The Miracle and Other Poems | Page 7

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 dead remembered--ay! long and well-- And the little children
whose spirits dwell In God's green garden of asphodel.
Have you reached the country of all content, 0 souls we know, since the
day you went From this time-worn world, where your years were
spent?
Would you come back to the sun and the rain, The sweetness, the strife,

the thing we call pain, And then unravel life's tangle again?
I lean to the dark--Hush!--was it a sigh? Or the painted vine-leaves that
rustled by? Or only a night-bird's echoing cry?

THE GLEANER
As children gather daisies down green ways Mid butterflies and bees,
To-day across the meadows of past days I gathered memories.
I stored my heart with harvest of lost hours-- With blossoms of spent
years; Leaves that had known the sun of joy, and hours Drenched with
the rain of tears.
And perfumes that were long ago distilled From April's pink and white,
Again with all their old enchantment, filled My spirit with delight.
From out the limbo where lost roses go The place we may not see,
With all its petals sweet and half-ablow, One rose returned to me.
Where falls the sunlight chequered by the shade On meadows of the
past, I gathered blossoms that no sun can fade No winter wind can
blast.

THE ROVER
Though I follow a trail to north or south, Though I travel east or west,
There's a little house on a quiet road That my hidden heart loves best;
And when my journeys are over and done, 'Tis there I will go to rest.
The snows have bleached it this many a year; The sun has painted it
grey; The vines hold it close in their clinging arms; The shadows creep
there to stay; And the wind goes calling through empty rooms For those
who have gone away.
But the roses against the window-pane Are the roses I used to know;
And the rain on the roof still sings the song It sang in the long ago,
When I lay me down to sleep in a bed Little and white and low.
It is long since I bid it all good-bye, With young light-hearted disdain; I
remember who stood at the door that day; Her tears fell fast as the rain;
And I whistled a tune and waved my hand, But never went back again.
Toll I have paid at the gates of the world, The sand I know and the sea;
I have taken the wide and open road, With steps unhindered and free;
Yet, like a bell ringing down in my heart, My home is calling to me.

IN SOLITUDE
He is not desolate whose ship is sailing Over the mystery of an
unknown sea, For some great love with faithfulness unfailing Will light
the stars to bear him company.
Out in the silence of the mountain passes, The heart makes peace and
liberty its own-- The wind that blows across the scented grasses
Bringing the balm of sleep--comes not alone.
Beneath the vast illimitable spaces Where God has set His jewels in
array, A man may pitch his tent in desert places Yet know that heaven
is not so far away.
But in the city--in the lighted city-- Where gilded spires point toward
the sky, And fluttering rags and hunger ask for pity, Grey Loneliness in
cloth-of-gold, goes by.

THE ROBIN
Little brown brother, up in the apple tree, High on its blossom-rimmed
branches aswing, Here where I listen