IF Michael, leader of God’s host,
When Heaven and Hell are met,
Looked down on you from Heaven’s door-post,
He would his deeds forget.
Brooding no more upon God’s wars
In his Divine homestead,
He would go weave out of the stars
A chaplet for your head;
And all folk seeing him bow down,
And white stars tell your praise,
Would come at last to God’s great town,
Led on by gentle ways;
And God would bid his warfare cease,
Saying all things were well,
And softly make a rosy peace,
A peace of Heaven and Hell.
W. B. Yeats.
THE BRIDAL PAIR.
HE.
THOUGH the roving bee as lightly
Sip the sweets of thyme and clover,
Though the moon of May as whitely
Silver all the greensward over,
Yet, beneath the trysting tree,
That hath been which shall not be!
SHE.
Drip the vials ne’er so sweetly
With the honey-dew of pleasure,
Trip the dancers ne’er so featly
Through the old remembered measure,
Yet, the lighted lanthorn round,
What is lost shall not be found!
William Young.