Twilight Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

THE OLD COUNTRY.

Asi go home at end of day, the old road,
Through the enchanted country full of my dreams,
By the dim hills, the pellucid o'er-arching sky,
Home to the West, full of great clouds and the sunset,
Past the cattle that stand in rich grass to the knees,
It is not I who go home: it is not I.

Here is the turn we took, going home with my father,
The little feet of the pony trotting so fast,
Home by the winding lane full of music of water,
He and I, we were enough for each other
Going home through the silver, the pearly twilight,
I content with my father, he with his daughter.

Magical country, full of memories and dreams,
My youth lies in the crevices of your hills,
Here in the silk of your grass by the edge of the meadows,
Every flower and leaf has its memories of you.
Home was home then and the people friendly,
And you and I going home in the lengthening shadows.

Now I go home no more, though the swift car glides,
Carries me fast through the dear, the heavenly country.
No one knows me, the cottages show strange faces,
They who were kindly, who bid me “God save you!” of yore,
They are gone, they are flown, and only the country's the same,
And you sleeping so quietly under the grass.

THE VOYAGE.

Some morning I shall rise from sleep
When all the house is quiet and dark.
I shall steal out and find my ship
By the dim quayside and embark.

Nor fear the seas or any wind.
I have known Fear but now no more;
My ship will bear me safe and kind
Long hoped for and long waited for.

To no strange country shall I come,
But to mine own delightful land
With Love to bid me welcome home,
And Love to lead me by the hand.

Love, you and I shall cling together
And look long in each other's eyes,
There will be rose and violet weather
Under the trees of Paradise.

We shall not hear the ticking clock
Nor the soft rustle of Time's wings,
Nor dread the sharp, dividing stroke
Being come now to immortal things.

You, of that country shall be fain
Being now no new inhabitant
Its beauties to set forth, explain
And all its dear delights to vaunt.

They shall not end in a thousand year
You, Love and I shall be together,
Withouten any change to fear
Glad in the rose and violet weather.

With all those wonders to admire
And the heart's hunger satisfied
Fed to the full our heart's desire
We shall forget we ever died.

Oh, in some morning, dateless yet,
I shall rise up in the sweet dark,
And find my ship with sails all set
By the dim quayside and embark.

IN THE GREEN WOOD.

In the green wood, by a green slope,
The nightingale was tuning up
Before his full orchestrals broke:
And it was golden three o'clock:
Three of the green May afternoon,
As it were white of the full moon.

Out of the green by threes and twos
Came little folk in soundless shoes,
Quiet and shy and hand in hand,
Glad little folks from Elfin land.
The blue cap of a hyacinth bell
Their pale hair might adorn it well.

Now hear the nightingale his trill!
O darling thrush, for once be still!
Linet and finch, forget to sing.
For now's the magical hour and thing
When on the wings of a song are flown
Mortals to the Immortal One.

O blackbird, shout no more, for all
The listening world is taken in thrill.
Listen to the Immortal strain

For all that rapture, all that pain
That toss the heart high as the lark
To the starred Heaven and the blue dark.

In the green wood my eyes were wet,
My heart goes crying and soaring yet.

THE CHILDREN.

The dumb child and the blind child
With God are housèd warm,
And He has gathered the crippled child
Within the curve of His arm.

The child that has no mother dear
Against His heart lies close,
What strange and wonderful tales they hear
Under the rose, the rose.

The sick child and the sad child
Are rocked on mighty knees,
The eyes of God are a mother's eyes,
His kiss a father's kiss.

Lost lambs are playing and straying
Upon the vermeil sod,
Dearest are they who never played,
To the full heart of God.

As He walks in His garden
In the cool eventide,
His lame lamb and His crooked lamb
Leap and run by His side.

He has touched the blind child's eyeballs,
And straight he doth behold
The Kingdom of God in living light
Of emerald and gold.

When all His birds are singing
Their love-songs fresh and clear,
The dumb child's singing, wild and shrill
Is sweetest in His ear.

When they lie down at evening
God knows their sleep is sweet
The garments of God have wrapped' them close
From their head to their feet.

THE FIRST SINGING.

When I shall come one evening to God's house on the hill,
I ask no singing angels by lintel or window-sill,
Nor any harp or cithern, but only the wild song
The thrush and blackbird sang when I was young.

