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- Embers, Volume 2. - 4/8 -


As the scent of a rose to the heart of a child, As the rain to the dusty land-- My heart goeth out unto Thee--unto Thee! The night is far spent and the day is at hand.

As the song of a bird to the call of a star, As the sun to the eye, As the anvil of man to the hammers of God, As the snow to the earth-- Is my word unto Thy word--to Thy word! The night is far spent and the day is at hand

THE WAKING

To be young is to dream, and I dreamed no more; I had smothered my heart as the fighter can: I toiled, and I looked not behind or before-- I was stone; but I waked with the heart of a man.

By the soul at her lips, by the light of her eyes, I dreamed a new dream as the sleeper can, That the heavenly folly of youth was wise-- I was stone; but I waked with the heart of a man.

She came like a song, she will go like a star: I shall tread the hills as the hunter can, Mine eyes to the hunt, and my soul afar- I was stone; but I waked with the heart of a man.

WHEN ONE FORGETS

When one forgets, the old things are as dead things; The grey leaves fall, and eyes that saw their May Turn from them now, and voices that have said things Wherein Life joyed, alas! are still to-day-- When one forgets.

The world was noble, now its sordid casement Glows but with garish folly, and the plains Of rich achievement lie in mean abasement-- Ah, Hope is only midwife to our pains!

When one forgets, but maimed rites come after: To mourn, be priest, be sexton, bear the pall, Remembrance-robed, the while a distant laughter Proclaims Love's ghost--what wonder skies should fall, When one forgets!

ALOES AND MYRRH

Dead, with the dew on your brow, Dead, with the may in your face, Dead: and here, true to my vow, I, who have won in the race, Weave you a chaplet of song Wet with the spray and the rime Blown from your love that was strong-- Stronger than Time.

August it was, and the sun Streamed through the pines of the west; There were two then--there is one; Flown is the bird from the nest; And it is August again, But, from this uttermost sea, Rises the mist of my pain-- You are set free.

"Tell him I see the tall pines, Out through the door as I lie-- Red where the setting sun shines-- Waving their hands in good-bye; Tell him I hold to my breast, Dying, the flowers he gave; Glad as I go I shall rest Well in my grave."

This is the message they send, Warm with your ultimate breath; Saying, "And this is the end; She is the bride but of death." Is death the worst of all things? What but a bursting of bands, Then to the First of All Things Stretching out hands!

Under the grass and the snow You will sleep well till I come; And you will feel me, I know, Though you are motionless, dumb. I shall speak low overhead-- You were so eager to hear-- And even though you are dead, You will be near.

Dead, with the dew on your brow, Dead, with the May in your face, Dead: and here, true to my vow, I, who have won in the race, Weave you a chaplet of song Wet with the spray and the rime Blown from your love that was strong-- Stronger than Time.

IN WASTE PLACES

The new life is fief to the old life, And giveth back pangs at the last; The new strife is like to the old strife A token and tear of the Past. We change, but the changes are only New forms of the old forms again, We die and some spaces are lonely, But men live in lives of new men.

We hate, and old wrongs lift their faces, To fill up the ranks of the new; We love, and the early love's graces Are signs of the false and the true; We clasp the white hands that are given To greet us in devious ways, But meet the old sins, all unshriven, To sadden the burden of days.

Though we lose the green leaves of the first days, Though the vineyards be trampled and red, We know, in the gloom of our worst days, That the dead are not evermore dead: December is only December, A space, not the infinite whole; Though the hearthstone bear but the one ember, There still is the fire of the soul.

The end comes as came the beginning, And shadows fail into the past; And the goal, is it not worth the winning, If it brings us but home at the last? While over the pain of waste places We tread, 'tis a blossoming rod That drives us to grace from disgraces, From the plains to the Gardens of God.

LAST OF ALL

Wave, walls to seaward, Storm-clouds to leeward, Beaten and blown by the winds of the West, Sail we encumbered Past isles unnumbered, But never to greet the green island of Rest.

Lips that now tremble, Do you dissemble When you deny that the human is best? Love, the evangel, Finds the Archangel-- Is that a truth when this may be a jest?

Star-drifts that glimmer Dimmer and dimmer, What do ye know of my weal or my woe? Was I born under The sun or the thunder? What do I come from, and where do I go?

Rest, shall it ever Come? Is endeavour Still a vain twining and twisting of cords? Is faith but treason; Reason, unreason, But a mechanical weaving of words?

What is the token, Ever unbroken, Swept down the spaces of querulous years,--


Embers, Volume 2. - 4/8

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