The Miracle and Other Poems | Page 8

And the cinnamon rose that evermore enthralls each passing bee, You old, old-fashioned roses, a-growing wild and free.
'Tis time to sing of roses! of roses all ablow! They come again, as sweet, my dear, as those of long ago. 'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here you know.

PRAIRIE
Where yesterday rolled long waves of gold Beneath the burnished blue of the sky, A silver-white sea lies still and cold, And a bitter wind blows by.
But nothing passes the door all day, Though my watching eyes grow worn and dim, Save a lean, grey wolf that swings away To the far horizon rim.
Then, one by one, the stars glisten out Like frozen tears on a purple pall-- The darkness folds my cabin about And the snow begins to fall.
I will make a hearth-fire red and bright And set a light by the window pane For one who follows the trail to-night That will bring him home again.
Love will ride with him my heart to bless-- Joy will out-step him across the floor-- What matters the great white loneliness When we bar the cabin door?

THE CLIMBER
He stood alone on Fame's high mountain top, His hands at rest, his forehead bound with bay; And yet he watched with eyes unsatisfied The downward winding way.
The great procession of the stars went by Far overhead, beyond the mountain's rim, But the unconquered worlds of time and space, As nothing were to him.
There from his vantage ground, so still and high, He watched the storm clouds when they rolled below, And felt the wind mount up to where he stood Amid eternal snow.
And sometimes in the valleys and the plains He saw the little children at their play; In cottage homes he saw the candle-light Gleam out at close of day.
But he and loneliness kept feast and fast, The while with weary eyes, by night and day; They watched the path that led to common things-- The downward winding way.
"'Twas there," he said, "that gladness passed me by, In yonder valley, where I sought the truth; And there, a few leagues up the rocky slope, I said good-bye to Youth.
"There, where the pine trees catch the sun's last gold, Love reached its hands to me and bade me stop; Oh, madness of the ones who climb," he said, "Up to the mountain top!"

THE DAISY
An angel found a daisy where it lay On Heaven's highroad of transparent gold, And, turning to one near, he said, "I pray, Tell me what manner of strange bloom I hold. You came a long, long way--perchance you know In what far country such fair flowers blow?"
Then spoke the other: "Turn thy radiant face And gaze with me down purple depth of space. See, where the stars lie spilled upon the night, Like amber beads that hold a yellow light. Note one that burns with faint yet steady glow; It is the Earth--and there these blossoms grow. Some little child from that dear, distant land Hath borne this hither in his dimpled hand."
Still gazed he down. "Ah, friend," he said, "I, too, Oft crossed the fields at home where daisies grew."

THE VISION
Long had she knelt at the Madonna's shrine, With the empty chapel, cold and grey, Telling her beads, while grief with marring line And bitter tear stole all her youth away.
Outcast was she from what Life holdeth dear; Banished from joy that other souls might win; And from the dark beyond she turned with fear, Being so branded by the mark of sin.
Yet when at last she raised her troubled face, Haunted by sorrow, whitened by alarms, Mary leaned down from out the pictured place, And laid the little Christ within her arms.
Rosy and warm she held Him to her heart, She--the abandoned one--the thing apart.

SAINTS
The Saints of Thy great Church, 0 Christ, How vast their numbers be-- On holy page and ancient scroll Their blessed names we see, And from the painted window panes They smile eternally.
Rope-girdled monk, and pallid maid, And men who for Thy cross Fought with the Saracen of old, Counting their lives no loss-- Martyrs who rose through golden flames, Free of the body's dross.
Yet there be Saints uncanonised, Unrecognised, unknown-- Here on the common roads of earth, Oft times they walk alone; Saints whom no soul hath ever praised, Saints whom no Church doth own.
Men who against their souls' grim foes Wage an unyielding fight; Men of new creeds, and men of old, Men of dark hue, and white, Each pressing hard towards some far gleam Of Thy celestial light.
Dwellers in places waste and lone, Toilers upon the seas-- Mayhap they seldom pray high heaven. Softly--on bended knees-- Yet in the roll-call of Thy Saints, Dear Christ--remember these.

AT MIDNIGHT
Turn Thou the key upon our thoughts, dear Lord, And let us sleep; Give us