The Miracle and Other Poems | Page 6

OPAL MONTH
Now cometh October--a nut-brown maid, Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed Hath taken the king's highway! On the world she smiles--but to me it seems Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams, Or memories of the May.
Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare As she dances gaily by-- Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest, And she tenderly holds against her breast A belated butterfly.
The crickets sing no more to the stars-- The spiders no more put up silver bars To entangle silken wings; But the quail pipes low in the rusted corn, And here and there--both at night and at morn-- A lonely robin still sings.
A spice-laden breeze of the south is blent With perfumed winds from the Orient And they weave o'er her a spell, For nun-like she goeth now, still and sweet-- And while mists like incense curl at her feet, She lingers her beads to tell.

NOCTURNE
Infold us with thy peace, dear moon-lit night, And let thy silver silence wrap us round Till we forget the city's dazzling light, The city's ceaseless sound.
Here where the sand lies white upon the shore, And little velvet-fingered breezes blow, Dear sea, thy world-old wonder-song once more Sing to us e'er we go.
Give us thy garnered sweets, short summer hour: Perfume of rose, and balm of sun-steeped pine; Scent from the lily's cup and horned flower, Where bees have drained the wine.
Come, small musicians in the rough sea grass, Pipe us the serenade we love the best; And winds of midnight, chant for us a mass, Our hearts would be at rest.
God of all beauty, though the world is thine, Our faith grows often faint, oft hope is spent; Show us Thyself in all things fair and fine, Teach us the stars' content.

A SONG OF LOVE
Love reckons not by time--its May days of delight Are swifter than the falling stars that pass beyond our sight.
Love reckons not by time--its moments of despair Are years that march like prisoners, who drag the chains they wear.
Love counts not by the sun--it hath no night or day-- 'Tis only light when love is near--'tis dark with love away.
Love hath no measurements of height, or depth, or space, But yet within a little grave it oft hath found a place.
Love is its own best law--its wrongs seek no redress; Love is forgiveness--and it only knoweth how to bless.

THE UNKNOWING
If the bird knew how through the wintry weather An empty nest would swing by day and night, It would not weave the strands so close together Or sing for such delight.
And if the rosebud dreamed e'er its awaking How soon its perfumed leaves would drift apart, Perchance 'twould fold them close to still the aching Within its golden heart.
If the brown brook that hurries through the grasses Knew of drowned sailors--and of storms to be-- Methinks 'twould wait a little e'er it passes To meet the old grey sea.
If youth could understand the tears and sorrow, The sombre days that age and knowledge bring, It would not be so eager for the morrow Or spendthrift of the spring.
If love but learned how soon life treads its measure, How short and swift its hours when all is told, Each kiss and tender word 'twould count and treasure, As misers count their gold.

THE PETITION
Sweet April! from out of the hidden place Where you keep your green and gold, We pray thee to bring us a gift of grace, When the little leaves unfold.
Oh! make us glad with the things that are young; Give our hearts the quickened thrills That used to answer each robin that sung In the days of daffodils.
For what is the worth of all that we gain, If we lose the old delight, That came in the time of sun and rain, When the whole round world seemed right?
It was then we gave, as we went along, The faith that to-day we keep; And those April days were for mirth and song, While the nights were made for sleep.
Yet, though we follow with steps that are slow The feet that dance and that run; We would still be friends with the winds that blow, And companions to the sun!

HALLOWE'EN
There is an old Italian legend which says that on the eve of the beloved festival of All Saints (Hallowe'en) the souls of the dead return to earth for a little while and go by on the wind. The feast of All Saints is followed by the feast of the dead, when for a day only the sound of the Miserere is heard throughout the cities of Italy.
Hark! Hark to the wind! 'Tis the night, they say, When all souls come back from the far away-- The dead, forgotten this many a day!
And the