Part 7 (1/2)

Turn me away from the ashen west, Where love's sad planet unveils to the dusk.

Something is stealing like light from my breast-- Soul from its husk ...

Soft!... Where the dead feel the buried dead, Where the high hermit-bell hourly tolls, Bury me, near to the haunting tread Of life that o'errolls.

THE OUTCAST

I did not fear, But crept close up to Christ and said, ”Is he not here?”

They drew me back-- The seraphs who had never bled Of weary lack--

But still I cried, With torn robe, clutching at His feet, ”Dear Christ! He died

”So long ago!

Is he not here? Three days, unfleet As mortal flow

”Of time I've sought-- Till Heaven's amaranthine ways Seem as sere nought!”

A grieving stole Up from His heart and waned the gaze Of His clear soul

Into my eyes.

”He is not here,” troubled He sighed.

”For none who dies

”Beliefless may Bend lips to this sin-healing Tide, And live alway.”

Then darkness rose Within me, and drear bitterness.

Out of its throes

I moaned, at last, ”Let me go hence! Take off the dress, The charms Thou hast

”Around me strown!

Beliefless too am I without His love--and lone!”

Unto the Gate They led me, tho' with pitying doubt.

I did not wait

But stepped across Its portal, turned not once to heed Or know my loss.

Then my dream broke, And with it every loveless creed-- Beneath love's stroke.

APRIL

A laughter of wind and a leaping of cloud, And April, oh, out under the blue!