OLIVIA MEYNELL

_A GRIEF WITHOUT CHRIST_

I sought Him in the trees, and Him I found In every colour, and in every sound.

I sought Him in the sky, and He was there, A living G.o.d, breathing the living air.

I sought Him in my soul--oh, pa.s.sionate loss!

All that I found was a forsaken Cross.

_THE CROWNING_

Whenas we wandered in the summer hours, My kind love crowned me with a crown of flowers.

Softly they touched my forehead and my hair; Gay, sunny, yellow, and sweet-breathed they were--

Soft flowers and tender hands, gay sun, soft skies; And sweeter, tenderer yet, his loving eyes.

Ah! but it should have been with thorns he crowned me, Who follow Christ, while cold skies blackened round me.

Dear love, I will accept from you cold frown, Sharp words, hard touch, as symbols of His crown.

MAURICE HEALY

_IN MEMORIAM_

"Lord, teach us how to pray," they said; And Jesus raised His weary head, Bowed by the sorrows of the way, And taught His children how to pray.

"Lord, teach me how to pray," I cried; And Jesus sent you to my side To make your own the soul I wear And mould it purer into prayer.

And since your love first lit the way I find that I have learned to pray; For, that my soul may benefit, I pray that you may pray for it.

_A BALLAD OF FRIENDSHIP_

_for two most dear Children_

Soured and dimmed and chilled with senility Hobbled the year to its uttermost day; I gave the best of a slender ability, Seeking to make a short afternoon gay.

You were both claimed ere the sky was grey Over the tips of the western towers; Yet, as you went, you had time to say, "This is no stranger: we name him ours!"

Slaves and serfs have woes in abundancy-- Clashing of manacle, whistling of thong, Tales of terror and tears to redundancy; What is the score of my slavery's wrong?

Surely where pleasures so freely throng Some sad fiend of unhappiness lowers; Or is the refrain of Good Fortune's song, "This is no stranger: we name him ours"?

When you enfranchised me into your mystery, Lovingly stealing the sorrows I had, Wisdom came with you; the old sad history Glowed; and I knew in my heart why the sad And outcast Lord grew suddenly glad As the children thronged to crown Him with flowers, When their cry was voiced by some tiny lad, "This is no Stranger: we name Him ours!"

L'ENVOI.

So do I thank you; and if some day You in your gained Paradisal bowers Hear me knocking, be bold to pray, "This is no stranger: we claim him ours!"

_IN THE MIDST OF THEM_

"_Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look on me, a little child.

Pity my simplicity And suffer me to come to Thee_."

Now prevails a creed which tells Us to seek no miracles.

Reason by discovered lore Reigns where Faith was found before.

G.o.d, Who set our world aspin, Now is weary of its din; He, Who for our fathers' sake Conjured lightning and earthquake, Vanquished sorrow, sickness, death, Deems we are not worth the Breath That blessed the trusting prophet's rod When Moses called upon his G.o.d.

How dare _we_ expect Him give Miracles to help us live?

Yet I build on Him Who saith, "Move the mountains with your faith"-- Doubt the lips that falter, wan, "The age of miracles is gone!"

I have learned to read the grim Testimony unto Him Printed with starvation's hand On every hove! through the land; I have swung the crazy door To find huddled on a floor Rat-gnawed and riddled, with never a clout To keep the eager winter out, Some six or seven of our kind Shivering beneath the wind, Foodless, fireless, hungry-eyed, Crouched round one who just had died, Hopeless that the dawn would bring Friendly aid and comforting.

And after prayer for the parted soul, They have thanked the slender dole, And spoken of hope of days to come, And have forgotten their martyrdom.

The anguished grief of motherhood Has firmly whispered "G.o.d is good And can in His Eternity Repay this present loss"; till I Have almost turned my head to see If Christ has not come in with me!

_Gentle Jesus, mild and meek, These the simple words I speak Are the faith Thou gavest me; Suffer me to come to Thee!_

_SIC TRANSIT_

They camped in the meadow at sunrise, And their crests gleamed bright in the sun, And the breeze that blew sighed soft, for it knew Their fate e'er the day was done.

They lay in the meadow at sunset, As the sky in anger blushed red; For the host of the dawn lay still on the lawn-- The host was a host of dead.

Let the gardener but pa.s.s his scythe o'er the gra.s.s-- And the life of a daisy is sped!

MONICA SALEEBY

_RETROSPECT_

You loved the child of fifteen years.

I knew not this vast thing.

Your great heart shrank beneath your fears; You left me wondering.

Now fourteen years have pa.s.sed us by; Our souls meet once again; And, meeting, I have asked you why Our ways apart have lain?