote-- A film of sound, the aerial voices float-- Peace and good will, good will and peace to men!

MY GARDEN

Only the commonest flowers Grow in my garden small, Like b.u.t.tercups, and bouncing-bets, And hollyhocks by the wall, And sunflowers nodding their stately heads, Like grenadiers so tall.

But the purple pansy grows beneath-- The sweetest flower of all--

And tiny feathery filmy ferns You scarce can see at all, Fleck the shady side of the stones, So dainty, fine and small

Only the commonest flowers Grow in this garden of mine, The larkspur flaunting her sky-blue cap, And the twinkling celandine Shakes her jewels of freckled gold, And drinks her honey-wine, Making a cup of her lucent stem, So slender and so fine.

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