Give me no fading Summer and no unwithering wreath,
But the year in its seasons and new life after death,
And in the heart of Winter the joys yet to be,
And the blackbird singing on a rime-pale tree.

O Paradise skies, be cloudy sometimes lest I should pine
For the soft mists and raining in that wild land of mine,
And the blackbird singing bravely amid the dripping boughs,
And the thrush with his talking of a love-lit house.

I should miss, 'mid the tuning of the high heavenly choir,
The song of the blackbird telling my heart's desire,

Amid the joy and glory and the old world made new,
The thirst for the blackbird would break my heart in two.

I think where I'll be going the Lord will not forget
The joys He gave His people; sure He'll remember yet!
He'll keep a cloud, a raining upon the blue and gold
And the thrush and the blackbird their songs in the cold.

THE CHILDREN'S MASS.

(St. Ursula's, 1923.)

Was it a strong wind? No, but the feet of the children,
The radiant rush of the children coming fast,
Swift and graceful, beautiful as young poplars,
Slender poplars shaken as the wind passed.

Slim as the white lilies the swaying children
Blown one way with the wind of their joyous song,
Faces lit and uplifted, the souls of the children
Thin as flames are out with the heavenly throng.

As wings tossed in the wind, the chant of the children
Lifted the soul, carried it height upon height,
Over the stars, the winged song of the children,
Over the stars and the moon and the purple night.

THE DARK MAN.

Sure all the bells in Heaven
Pealed out a merry din,
When to the Wondrous Vision
The Dark Man entered in:
The King of the Blind Country
And his dark folk have seen.

Sang all the bells of Heaven
Like flocks of birds in flight:
The King of the Blind Country
Hath come to the New Sight;
The spittle on his eye-balls
Hath washed the darkness white.

Clashed all the bells of Heaven,
And shook the towers with glee;
The Giver of Light hath beckoned:
Come and sit down by Me!
Thou Dark Man in Mine Image,
Who bad'st the blind to see.

IRELAND LONG AGO.

The smell of the wet earth after the heavy rain
Reminds me of Ireland long ago,
When silver mists were rising from off an emerald plain
In darling Ireland long ago.
When the grass so green and silken was higher than your knee;
And every bud and blossom was full of the honey bee,
And the sap was running lusty in many a bush and tree
In darling Ireland long ago.

The breath of the full earth after the bitter drought
Reminds me of Ireland long ago,
When amber streams were running and the haw-thorn was out
In darling Ireland long ago.
When the mountains stood up purple, wrapped in the wisps of cloud,
And there wasn't a thrush or blackbird but sang his praise aloud,
And the trees drip-dripped with silver till their heavy heads were bowed
In darling Ireland long ago.

The thirsty mouths all drinking that were so parched and dry
Remind me of Ireland long ago,
When the foggy dew was raining and he corn it was high;
In darling Ireland long ago,
When the meadows ran like rivers and the colleen's curls were wet
And the dew hung on her lashes and her cheek was cold and sweet;
The wind of early morning I'm not forgetting yet
In darling Ireland long ago.

The wind that stirs the branches—'tis blowing from the west—
Reminds me of Ireland long ago,
When my heart was warm and quiet as a young bird in the nest
In darling Ireland long ago.
'Tis she goes crying softly like a thing of little ease,
Only to be a child again beside my father's knees,
And coming home of evening to his fond smile and his kiss,
In darling Ireland long ago.

WINTER.

Now Winter as a shrivelled scroll
Casts the rags of Summer away,
Naked and beautiful the stripped soul
Haunts the bare woods, austere and grey.

Clean in the quiet hour she goes
She has renounced the lure of sense,
More beautiful than the gold and rose
In her thin veil of innocence.

White as the snow she walks the woods,
More beautiful than the joyous Spring:
Scourged of the winds and washed by floods,
Spirit and flame, with a drooped wing.

There is not a stain in this pale light,
The new washed skies, the tonic air,
She, the moon's sister, walks the height,
A spiritual beauty past compare.

When all the Summer world is dust
And Autumn glories fallen to clay,
This soul of beauty, chill, august,
Wanders by wood and waterway.

CHRISTMAS TREES.

The white trees for Christmas
They light the short day
Pear-bloom and cherry-bloom,
White lilac and May,
In lace and frozen silver,
As fair as brides be,
And white bloom at Christmas
Makes many a Christmas Tree.

