WILLOW-PIPES

So in the shadow by the nimble flood He made her whistles of the willow wood, Flutes of one note with mellow slender tone; (A robin piping in the dusk alone).

Lively the pleasure was the wand to bruise, And notch the light rod for its lyric use, Until the stem gave up its tender sheath, And showed the white and glistening wood beneath.

And when the ground was covered with light chips, Grey leaves and green, and twigs and tender slips, They placed the well-made whistles in a row And left them for the careless wind to blow.

ANGEL

Come to me when grief is over, When the tired eyes, Seek thy cloudy wings to cover Close their burning skies.

Come to me when tears have dwindled Into drops of dew, When the sighs like sobs re-kindled Are but deep and few.

Hold me like a crooning mother, Heal me of the smart; All mine anguish let me smother In thy brooding heart.

CHRISTMAS FOLK-SONG

Those who die on Christmas Day (I heard the triumphant Seraph say) Will be remembered, for they died Upon the Holy Christmastide; When they attain to Paradise, The Angels with the tranquil Eyes Will ask if Jesus rules on Earth The Anniversary of His Birth; This Question do they ask alway Of those who die on Christmas Day.

Those who are born on Christmas Day (I heard the triumphant Seraph say) Will bring again the Peace on Earth That came with gentle Christ His Birth; They may be lowly Folk and poor Living about the Manger Door, They may be Kings of Mighty Line, Their Lives alike will be benign; To them belongeth Peace alway, Those who are born on Christmas Day.

FROM BEYOND

Here there is balm for every tender heart Wounded by life; Rest for each one who bore a valiant part Crushed in the strife.

I suffered there and held a losing fight Even to the grave; And now I know that it was very right To suffer and be brave.

THE LEAF

This silver-edged geranium leaf Is one sign of a bitter grief Whose symbols are a myriad more; They cl.u.s.ter round a carven stone Where she who sleeps is never alone For two hearts at the core,

Bound with her heart make one of three, A trinity in unity, One sentient heart that grieves; And myriad dark-leaved memories keep Vigil above the triune sleep,-- Edged all with silver are the leaves.

A MYSTERY PLAY

CHARACTERS

The Father. The Child. Death. Angels.

Two Travellers.

_The even settles still and deep, In the cold sky the last gold burns, Across the colour snow flakes creep.

Each one from grey to glory turns Then flutters into nothingness; The frost down falls with mighty stress Through the swift cloud that parts on high; The great stars shrivel into less In the hard depth of the iron sky._

_The Child:_

What is that light, dear father, That light in the dark, dark sky?

_The Father:_

Those are the lights of the city And the villages thereby.

_The Child:_

There must be fire in the city To throw that yellow glare; And fire in the little villages On all the hearthstones there.

_The Father, musing:_

Yea, flames are on the hearthstones; The ovens are full of bread, But here the coals are dying And the flames are dead.

_The Child:_

What is the cold, dear father?

It stings like an angry bee.

Wherever it stings my hand turns white, See!

_The Father:_

The cold is a beast, my dear one, With his paws he tears at the thatch, His breath is a curse and a warning, You can see it creep on the latch.