Thou wast a babe on that
Far Christmas Day,
Let us as children follow
In Thy way.
So that our hearts grown cold
’Neath time and pain,
With young sweet faith may blossom
Green again.
That empty promises
Of passing years
Spring into life, and not
Repenting tears.
So that our deeds upon
The earth may go,
As innocent as lambs,
And pure as snow.
THE KINE OF MY FATHER
The kine of my rather, they are straying from my keeping;
The young goat’s at mischief, but little can I do:
For all through the night did I hear the Banshee keening;
O youth of my loving, and is it well with you?
All through the night sat my mother with my sorrow;
“Whisht, it is the wind, O one childeen of my heart!”
My hair with the wind, and my two hands clasped in anguish;
Black head of my darling! too long are we apart.
Were your grave at my feet, I would think it half a blessing;
I could herd then the cattle, and drive the goats away;
Many a Paternoster I would say for your safe keeping;
I could sleep above your heart, until the dawn of day.
I see you on the prairie, hot with thirst and faint with hunger;
The head that I love lying low upon the sand.
The vultures shriek impatient, and the coyote dogs are howling,
Till the blood is pulsing cold within your clenching hand.
I see you on the waters, so white, so still forlorn,
Your dear eyes unclosing beneath a foreign rain:
A plaything of the winds, you turn and drift unceasing,
No grave for your resting; O mine the bitter pain!