And what shall hang the branches
Of trees white as snow?
Strings of pearls and crystals
And diamonds arow.
And He will laugh to see them,
The Babe of little price,
Whose toys are moon and planets
On Trees of Paradise.

Here let us hang to please Him
The Gifts the Kings bring:
The nard, the gold, the silver,
And for a Baby Thing,
The gifts of simple Shepherds,
A ball, a pipe to blow,
The pretty sheep and oxen,
The Stable in the snow.

Light up with lamps all burning
Cold branches above
The hearts of men adoring
That are consumed with love!
The hair of Mother Mary
To weave a gold nest:
The wings of small angels
And the Stars for the rest.

THE FOUNTAIN.

(Cologne, 1923.)

That was the Lorelei, tall within the jet
Of springing water.
Lovely from silver head to her slim feet
She, a King's daughter,

Caught in a pale enchantment: there came gleams
Of throat and bosom,
Rose-paled, bathed in the pellucid streams,
Fine as fruit-blossom,

Betwixt the poplars and the tulip-trees,
Crystal and slender.
Where are her maids? Not any one of these
Naïads attend her.

That was the Lorelei: for a little while
Lost to her mountain,
One moment shone her pale, her exquisite smile,
Caught in the fountain.

THE LOST LAND.

What wind is it that stirs,
Lighter than gossamers,
In the pines, in the firs?

The Wind of Youth it blows
From Yesterday's Long Agos,
Under the rose, the rose.

What song is it he sings?
What news is it he brings
Of old, of beloved things?

The Wind of Youth is young,
He goes with a careless song,
No years have done him wrong.

The Wind of Youth is sad.
Nay, he is merry and glad,
With the heart of a lad, a lad.

By the Wind of Youth and its word,
Like the song of a fairy bird,
The secret springs are stirred.

O Wind of Youth in the tree,
Go by, nor trouble me
With news of the lost country.

That all so heavenly shows
Under the rose, the rose,
Whence none returns, none goes.

THE WAKING.

Blackbird and thrush will sing
Me to my sleep in the dark.
I shall awake to the Spring,
To the voice of the linnet and lark.

There shall be dew a-glisten
And morning mist on the grass,
The sleepers shall turn and listen
To the feet of the Saints that pass.

They shall arise and be merry,
They shall be treading light;
They who lay down so weary
Sweet was their sleep all night.

Fine as the hyacinth showing,
Brave as the daffodil,
Rose and gold they are going
Over the heavenly hill.

Lover shall run to lover,
There will be kisses and cries;
Love, long parting is over!
Love, the light of your eyes!

I shall lie down in the dark,
I shall sleep sweet and long,
I shall wake up to the lark
And the thrush and the blackbird's song.

THERE.

There shall be no more partings there for ever.
She need not see the children going forth,
By sea and land and many a fordless river
This to the East: that to the South, the North.
She shall not sit alone at the even fall
With empty hands that had so much to keep,
Nor watch the shadow of clouds upon the wall
Nor have the children only in her sleep.

There shall be none feeble, who may not follow
The children who must go seeking their bread,
She shall be young, she shall be fleet as the swallow,
Nor by the low fire nod an ageing head.
The parting years when the cold shadow lay
Even on the meetings shall be over and done.
She shall not sit alone at end of day;
Dreaming of days when they were little, alone.

Her arms, they shall be full to overflowing,
The children shall fly home to the kind breast.
There shall be never again the talk of going.
She shall not die alone and dispossessed.
For love-lies-bleeding she shall have heartsease
And Time endure for ever and a day
The children will fly home by lands and seas,
They will come home to her, come home to stay.

GORSE.

The gorse is now a golden vine,
Bunches of little amber grapes,
Filled with the clear, the luscious wine,
Hang out their dear and delicate shapes;
Gorse is for kisses, and be sure
His light o' love's on mountain and moor.

All the sweet night the Burning Bush
Sends up its little flares, i' the dark.
Good lack, the blackbird and the thrush,
Linnet and finch, and even the lark,
Will dream they sleep by candle light,
In a strange world where is no night.

White May and gorse that apes the sun—
There is no light now it is May;
The hands o' the clock are sure put on;
The dim, delicious night's away,
Since gorse runs wild o'er hill and fen,
A Jack o' Lanthorn and his men.

