Part 3 (2/2)

The sky is overcast, The wind wails loud; Grey ghosts go driving past In driving cloud; And, in the beating rain Against the window-pane Dead fingers beat again, Dead faces crowd.

O, grey ghosts, waiting still, My fire burns bright; Without is cold and chill, Here, warm and light.

And would you have me creep Outside to you, and sweep With you along the steep Of the grey night?

Nay, once I held you dear, Before you fled Adown the shadowy, drear Paths of the dead; But now the churchyard mould Has left you all too cold, Your hands I cannot hold, Your touch I dread.

Yet linger patiently, Ghosts of the past, Soon there shall come to me That morn's chill blast That calls me too to tread Those ways of doubt and dread, And numbered with the dead To lie at last.

OUR LADY OF DARKNESS

When the toils of the day are over and the sun has sunk in the west, And my lips are tired of laughter, and my heart is heavy for rest, I will sit awhile in the shadows, till Our Lady of Darkness shall shed The healing balms of her silence and her dreams upon my head.

Ye seek in vain in your temples--she dwells not in aisles of stone; Apart, and at peace, and silent, she waits in the night alone.

Her eyes are as moonlit waters, her brows with the stars are bound, And her footsteps move to music, but no man has heard the sound.

No incense burns at her altar--at her shrine no lamplight gleams, But she guards the Fountains of Quiet, and she keeps the key of Dreams, And I will sit in the shadows and pray her, of her grace, To open her guarded visions and grant me to dream of your face.

I ask not to break the silence, but only that you shall stand, As oft you stood in the old-time, with your hand upon my hand; So I will sit very quiet, that Our Lady of Darkness may shed Her balms of healing and silence and of dreams upon my head.

DALUAN

Daluan, the Shepherd, When winter winds blow chill, Goes piping o'er the upland, Goes piping by the rill; And whoso hears his music Must follow where he will.

Daluan, the Shepherd, (So the old story saith) He pipes the tunes of laughter, The songs of sighing breath; He pipes the souls of mortals Through the dark gates of Death.

Daluan, the Shepherd, Who listens to his strain Shall look no more on laughter, Shall taste no more of pain, Shall know no more the longing That eats at heart and brain.

Daluan, the Shepherd-- Beside the sobbing rill, And through the dripping woodlands, And up the gusty hill, I hear the pipes of Daluan Crying and calling still.

DEAD--AND LIVING

_The Question_

If we should tap on your pane to-night, dear, Standing here in the dark outside, As in the far-off days and bright, dear, Say, would you fling the window wide?

Nay, you would turn to the firelight's gold, dear, Saying, ”'Tis but a dream that fled;”

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