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250
PANE PICTURES.
A wonder-worker all night long
Has wrought his task for me;
Now, by the cold and distant dawn,
His miracles I see;
His gravings on the window-pane,
Of magic tracery.
Has wrought his task for me;
Now, by the cold and distant dawn,
His miracles I see;
His gravings on the window-pane,
Of magic tracery.
Here lifts an Alpine summit, steep
As is the heavenly stair,
A way-side cross below the path,
But not a pilgrim there;
No sad face of humanity,
No agony of prayer.
As is the heavenly stair,
A way-side cross below the path,
But not a pilgrim there;
No sad face of humanity,
No agony of prayer.
And here, before a lonely lake,
A fringe of reeds and fern;
Across the water's crystal chill
No dying sunsets burn.
You hear not on that rushy shore
The call of drake or tern.
A fringe of reeds and fern;
Across the water's crystal chill
No dying sunsets burn.
You hear not on that rushy shore
The call of drake or tern.
Here lies a crowd of broken boughs.
A windfall in the woods
Some wild and wandering hurricane
Hath wrecked these solitudes:
But on that tangled dreariness
No living step intrudes.
A windfall in the woods
Some wild and wandering hurricane
Hath wrecked these solitudes:
251
No living step intrudes.
And here is Arctic waste and woe;
A glacier's mighty face,
Majestic in its awful march,
Slow seaward from its place.
Beneath that frown of solemn death
There lives no human trace.
A glacier's mighty face,
Majestic in its awful march,
Slow seaward from its place.
Beneath that frown of solemn death
There lives no human trace.
But slowly from the joyful East
Ascends the dawning sun;
Before his look of light and life
The magic is undone:
The graceful pictures on the pane
All vanish, one by one.
Ascends the dawning sun;
Before his look of light and life
The magic is undone:
The graceful pictures on the pane
All vanish, one by one.
Alas! must all the songs I sing,
The traceries of my brain,—
The little stories sad and glad,—
Be uttered all in vain?
And vanish when the Master comes,
Like pictures on the pane?
The traceries of my brain,—
The little stories sad and glad,—
Be uttered all in vain?
And vanish when the Master comes,
Like pictures on the pane?
Or will they, in some kindly heart
Remembered, sing and shine.
For wrought from man's humanity
Not fleeting frost, are mine;
I love not to be quite forgot:
To die and leave no sign.
Remembered, sing and shine.
For wrought from man's humanity
Not fleeting frost, are mine;
I love not to be quite forgot:
To die and leave no sign.
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