The glow-worm now puts out his lamp;
No more need he his vigil keep
For folk who stray in dew and damp
And sheep and lambkins fast asleep.
It is the Midnight Sun that shines,
And all the hills show golden vines.

THE TRAMPING WOMAN.

Little rose of my heart for your darling sake,
I'd leave the lamp-lit house and the fire behind,
And take the roads of the world with you on my back
Nor fear the lonesome road and the rain and wind.

You and I together out in the dark
Your soft little chatter like running water to hear
And you and I to sleep till the song of the lark
With the beat of your heart at my breast, your breath at my ear.

Some good woman would make us the fire and the bed
With a thought of Jesus and Mary asking in vain,
Would set sweet milk before us and the white bread
And take us in out of the night and rain.

I'd rather sleep with you, darling, under a hedge
Than lapped in linen without you and downy fleece,
The birds would sing to us sweet at the world's edge,
Nor cold nor darkness trouble our heart and peace.

You and I my birdeen, cheek to my cheek,
And the little soft voice of you babbling close to my ear,
And you in the beggar's shawl and your arms round my neck,
I'd take the beggar's pack for you, little and dear.

BROWN TREES.

Now are the valleys brown 'twixt bluest hills,
From the thick branches burst the leaf to flower,
Wild for the Spring-time world to feast their fill
Of new life and beauty in the magic hour.

Tight buds unswathing on the sap-filled tree,
Brown trees and purple on the azure dark,
Brown in the heather now the questing bee,
Brown to the sapphire heights unsprings the lark.

Deep in the valley is an amber gleam,
Brown gold the river goes and flecked with foam,
Makes a small music now, faint as in dream
And it going to the sea as a child runs home.

Over the dim blue hills a wild fire shows
Honey of the gorse now and shaken gold
Lambs calling to the sheep and the sheep knows
The call of her tender one a few hours old.

Now in the shadowy hour the slight trees wear
Amber and russet now and all the browns
Veils of the purple on the hidden hair
And they walking two and two, queens by their gowns.

THE DARK WOMAN.

Is there anybody there to hear me calling,
Anybody there who will understand
That my eyes are dark and my feet falling,
And take me by the hand?

Is there anybody there to hear my complaining?
Anybody there with a lantern bright?
For under the dark trees the night is raining
And I am alone in the night.

Is there anybody there to be sorry a little?
Anyone pitiful and sad and kind?
Anyone coming to lay the spittle
On eyeballs black and blind?

Is there anybody there as kind as a mother
Running and stumbling lest my feet fall?
Anyone there clings close as a brother?
Anyone there at all?

Is there anyone comes with a star or a taper?
Anyone at all that hears my cry?
Coming and calling through the misty vapour,
“Oh, child, be still! It is I!”

THE CHOIR.

The Blackird now is never done,
Sweetheart! O Sweetheart!
The Thrush to Love makes orison.

Now are the littlest fowls begun,
Sweetheart! O Sweetheart!
Housebuilding all till set of sun.

Blithe Chanticleer his horn has blown,
Sweetheart! O Sweetheart!
New iris hath the dove put on:

Call in the softest monotone,
Sweetheart! O Sweetheart!
It is not good to live alone.

The Lark from Heaven drops like a stone,
Sweetheart! O Sweetheart!
Straight to his lovely love is gone.

The Nightingale makes lover's moan,
Sweetheart! O Sweetheart!
Pressing his breast Love's thorn upon.

Each to his dainty feathered ones,
Sweetheart! O Sweetheart!
Singing his lover's Lauds and Nones.

A PRAYER FOR LIGHT.

Give me the country light, O Lord,
From country skies without a stain,
Not this grey London sky abhorred,
So that my darkness be made plain.

Light softened through the pale green silk
Of leaves that weave my roof above,
O my lost land of honey and milk,
And I to see the light thereof!

There was no haze on the sweet light,
But clear as water, cool as dew,
Fresh as the fields of Paradise,
With green to let the soft light through.

If I be blind, O Lord, have ruth!
Give me green pastures flecked with shade,
Sweet airs blown from the Land o' Youth,
Where I was little, where I played.

Though I be blind, give me Thy light,
Clear light in leaf-hung country ways,
So shall I sing and so shall write,
And make my Blindman's Holidays.

A SONG OF FEBRUARY.

