It may be raining now, that first warm rain
That melts the heart of earth beneath the snows,
Our Northland snows (she feels the swimmer’s pain
Who catches breath, half-drowned, when the blood flows
Shuddering back into the frozen vein).
And did ye think I should not come again
At the long last in spring-time with the rain?
MARY THE MOTHER.
(Cradle Song.)
SO great a lady, so dear is she,
Princess in heaven, but mother to me!
When little Jesus lay in her arm
It was enough for him that he was warm.
When the small head at her bosom did nod
Did she remember that He was the God?
Or when she sang to Him low in His ear,
Did she say “Master” or did she sob “Dear”?
Was it the star on the manger that shone
Crowned her an empress, or was it her Son?
So great a lady to lie in a stall—
But only a mother (she thought) after all.
So great a lady, so dear is she,
Princess in heaven! but who does not see
How against Godhead, in spite of the Cross,
She holds to her bosom her Jesus that was?
APPLES.
WHEN there is no more sea and no more sailing
Will God go vintaging the wine-dark seas,
Reaping gold apples of the storm and trailing
To harvest home the lost Hesperides?
Will God, the gates that guard the river breaking,
Annul the blinding gesture of the sword,
And find the Tree, all other dreams forsaking,
Whose apples are the knowledge of the Lord?
Forsaking dreams—forgiveness and salvation,
Sins that were needless needlessly forgiven,
Hell where he knew vicarious damnation
And ghosts of rapture in a ghost of heaven?