Then spoke the Voice again. Oh, mystic words
Of a compelling grace:
The curtain rose from off his darkened sight—
He saw the King's own face.
So strangely beautiful—so strangely near—
He worshipped with his eyes,
Unheeding that for him at last there shone
The sunlit noonday skies.
What though the clamouring crowd echoed his name
Unto its utmost rim,
He only saw the Christ—and in the light
He rose and followed Him.
* * * * *
Oh, Bartimeus of the mask-like face,
And patient, outstretched hand,
Was it for this God set on thee the mark
No man might understand?
THE CROW
Hail, little herald!—Art thou then returning
From summer lands, this wild and wind-torn day?
Hast brought the word for which our hearts are yearning,
That spring is on the way?
Hark! Now there comes a clear, insistent calling,
From hill tops crested with untarnished snow;
The trumpet notes are drifting—floating—falling—
Whene'er the breezes blow!
"Winter is over, and the spring is coming!"
Glad is thy message, little page in black—
"Winter is over, and the spring is coming—
The spring is coming back!"
Tell me, 0 prophet, bird of sombre feather,
Who taught thee all the mysteries of spring?—
Didst note each passing mood of wind and weather,
While flying to the North on buoyant wing?