Nothing's done with and nothing's over,
So am I February's lover.
All's beginning and yet to be;
Joy in the heart and sap in the tree;
Broken lights and the thrush's song;
Cold and slender, lovesome and young
February stands at an open door:
Death is over and life before.

Age is forgotten and grief and sinning:
February's song's a song of beginning.
Dappled skies and the lambs in the fold,
New love stirring and one hour old.
Lances of green cleaving the furrow,
Fresh delights to-day and to-morrow,
Fair Maid February, she
Brings great tidings for flower and bee.

Now the dead are stirring and striving,
Flutter of silk, buzz of arriving,
Out of the shadows and new from the clay,
All in white for a wedding day,
They who were blind and dumb and unhearing.
All the graves of the world are stirring,
Death is done with and weeping over,
So am I February's lover.

THE UNEMPLOYED.

The dead men to the living call:
Brothers of old, how goes the day?
Is there ripe fruit on the Southern wall
Rich with our blood that rot in clay?

Brothers of the great brotherhood,
Do they fling roses for your feet?
The living heard them where they stood
Idle, or trudged the pitiless street.

Hopeless, unwanted. Brothers of old,
How go the song, the dance, the mirth?
So you are warm, we are not cold
Lapped in impenetrable earth.

The Victors stand in the market-place,
And no man gives them wine or bread;
Would that we too had won that race
And earned the clay-cold rest! they said.

But to the dead, who lie alone,
They answered; it is well; go sleep,
Never to know what we have known:
With dreams to keep; with dreams to keep!

THE FIFES AND DRUMS.

Sudden in the grey day
Feet of the marching men,
Music gallant and gay,
Bring the great days again.

Rose in the rainy gleams
Joy of the drums, the fife,
Days when we dreamt great dreams.
The dead are coming to life.

Feet of the marching men
Ringing in the dull street
The old dream coming again,
The joy and the lilt of it.

Life goes with a swing
To the feet of the marching men,
The heart is sudden a-wing,
As the music goes in the rain.

We are strong we are glad, we are fain,
And the dawn's crowned as a King,
The old glamour again
And the old hope at the Spring.

The tread of the marching men,
Passes; the music dies.
Life drags at a chain
Hope and faith are as lies.

Never, never again great dreams
Shall we dream as of old,
Let be! The dreams were in vain,
The days drenched and a-cold.

MASDORF.

We had escaped to fields all round
And silence lovelier than sound,
Wide fields and such wide skies above,
And Autumn with the eyes of a dove;
Earth like ripe bracken waited still
The ploughman's and the sower's will.

Soon under this warm breast will stir
The millions to be born of her,
The rumours of the births to be
Rustle, like a soft wind, the sea.
The day, with finger to her lips,
Murmurs: “She is not dead, but sleeps.”

The kind mist veils her veil of grey
On factory chimneys far away;
This is the holy hour and place,
The cattle chew the cud and graze,
The hares are running in the frost,
And the lark's song to Heaven is tossed.

This is the happy hour; no jar,
No fret beneath the fortunate star,
But peace on peace that overflowed.
The soul forgets the whip, the goad,
Runs light-foot over the hills of green
The twilight and the moon between.

A SONG OF A GARDEN.

What a thing a garden is
For sweet dreams and quietness!

Roses and Lilies,
Narcissus, Daffodillies,
Irises and Phlox and Stocks
And the Sultan Hollyhocks.
Love-lies-bleeding—Love-in-a-mist—
Pansies tawny and amethyst.

What a thing a garden is
For medicinal heartsease!

Lilac white and Lilac blue
And a bird song in the dew.
Apple-blossom white and rose,
Blue Forget-me-not and those
Pinks that have a spicy smell:
Honest Lavender as well.

What a thing a garden is
For the birds, for the bees!

Oh, from the dark earth to hale
Tulips and the primrose pale!
Hyacinths, and all that comes before
The full Summer's golden store.
For to create, for to bid live
These so sweet, so fugitive!

What a thing a garden is
To bid grow, to increase!

THE BIRDS AT CHRISTMAS.

I heard birds singing
In the morning grey.
Bring us, Son of Mary
To Thy Holiday.

The birds were singing
In a full choir,
Bring us, Son of Mary,
To the World's Desire.

The birds were haling
The sun from the East
Bring us Son of Mary
To thy Birthnight Feast.

From clouds gold-crested
Leaped up the sun
O, Son of Mary,
And God's little One!

