Deep in the dark I hear his holy feet —
Around Him rustle archangelic wings;
He lingers by the temple where His Christ
Is watching in His Eucharistic sleep;
And where poor hearts in sorrow cannot rest,
He lingers there to soothe their weariness.
Where mothers weep above the dying child,
He stays to bless the mother's bitter tears,
And consecrates the cradle of her child,
Which is to her her spirit's awful cross.
He shudders past the haunts of sin — yet leaves
E'er there a mercy for the wayward hearts.
Still as a shadow through the night He moves,
With hands all full of blessings, and with heart
All full of everlasting love; ah, me!
How God does love this poor and sinful world!
The stars behold Him as He passes on,
And arch His path of mercy with their rays;
The stars are grateful — He gave them their light,
And now they give Him back the light He gave.
The shadows tremble in adoring awe;
They feel His presence, and they know His face.
The shadows, too, are grateful — could they pray,
How they would flower all His way with prayers!
The sleeping trees wake up from all their dreams —
Were their leaves lips, ah, me! how they would sing
A grand Magnificat, as His Mary sang.
The lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowers
Watch their Creator as He passes on,
And mourn they have no hearts to love their God,
And sigh they have no souls to be beloved.
Man — only man — the image of his God —
Lets God pass by when He walks forth at night.
Poets
Poets are strange — not always understood
By many is their gift,
Which is for evil or for mighty good —
To lower or to lift.
Upon their spirits there hath come a breath;
Who reads their verse
Will rise to higher life, or taste of death
In blessing or in curse.
The Poet is great Nature's own high priest,
Ordained from very birth
To keep for hearts an everlasting feast —
To bless or curse the earth.
They cannot help but sing; they know not why
Their thoughts rush into song,
And float above the world, beneath the sky,
For right or for the wrong.
They are like angels — but some angels fell,
While some did keep their place;
Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell,
And God's or Satan's face
Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face,
In blessing or in blight,
And leaves upon your soul a grace or trace
Of sunlight or of night.
They move along life's uttermost extremes,
Unlike all other men;
And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams,
Like shadows in a glen.