| Without the wintry
sky is overcast, The floods descend, fierce hail and rushing rain, Whilst ever and anon the angry blast Clutches the casement-pane. Within our darling beats an angrier air With piteous outstretched arms and tossing head, Whilst we, bowed low beside his labouring bed, Pour all our hearts in prayer. Is this the end? The tired little hands Fall by his side, the wild eyes close at last, Breathless he sinks, almost we hear his sands Of being ebbing past; When, O miraculous! he wakes once more, Love glowing in his glance, the while there slips "Mother, dear Mother!" from his trembling lips, "Dear Mother!" o'er and o'er. He has come back, our little Fairy Child, Back from his wanderings in the dreadful dark, Back o'er the furious surge of fever wild, The lost dove of our ark; Back, slowly back o'er the dire flood's decrease The white wings flutter, only our God knows how, Bearing aloft the blessed olive bough Of His compassionate peace. |
SPRING'S SECRETS
| As once I paused
on poet wing In the green heart of a grove, I met the Spirit of the Spring With her great eyes lit of love. She took me gently by the hand And whispered in my wondering ear Secrets none may understand, Till she make their meaning clear; Why the primrose looks so pale, Why the rose is set with thorns; Why the magic nightingale Through the darkness mourns and mourns; How the angels, as they pass In their vesture pure and white O'er the shadowy garden grass, Touch the lilies into light; How their hidden hands upbear The fledgling throstle in the air, And lift the lowly lark on high, And hold him singing in the sky; What human hearts delight her most; The careless child with roses crowned, The mourner, knowing that his lost Shall in the Eternal Spring be found. |