With the bare world gilded
Both bush and thorn,
I woke and knew
It was Christmas Morn.

THE EXILE.

Amid the honey-dews of the Sussex country—
All night the nightingale is never still—
Under the flooding moon her heart keeps sentry
Over flocks and pastures on an Irish hill.

By the Mayo cabins, white-winged, gold-crested
Her free spirit wanders till the night is gone,
Safe and warm the children there like young birds nested
Glides she by the peat-water, so still, so lone.

Keen are the winds o'er the brown bogs blowing,
Poised in the arching sky an eagle broods,
Oh, she was stifled in the lusty growing
Starved for the great winds and the lashing floods!

Oh, she was thirsting still in garden and forest
For the bareness, the bleakness and the rushing rain!
In the rich Summer night her heart was sorest
Crying for the fields she knew, crying in vain.

Now in the deep of night ere day is breaking
Loud calls the nightingale from hill to hill,
But she is far away her hunger slaking
Oh, she is well-content: she drinks her fill.

Back from the grey house by the lapping water
She must be travelling ere the peep of day
Yet when the sleep is here, Oh Ireland's daughter!
Who shall constrain free feet that know the way?

MAY IN LONDON.

Asi remember London it was always May:
Pale green running over, lilac on the spray,
The pink and white chestnut in every garden small,
And the green flame of poplars like slim girls tall.

The small London houses where Love used to dwell—
May in her green mantle had hidden them well,
Close as in the chestnut the birds would hide
The wee home for the lovers, the groom and birde.

The small London gardens hung out a green screen
More delicate, more airy than any country green,
When full heart to full heart, the happy lovers heard
Not the noise, nor the traffic, but the call of the bird.

When I remember London, then I am glad and young,
With bird-songs, and love-songs, and many a song unsung.
When I remember London—ah, Love could I forget?
Then I am old and weary, and my eyes are wet.

Oh, blackbirds and thrushes and green on the spray!
As I remember London it is always May.
My heart cries for London in a day long flown,
For Paradise in London and the may full-blown.

VITA NUOVA.

Now is the time once more
Dear and desired of old,
Spring at the sill, at the door,
Slender and young and cold.
Scarcely the heart can hold
The peace long waited for.
Now the magical word is told,
And the young Spring's at the door.

When all the folk are asleep,
Save only the feathered folk,
She goes by the hills of sheep,
By the lambs and the grazing flock,
Flowers in the fold of her cloak,
And the grey dawn at the peep,
The trumpeter Daffodil woke
The thrush and blackbird asleep.

Now in the East and the dark
The heart trembles and sings,
Sings with the linnet and lark
New songs of immortal things.
It wakes, it quivers, it springs,
O heart, that was Winter stark,
It rises, it beats, it has wings,
When the Spring calls in the dark.

THE CHILD.

The little feet running upon the floor
Bring back to me youth and the golden weather,
O little feet long lost, long hungered for;
My heart springs up, light as the grey dove's feather,
O little feet running upon the floor!

O lovely kisses from a sweet wet mouth,
Fragrant and dewy as wet garden roses.
Kisses that bring me the beloved youth,
Sweet as soft rain drenching dry garden closes,
The lovely kisses from a sweet wet mouth.

O little arms clinging about my neck,
Holding me fast, and silken cheek and fine.
God pity mothers who this night must take
Farewell of some sweet thing like this of mine.
With never more soft arms about the neck.

God gives the dearest gifts over and over;
O little grandson, youth comes with your kiss!
God gives me back my youth and my lost lover,
And all the precious things were mine and his,
And even the sweets the heart thought past recover.

THE CHURCH PORCH.

The sparrows underneath Thine eaves
Flutter and chatter, making merry
As in the cool shade of dark leaves.

Thy still House in the dusty town
Is a green wood, a sanctuary
For to come in and to sit down.

Such shade, such ease, deep water-wells:
Just to sit down with Thee like Mary,
And to forget all else, all else!

And yet I dare not draw so nigh,
Though to Thy guests Thou art not chary:
Thine angels, sure, would wonder why!

Give me the lowest place, even theirs,
Thy sooty sparrows, cool and airy,
Chattering Thy name to the blue airs.

Where Thou goest in and out and might
Not find too thin and customary
One little pipe for Thy delight.

PASSIONTIDE COMMUNION.

