Break we the bread once more,
The cup we pass around—
No, rather let us pour
This wine upon the ground;
And on the salver lay
The bread—there to remain.
Perhaps, some other day,
Shrovetide will come again.
Blurred is the rubric now,
And shadowy the token,
When blood is on the brow,
And the frail body broken.
XIV
SNOWFALL ON A BATTLE-FIELD
Compassion of heaven,
From night's crystal bars,
Falling so gently
In wreaths of white stars;
Petals of mystery
Culled in far lands;
Crosses of Calvary,
Wrought by strange hands;
Gems from His mountains,
Facets so rare,
Foam from His fountain
Eternally fair.
Why do they lovingly
Leave their fair home,
These leaves of God's gardens,
To stray on earth's loam?
See how they hover
Over faces so cold,
How reverently cover
The young and the old!