The Gray Brethren | Page 8

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, but the pool is undisturbed; it lies out of the current. They say it is very deep--no one knows quite how deep--and it has its hidden tragedy. I gaze down through the clear water, following the thick lily-stalks--a forest where solemn carp sail in and out and perch chase each other through the maze-- and beyond them I cannot see the bottom, the secret of its stillness; but I may watch the clouds mirrored on its surface, and the evening glow lying at my feet.
I think of the fathomless depths of the peace of God, fair with flowers of hope; of still places wrought in man; of mirrors that reflect, in light uncomprehended, the Image of the Holy Face.
I go home across the common, comforted, towards the little town where the red roofs lie glimmering in the evening shadows, and