The Miracle and Other Poems | Page 9

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 our portion of forgetfulness, Silent and deep.
Lay Thou Thy quiet hand upon our eyes To close their sight; Shut out
the shining of the moon and stars And candle-light.
Keep back the phantoms and the visions sad, The shades of grey, The
fancies that so haunt the little hours Before the day.
Quiet the time-worn questions that are all Unanswered yet, Take from
the spent and troubled souls of us Their vain regret;
And lead us far into Thy silent land, That we may go Like children out
across the field o' dreams Where poppies blow.
So all Thy saints--and all Thy sinners too-- Wilt Thou not keep, Since
not alone unto Thy well-beloved Thou givest sleep?

NOVEMBER
How like a hooded friar, bent and grey, Whose pensive lips speak only
when they pray Doth sad November pass upon his way.
Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low-- In God's cathedral
where the great trees grow, Now all day long he paceth to and fro.
When shadows gather and the night-mists rise, Up to the hills he lifts
his sombre eyes To where the last red rose of sunset lies.
A little smile he weareth, wise and cold, The smile of one to whom all
things are old, And life is weary, as a tale twice told.
"Come see," he seems to say--"where joy has fled-- The leaves that
burned but yesterday so red Have turned to ashes--and the flowers are
dead.
"The summer's green and gold hath taken flight, October days have
gone. Now bleached and white Winter doth come with many a lonely
night.
"And though the people will not heed or stay, But pass with careless
laughter on their way, Even I, with rain of tears, will wait and pray."

THE LILY-POND
On this little pool where the sunbeams lie, This tawny gold ring where
the shadows die, God doth enamel the blue of His sky.
Through the scented dark when the night wind sighs, He mirrors His
stars where the ripples rise, Till they glitter like prisoned fireflies.
'Tis here that the beryl-green leaves uncurl, And here the lilies uplift
and unfurl Their golden-lined goblets of carven pearl.
When the grey of the eastern sky turns pink, Through the silver sedge
at the pond's low brink The little lone field-mouse creeps down to
drink.
And creatures to whom only God is kind, The loveless small things, the
slow, and the blind, Soft steal through the rushes, and comfort find.
Oh, restless the river, restless the sea! Where the great ships go, and the
dead men be; The lily-pond giveth but peace to me.

LILACS
In lonely gardens deserted--unseen-- Oh! lovely lilacs of purple and

white, You are dipping down through a mist of green; For the morning
sun's delight. And the velvet bee, all belted with black, Drinks deep of
the wine which your flagons hold, Clings close to your plumes while he
fills his pack With a load of burnished gold.
You hide the fences with blossoms of snow, And sweeten the shade of
castle towers; Over low,