As ’mid the trees his song did cease,
With voice most sweet and holy,
Peace,—’mid the cornlands of increase
And rose-beds of love’s victories,—
Took up his music lowly.
INSOMNIA
It seems that dawn will never climb
The eastern hills;
And, clad in mist and flame and rime,
Make flashing highways of the rills.
The night is as an ancient way
Through some dead land,
Whereon the ghosts of Memory
And Sorrow wander, hand in hand.
By which man’s works ignoble seem,
Unbeautiful;
And grandeur, but the ruined dream
Of some dead queen, crowned with a skull.
A way, Past-peopled, dark and old,
That stretches far—
Its only real thing, the cold
Vague light of Sleep’s one fitful star.
ENCOURAGEMENT
To help our tired hope to toil,
Lo! have we not the council here
Of trees, that to my heart appear
As sermons of the soil?
To help our flagging faith to rise,
Lo! have we not the high advice
Of stars, that for my soul suffice
As gospels of the skies?
Sustain us, Lord! and help us climb,
With hope and faith made strong and great,
The rock-rough pathway of our fate,
The care-dark way of time.