Not in the Sepulchre Thou art
Till the Third Day shall bid Thee rise;
Thou hast chosen my cold and lifeless heart
To rest as it were Paradise.

Not in the rock-hewn grave Thou'rt laid—
For that were warm beside my chill—
On a hard breast Thou'st leant Thy head
And of cold love Thou hast Thy fill.

Thou had'st Thy Mother's knees, her arm,
And wherefore camest Thou to this strait?
This, that not even Thy love can warm,
A heart deflowered and violate.

But still Thou wilt not rise, be gone,
Until the Third Day's miracle.
On this impure heart, cold as stone,
Thou art content and sleepest well.

A SONG OF ST. ANNE.

Our Lady in cold stable lay,
The Babe was pinched with cold:
St. Anne of Auray's clad like May
In the green silk and the gold.

Her cloak is set with glittering gem,
And sewn with pearls athread;
Too heavy her crusted diadem,
For one old Granny's head.

The priests they sing; the banners gleam,
The music swells and dies;
But she has gotten a golden dream,
Behind her painted eyes,

As she goes up, and she goes down
Within her dream she sees
Lord Jesus in a swaddling gown
Upon Our Lady's knees.

They fling her many a bough and bloom
And roses for her floor;
But she is seeing a hidden room,
And the sun in at the door.

The vines shake on the trellises
And the shadows on the wall;
The dove bidding a golden peace
To her girl, slender and tall.

The dreaming turns and shifts mayhap,
And O the dream is blest!
A Child creeps to His Granny's lap;
His head lies on her breast.

She sings a sleepy song and low,
Such songs as women use
Rocking the small Thing to and fro,
In the dusk hour and the dews.

St. Anne of Auray blesses the ships
She blesses the sea and land:
She feels the touch of a young child's lips.
And the rose leaf of his hand.

THREE CHRISTMAS CAROLS.

I. BY THE CRIB.

The small child-angels
New 'scaped from Heaven,
Like a flight of rose-leaves
On snow new driven.

They came hurrying, winging
To the stable stall,
Like a bush of roses
On a June wall.

They perched by the manger
In rafter and roof,
For their wings the stable
Was weather proof.

There were kings and shepherds
And the sheep-dog came,
The ass and oxen
And a new-born lamb.

Lions and tigers
Knelt in the door,
Their wrath forgotten,
And their warefare o'er.

The wren and robin
Came hopping in:
And the snake came wriggling
With his spotted skin.

Here all Creation
To the Feast bid
Came loving and weeping
And saw, unchid.

The small child angels
Like golden bees
Were singing and singing
A song of Peace.

And all Creation
Sang with the stars,
That the Peace was signed
And an end of wars.

II. IN TIME OF NEED.

Never we needed Thee so sore
Since the first day began,
O, come and knock at the world's door,
Small Son of God and Man!
And if it ope not to Thy knock
Shrill crying in the cold,
Break down the heart hard as a rock
And enter and lay hold!

Not when they slew our young, and marred
The beauty, smooth and clean,
Not then, not then, our hearts were hard,
Arid and cold and mean.
For now the weak are down, and Hate,
And Avarice, and Pride,
These are the Lords within our gate,
O Child, be not denied!

O, not in nineteen hundred years
We needed Thee as to-night.
Yest're'en we washed us clean with tears,
Their scarlet washed us white,
There is not one green spot on earth
Where men nor hate nor grieve.
O child, come to our hour of dearth
And bid the dead heart live.

III. THE THORNS.

Our Lady's heart had Seven Swords
And they had pierced it clean,
The Babe that lay within her arms
Pressed the first Sword in.

Jesus Christ, her dearest Lord
Was hidden in her breast,
And He was like a little sword
That would not give her rest.

With lullaby-loo my Baby love;
My Rose hath sharpest thorn,
For He hath pierced my heart through
Upon this Christmas Morn.

And when she lulled Him into sleep
She saw what should befall:
The people crying “Crucify!”
And the three Crosses tall.

Bethlehem is a quiet place,
And sweet is Nazareth;
But He was doomed, her Tender One,
From the hour He drew breath.

Her Babe He lay sweet and close
Upon his Mother's heart,
But she hath gotten a thorny Rose
To give her dule and smart.

Seven sharp Swords Our Lady had,
And Seven Words He said
The day they hung Him 'twixt two thieves
With the Thorns for His Head.