The Dreamers | Page 9

thou art.
At dawn my prayer is all for thee, at noon
My very heart and, Oh, at
night my tears
For all we walk alone the empty years
Nor meet
neath any sun--neath any moon.
Yet must my love go with thee--all apart
From this the life I lend to
lesser things;
God send to thee this night beneath its wings,
A little
peace, Oh, great unhappy heart.
THE RETURN
I come to you grown weary of much laughter,
From jangling mirth
that once seemed over-sweet,
From all the mocking ghosts that
follow after
A man's returning feet;
Give me no word of welcome
or of greeting
Only in silence let me enter in,
Only in silence when
our eyes are meeting,
Absolve me of my sin.
I come to you grown weary of much living,
Open your door and lift
me of your grace,
I ask for no compassion, no forgiving,
Only your
face, your face;
Only in that white peace that is your dwelling
To

come again, before your feet to sink,
And of your quiet as of wine
compelling
Drink as the thirsting drink.
Be kind to me as sleep is kind that closes
With tender hands men's
fever-wearied eyes,
Your arms are as a garden of white roses

Where old remembrance lies,
I, who am bruised with words and
pierced with chiding,
Give me your silence as a Saint might give

Her white cloak for some hunted creature's hiding,
That he might rest
and live.
THE POPLARS
My poplars are like ladies trim,
Each conscious of her own estate;

In costume somewhat over prim,
In manner cordially sedate,
Like
two old neighbours met to chat
Beside my garden gate.
My stately old aristocrats--
I fancy still their talk must be
Of
rose-conserves and Persian cats,
And lavender and Indian tea;--
I
wonder sometimes as I pass
If they approve of me.
I give them greeting night and morn,
I like to think they answer, too,

With that benign assurance born
When youth gives age the
reverence due,
And bend their wise heads as I go
As courteous
ladies do.
Long may you stand before my door,
Oh, kindly neighbours garbed
in green,
And bend with rustling welcome o'er
The many friends
who pass between;
And where the little children play
Look down
with gracious mien.
THE LITTLE JOYS
My little joys went by me
As little children run
Across the fields at
sunset
When playing time is done.

And now alone at twilight
What is there may content
The heart that
loved their laughter
And frolic merriment?
Ah well, who knows but still may dawn
Another fairer day
Wherein
my little joys may come
A-dancing out to play.
SONGS OF HIMSELF
HIMSELF
The houseful that we were then, you could count us by the dozens, The
wonder was that sometimes the old walls wouldn't burst: Herself (the
Lord be good to her!), the aunts and rafts of cousins, The young folks
and the children,--but Himself came first.
_Master of the House he was, and well for them that knew it:_ _His
cheeks like winter apples and his head like snow;_ _Eyes as blue as
water when the sun of March shines through it._ _And steppin' like a
soldier with his stick held so._
Faith, but he could tell a tale would serve a man for wages, Sing a song
would put the joy of dancin' in two sticks; But Saints between
themselves and harm that saw him in his rages, Blazin' and oratin' over
chess and politics.
_Master of the House he was, and that beyond all sayin',_ _Eh, the
times I've heard him exhortin' from his chair_ _The like of any Bishop,
yet snappin' off his prayin'_
_To put the curse on Phelan's dog for
howlin' in the prayer._
The times I've seen him walkin' out like Solomon in glory, Salutin' with
great elegance the gentry he might meet;
An eye for every pretty girl,
an ear for every story,
And takin' as his just deserts the middle of the
street.
_Master of the House, with much to love and be forgiven,--_ _Yet,
thinkin' of Himself to-day--Himself--I see him go_ _With that old light

step of his, across the Courts of Heaven,_ _His hat a little sideways and
his stick held so._
THE FAIR
The pick o' seven counties, so they're tellin' me, was there, Horses
racin' on the track, and fiddles on the green,
Flyin' flags and blowin'
horns and all that makes a fair, I'm hearin' that the like of it was
something never seen.
So it is they're tellin' me,
Girl dear, it may be true--
I only know the bonnet strings
Beneath your