So I sought me a little scroll, love; And thereon, in eager haste, Lest another’s eye should read them Some mystic words I traced. Then close in your claspèd fingers, Close in your waxen hand, I placed the scroll for an amulet, Sure you would understand!
The secret is yours and mine, love! Only we two may know What words shine clear in the darkness, Of your grave so green and low. But if when we meet hereafter, In the dawn of some fairer day, You whisper those mystical words, love, It is all I would have you say!
THIS DAY
I wonder what is this day to you, Looking down from the upper skies! Is there a pang at your gentle heart? Is there a shade in your tender eyes? Do you think up there of the whispered words That thrilled your soul long years ago? Does ever a haunting undertone Blend with the chantings sweet and low?
When this day dawned (if where you are Skies grow red when the morn is near) Did you know that before its close The love once yours would be on its bier? Did you know that another’s lip Would redden with kisses once your own, And the golden cup of a younger life O’erflow with the wine once yours alone?
Do you remember? Ah, my saint, Bend your ear from the ether blue! Have you risen to heights so far That earth and its loves are nought to you? Do you care that your place is filled? Does it matter that now at last The turf above you has grown so deep That its shadow overlies your past?
O, belovèd, I may not know! Heaven is afar, and the grave is dumb, And out of the silence so profound Neither token nor voice may come! We try to think that we understand; But whether you wake, or whether you sleep, Or whether our deeds are aught to you, Is still a mystery strange and deep!
“CHRISTUS!”
Over the desolate sea-side town With a terrible tumult the night came down, And the fierce wind swept through the empty street, With the drifting snow for a winding-sheet. Elsie, the fisherman’s daughter, in bed Lay and listened in awe and dread, But sprang to her feet in sudden fear When over the tempest, loud and clear, A voice cried, “Christus!”
“Christus! Christus!” and nothing more. Was it a cry at the cottage-door? She left her chamber with flying feet; She loosened the bolts with fingers fleet; She lifted the latch, but only the din Of the furious storm and the snow swept in. She looked without: not a soul was there, But still rang out on the startled air The strange cry, “Christus!”