The Gray Brethren | Page 8

led by the starshine bright, With
broken heart to bring to Thee The fruit of Thine Epiphany, The gift my
fellows send by me, The myrrh to bed Thine agony. I set it here
beneath Thy Feet, In token of Death's great defeat; And hail Thee
Conqueror in the strife; And hail Thee Lord of Light and Life. All hail!
All hail the Virgin's Son! All hail! Thou little helpless One! All hail!
Thou King upon the Tree! All hail! The Babe on Mary's knee, The
centre of all mystery!

All Souls' Day in a German Town

The leaves fall softly: a wind of sighs Whispers the world's infirmities,
Whispers the tale of the waning years, While slow mists gather in
shrouding tears On All Souls' Day; and the bells are slow In steeple and
tower. Sad folk go Away from the township, past the mill, And mount
the slope of a grassy hill Carved into terraces broad and steep, To the
inn where wearied travellers sleep, Where the sleepers lie in ordered
rows, And no man stirs in his long repose. They wend their way past
the haunts of life, Father and daughter, grandmother, wife, To deck
with candle and deathless cross, The house which holds their dearest
loss. I, who stand on the crest of the hill, Watch how beneath me,
busied still, The sad folk wreathe each grave with flowers. Awhile the
veil of the twilight hours Falls softly, softly, over the hill, Shadows the
cross:- creeps on until Swiftly upon us is flung the dark. Then, as if lit
by a sudden spark, Each grave is vivid with points of light, Earth is as
Heaven's mirror to-night; The air is still as a spirit's breath, The lights
burn bright in the realm of Death. Then silent the mourners mourning
go, Wending their way to the church below; While the bells toll out to
bid them speed, With eager Pater and prayerful bead, The souls of the
dead, whose bodies still Lie in the churchyard under the hill; While
they wait and wonder in Paradise, And gaze on the dawning mysteries,
Praying for us in our hours of need; For us, who with Pater and
prayerful bead Have bidden those waiting spirits speed.

Rivers and Streams

Running water has a charm all its own; it proffers companionship of
which one never tires; it adapts itself to moods; it is the guardian of
secrets. It has cool draughts for the thirsty soul as well as for drooping
flowers; and they who wander in the garden of God with listening ears
learn of its many voices.
When the strain of a working day has left me weary, perhaps troubled
and perplexed, I find my way to the river. I step into a boat and pull up
stream until the exertion has refreshed me; and then I make fast to the
old alder-stump where last year the reed- piper nested, and lie back in
the stern and think.
The water laps against the keel as the boat rocks gently in the current;

the river flows past, strong and quiet. There are side eddies, of course,
and little disturbing whirlpools near the big stones, but they are all
gathered into the broad sweep of the stream, carried down to the great
catholic sea. And while I listen to the murmur of the water and watch
its quiet strength the day's wrinkles are smoothed out of my face; and at
last the river bears me homeward rested and at peace.
There are long stretches of time for me when I must remain apart from
the world of work, often unwilling, sometimes with a very sore heart.
Then I turn my steps towards my friend and wander along the banks, a
solitary not alone. In the quiet evening light I watch the stream 'never
hasting, never resting': the grass that grows beside it is always green,
the flowers are fresh; it makes long embracing curves--I could cross
from point to point in a minute, but to follow takes five. The ways of
the water are ways of healing; I have a companion who makes no
mistakes, touches none of my tender spots.
Presently I reach the silent pool, where the stream takes a wide sweep.
Here the fair white water-lilies lie on their broad green leaves and wait
for their lover the moon; for then they open their silvery leaves and
bloom in the soft light fairer far than beneath the hot rays of the sun.
Then, too, the buds rise out of the water and the moon kisses them into
bloom and fragrance. Near by are the little yellow water-lilies, set for
beauty against a background of great blue-eyed forget-me-nots and tall
feathery meadowsweet. The river still sweeps on its way,