For this, oh Father! we give Thee thanks,
By the little graves, and the tear-wet sod,
They stand before Thee in shining ranks,
And the little white souls are safe with God!
CHRISTMAS
The birth day of the Christ child dawneth slow
Out of the opal east in rosy flame,
As if a luminous picture in its frame—
A great cathedral window, toward the sun
Lifted a form divine, which still below
Stretched hands of benediction;—while the air
Swayed the bright aureole of the flowing hair
Which lit our upturned faces;—even so
Look on us from the heavens, divinest One
And let us hear through the slow moving years.
Long centuries of wrongs, and crimes, and tears,—
The echo of the angel's song again,
Peace and good will, good will and peace to men,
A little space make silence,—that our ears,
Filled with the din of toil and moil and pain
May catch the jubilant rapture of the skies,—
The glories of the choirs of paradise.
The hills still tremble when the thunders cease
Of the loud diapason,—and again
Through the rapt stillness steals the hymn of peace;
Melodious and sweet its far refrain
Dying in distance, as the shadows die
Of white wings vanished up the morning sky,
As farther still—and thinner—more remote—
A film of sound, the aerial voices float—
Peace and good will, good will and peace to men!
MY GARDEN
Only the commonest flowers
Grow in my garden small,
Like buttercups, and bouncing-bets,
And hollyhocks by the wall,
And sunflowers nodding their stately heads,
Like grenadiers so tall.
But the purple pansy grows beneath—
The sweetest flower of all—
And tiny feathery filmy ferns
You scarce can see at all,
Fleck the shady side of the stones,
So dainty, fine and small
Only the commonest flowers
Grow in this garden of mine,
The larkspur flaunting her sky-blue cap,
And the twinkling celandine
Shakes her jewels of freckled gold,
And drinks her honey-wine,
Making a cup of her lucent stem,
So slender and so fine.
You hear the waves that dimple and slide,
Slide and shimmer and shine,
Under her fairy-slippered feet—
My golden celandine.
The hands of the little children
Gather them without fear;
Wonders of beauty and gladness
To them my flowers appear.
I have seen them bend to listen,
With poised and patient ear,
The curfew chime of the fairies,
In the lily's bell to hear.