The Miracle and Other Poems | Page 5

to the river-way, And passed the haunted mill, And then crept on, until it reached The churchyard, green and still.
No pipers ever took that road, No gipsies, brown and gay; No shepherds with their gentle flocks, No loads of scented hay; No market-waggons jingled by On any Saturday.
The dog-wood there flung wide its stars, In April, silvery sweet; The squirrels crossed that path all day On tiny flying feet; The wild, brown rabbits knew each turn, Each shadowy safe retreat.
And there the golden-belted bee Sang his sweet summer song, The crickets chirped there to the moon With steady note and strong; Till cold and silence wrapped them round When autumn nights grew long.
But, oh! they brought the lonely dead Along that quiet way, With strange procession, dark and slow, On sunny days and grey; We used to watch them, wonder-eyed, Nor care again to play.
And we forgot each merry jest; The birds on bush and tree Silenced the song within their throats And with us watched to see, The soft, slow passing out of sight Of that dark mystery.
* * * * *
We fear no more the lonely road That winds around the hill; Far from the busy world's highway And the gods' slow-grinding mill; It only seems a peaceful path, Pleasant, and green, and still.

SEA-BORN
Afar in the turbulent city, In a hive where men make gold, He stood at his loom from dawn to dark, While the passing years were told.
And when he knew it was summer-time By the grey dust on the street, By the lingering hours of daylight, And the sultry noon-tide heat--
Oh! he longed as a captive sea-bird To leave his cage and be free, For his heart like a shell kept singing The old, old song of the sea.
And amid the noise and confusion Of wheels that were never still, He heard the wind through the scented pines On a rough, storm-beaten hill;
While, beyond a maze of painted threads, Where his tireless shuttle flew, In fancy he saw the sunlit waves Beckon him out to the blue.

THE ANGEL
Down the white ward with slow, unswerving tread He came ere break of day-- A cowl was drawn about his down-bent head, His misty robes were grey.
And no man even knew that he went by, None saw or heard him pass; Softly he moved as clouds drift down the sky, Or shadows cross the grass.
Close to a little bed where one lay low, At last he took his stand, And touched the head that tossed in restless woe With gentle, outstretched hand.
"When bitterness," he said, "is at an end, And joy grows far and dim, I am the angel whom the Lord doth send To lead men on to Him.
"Past the innumerable stars, my friend, Past all the winds that blow, We, too, must travel to our journey's end. Arise! And let us go!"
"Stay! Stay!" the other cried. "I know thy face! Death is thy dreaded name!" "Nay--I am known as 'Love' in that far place," He said, "from whence I came."
But still the other cried, with moan and tear, "I fear the dark--and thee!" "There is no dark," the angel said, "nor fear, For those who go with me.
"There is no loneliness, and nevermore The shadow-haunted night, When we pass out beyond Life's swinging door The road," he said, "is bright."
Then backward slipped the cowl from off his head, Downward the robe of grey; A radiant presence by the lowly bed Greeted the breaking day.
* * * * *
Within the long white ward one lay alone, None watched by him awhile, But some who passed him said, in whispered tone, "See--on his lips--the smile!"

WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES
For thee, my small one--trinkets and new toys, The wine of life and all its keenest joys, When Christmas comes. For me, the broken playthings of the past That in my folded hands I still hold fast, When Christmas comes.
For thee, fair hopes of all that yet may be, And tender dreams of sweetest mystery, When Christmas comes. For thee, the future in a golden haze, For me, the memory of some bygone days, When Christmas comes.
For thee, the things that lightly come and go, For thee, the holly and the mistletoe, When Christmas comes. For me, the smiles that are akin to tears, For me, the frost and snows of many years, When Christmas comes.
For thee, the twinkling candles bright and gay, For me, the purple shadows and the grey, When Christmas comes. For thee, the friends that greet thee at the door, For me, the faces I shall see no more, When Christmas comes.
But ah, for both of us the mystic star That leadeth back to Bethlehem afar, When Christmas comes. For both of us the child they saw of old, That evermore his mother's arms enfold, When Christmas comes.

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