The Miracle and Other Poems Part 4

NOCTURNE

Infold us with thy peace, dear moon-lit night, And let thy silver silence wrap us round Till we forget the city's dazzling light, The city's ceaseless sound.

Here where the sand lies white upon the sh.o.r.e, And little velvet-fingered breezes blow, Dear sea, thy world-old wonder-song once more Sing to us e'er we go.

Give us thy garnered sweets, short summer hour: Perfume of rose, and balm of sun-steeped pine; Scent from the lily's cup and horned flower, Where bees have drained the wine.

Come, small musicians in the rough sea gra.s.s, Pipe us the serenade we love the best; And winds of midnight, chant for us a ma.s.s, Our hearts would be at rest.

G.o.d of all beauty, though the world is thine, Our faith grows often faint, oft hope is spent; Show us Thyself in all things fair and fine, Teach us the stars' content.

A SONG OF LOVE

Love reckons not by time--its May days of delight Are swifter than the falling stars that pa.s.s beyond our sight.

Love reckons not by time--its moments of despair Are years that march like prisoners, who drag the chains they wear.

Love counts not by the sun--it hath no night or day-- 'Tis only light when love is near--'tis dark with love away.

Love hath no measurements of height, or depth, or s.p.a.ce, But yet within a little grave it oft hath found a place.

Love is its own best law--its wrongs seek no redress; Love is forgiveness--and it only knoweth how to bless.

THE UNKNOWING

If the bird knew how through the wintry weather An empty nest would swing by day and night, It would not weave the strands so close together Or sing for such delight.

And if the rosebud dreamed e'er its awaking How soon its perfumed leaves would drift apart, Perchance 'twould fold them close to still the aching Within its golden heart.

If the brown brook that hurries through the gra.s.ses Knew of drowned sailors--and of storms to be-- Methinks 'twould wait a little e'er it pa.s.ses To meet the old grey sea.

If youth could understand the tears and sorrow, The sombre days that age and knowledge bring, It would not be so eager for the morrow Or spendthrift of the spring.

If love but learned how soon life treads its measure, How short and swift its hours when all is told, Each kiss and tender word 'twould count and treasure, As misers count their gold.

THE PEt.i.tION

Sweet April! from out of the hidden place Where you keep your green and gold, We pray thee to bring us a gift of grace, When the little leaves unfold.

Oh! make us glad with the things that are young; Give our hearts the quickened thrills That used to answer each robin that sung In the days of daffodils.

For what is the worth of all that we gain, If we lose the old delight, That came in the time of sun and rain, When the whole round world seemed right?

It was then we gave, as we went along, The faith that to-day we keep; And those April days were for mirth and song, While the nights were made for sleep.

Yet, though we follow with steps that are slow The feet that dance and that run; We would still be friends with the winds that blow, And companions to the sun!

HALLOWE'EN

There is an old Italian legend which says that on the eve of the beloved festival of All Saints (Hallowe'en) the souls of the dead return to earth for a little while and go by on the wind.

The feast of All Saints is followed by the feast of the dead, when for a day only the sound of the _Miserere_ is heard throughout the cities of Italy.

Hark! Hark to the wind! 'Tis the night, they say, When all souls come back from the far away-- The dead, forgotten this many a day!

And the dead remembered--ay! long and well-- And the little children whose spirits dwell In G.o.d's green garden of asphodel.

Have you reached the country of all content, 0 souls we know, since the day you went From this time-worn world, where your years were spent?

Would you come back to the sun and the rain, The sweetness, the strife, the thing we call pain, And then unravel life's tangle again?

I lean to the dark--Hush!--was it a sigh?

Or the painted vine-leaves that rustled by?

Or only a night-bird's echoing cry?

THE GLEANER

As children gather daisies down green ways Mid b.u.t.terflies and bees, To-day across the meadows of past days I gathered memories.

I stored my heart with harvest of lost hours-- With blossoms of spent years; Leaves that had known the sun of joy, and hours Drenched with the rain of tears.

And perfumes that were long ago distilled From April's pink and white, Again with all their old enchantment, filled My spirit with delight.

From out the limbo where lost roses go The place we may not see, With all its petals sweet and half-ablow, One rose returned to me.

Where falls the sunlight chequered by the shade On meadows of the past, I gathered blossoms that no sun can fade No winter wind can blast.