Part 39

Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became -- Gentle though I be -- Gentler than ever when I called thy name, Gentlest to thee?

You came to me in girlhood; as your guide I watched your spirit's ways; We walked God's holy valleys side by side, And so went on the days.

And so went on the years -- 'tis five and more; Your soul is fairer now; A light as of a sunset on a shore Is falling on my brow --

Is falling, soon to fade; when I am dead Think this, my child, of me: I never said -- I never could have said -- Ungentle words to thee.

I treated you as I would treat a flower, I watched you with such care; And from my lips God heard in many an hour Your name in many a prayer.

I watched the flower's growth; so fair it grew, On not a leaf a stain; Your soul to purest thoughts so sweetly true; I did not watch in vain.

I guide you still -- in my steps you tread still; Towards God these ways are set; 'Twill soon be over: child! when I am dead I'll watch and guide you yet.

'Tis better far that I should go before, And you awhile should stay; But I will wait upon the golden shore To meet my child some day.

When I am dead; in some lone after time, If crosses come to thee, You'll think -- remembering this simple rhyme -- "He holds a crown for me."

I guide you here -- I go before you there; But here or there -- I know -- Whether the roses, or the thorny crown you wear I'll watch where'er you go,

And wait until you come; when I am dead Think, sometimes, child, of this: You must not weep -- follow where I led, I wait for you in bliss.

God in the Night

Deep in the dark I hear the feet of God: He walks the world; He puts His holy hand On every sleeper -- only puts His hand -- Within it benedictions for each one -- Then passes on; but ah! whene'er He meets A watcher waiting for Him, He is glad. (Does God, like man, feel lonely in the dark?) He rests His hand upon the watcher's brow -- But more than that, He leaves His very breath Upon the watcher's soul; and more than this, He stays for holy hours where watchers pray; And more than that, He ofttimes lifts the veils That hide the visions of the world unseen. The brightest sanctities of highest souls Have blossomed into beauty in the dark. How extremes meet! the very darkest crimes That blight the souls of men are strangely born Beneath the shadows of the holy night.

Deep in the dark I hear his holy feet -- Around Him rustle archangelic wings; He lingers by the temple where His Christ Is watching in His Eucharistic sleep; And where poor hearts in sorrow cannot rest, He lingers there to soothe their weariness. Where mothers weep above the dying child, He stays to bless the mother's bitter tears, And consecrates the cradle of her child, Which is to her her spirit's awful cross. He shudders past the haunts of sin -- yet leaves E'er there a mercy for the wayward hearts. Still as a shadow through the night He moves, With hands all full of blessings, and with heart All full of everlasting love; ah, me! How God does love this poor and sinful world!

The stars behold Him as He passes on, And arch His path of mercy with their rays; The stars are grateful -- He gave them their light, And now they give Him back the light He gave. The shadows tremble in adoring awe; They feel His presence, and they know His face. The shadows, too, are grateful -- could they pray, How they would flower all His way with prayers! The sleeping trees wake up from all their dreams -- Were their leaves lips, ah, me! how they would sing A grand Magnificat, as His Mary sang. The lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowers Watch their Creator as He passes on, And mourn they have no hearts to love their God, And sigh they have no souls to be beloved. Man -- only man -- the image of his God -- Lets God pass by when He walks forth at night.

Poets

Poets are strange -- not always understood By many is their gift, Which is for evil or for mighty good -- To lower or to lift.

Upon their spirits there hath come a breath; Who reads their verse Will rise to higher life, or taste of death In blessing or in curse.

The Poet is great Nature's own high priest, Ordained from very birth To keep for hearts an everlasting feast -- To bless or curse the earth.

They cannot help but sing; they know not why Their thoughts rush into song, And float above the world, beneath the sky, For right or for the wrong.

They are like angels -- but some angels fell, While some did keep their place; Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell, And God's or Satan's face

Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face, In blessing or in blight, And leaves upon your soul a grace or trace Of sunlight or of night.

They move along life's uttermost extremes, Unlike all other men; And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams, Like shadows in a glen.

They all are dreamers; in the day and night Ever across their souls The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright In mystic rhythm rolls.

They live within themselves -- they may not tell What lieth deepest there; Within their breast a heaven or a hell, Joy or tormenting care.

They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways, No matter what they seem; The stars and sunlight of their nights and days Move over them in dream.

They breathe it forth -- their very spirit's breath -- To bless the world or blight; To bring to men a higher life or death; To give them light or night.

The words of some command the world's acclaim, And never pass away, While others' words receive no palm from fame, And live but for a day.