The Miracle and Other Poems | Page 6

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.

THE 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