Far and still far—through years yet dim
List, sweet Mary!
From o’er the waking earth’s green rim
Another Springtime calleth Him!
Bend low, the barley and the corn!
Call low, call high, and call again,
Ah, poor Mary!
Know, by thy heart’s prophetic pain,
That one day thou shalt call in vain—
Moan, moan, the barley and the corn!
O mother! make thine arms a shield,
Sing, sweet Mary!
While love still holds what love must yield
Hide well the path across the field!—
Sing low, the barley and the corn!
. . . . .
“The Spring is come!” a shepherd saith;
Rest thee, Mary—
The passing years are but a breath
And Spring still comes to Nazareth—
Green, green, the barley and the corn!
Inheritance
THERE lived a man who raised his hand and said,
“I will be great!”
And through a long, long life he bravely knocked
At Fame’s closed gate.
A son he left who, like his sire, strove
High place to win;—
Worn out, he died and, dying, left no trace
That he had been.
He also left a son, who, without care
Or planning how,
Bore the fair letters of a deathless fame
Upon his brow.
“Behold a genius, filled with fire divine!”
The people cried;
Not knowing that to make him what he was
Two men had died.