SLANTING rain and a sky of gray,
Drifting mist and a wind astray,
The leaden end of a leaden day
And you—away!
Light in the west! The sky’s pale dome
Gemmed with a star; a scented gloam
Of bursting buds and rain-wet loam
And you—at home!
The Mother
LAST night he lay within my arm,
So small, so warm—a mystery
To which God only held the key—
But mine to keep from fear and harm!
Ah! He was all my own, last night,
With soft, persuasive, baby eyes,
So wondering and yet so wise,
And hands that held my finger tight.
Why was it that he could not stay—
Too rare a gift? Yet who could hold
A treasure with securer hold
Than I, to whom love taught the way?
As with a flood of golden light
The first sun tipped earth’s golden rim
So all my world grew bright with him
And with his going fell the night—
O God, is there an angel arm
More strong, more tender than the rest?
Lay Thou my baby on his breast
To keep him safe from fear and harm!
The Vassal
WIND of the North, O far, wild wind
Born of a far, lone sea—
When suns are soft and breezes kind
Why are you kin to me?