For but a little, little round of years, The sweet sun-sprinkled foam will be their bed, And they will slumber--hushed from any fears-- To waken, when the sea gives up her dead.

THE CRY

They have laid him away; Even he who was always so strong and gay Will be locked in the earth till the judgment day; "Dust unto dust" I have heard the priest say.

He will never return; Though I weep my eyes blind, though I pray and yearn,-- Though the star-light goes out and the great suns burn Into whitest ash,--he will never return.

So of weeping--no more; It is tears fill the oceans from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e; They have made the wind salt--the wind at my door; They harm the good ground--so of weeping--no more.

"Not again!" "Not again!"

Do you hear the sea singing that one refrain?

The pine trees, the wind and the wearysome rain All whisper it; "Never again!"--"Not again!"

Who can tell me--who knows, Where his lonely soul travels?

Whither it goes?-- Has he gone like the leaves?--Like yesterday's snows?-- Speak, dear Lord of Death! You who died--and arose!

THE BRIDGE OF DREAMS

The thought of thee is like a swinging tune, A little swinging tune I seem to hear; The thought of thee is like the breeze of June Blowing across the winter of the year!

The thought of thee is like a golden star Set all alone within the midnight blue;-- A heaven-lit candle shining from afar Upon the road that we are pa.s.sing through.

The thought of thee is like the woods in spring, With silver-grey and silver-green o'erset; The thought of thee is what the four winds bring Over the banks of wild-blown mignonette.

And all the music of the twilight sea, Echoes thy voice in tender undertone; The sea-gulls seem but grey-winged thoughts of thee, Caught on the salted wing and homeward blown!

G.o.d keeps the secret of His heaven well,-- But Azrael finds its gates, where'er they be; And from the earth, to fields of Asphodel, I build a bridge of dreams, and cross to thee.

THE Sh.e.l.lS

O my brave heart! O my strong heart! My sweet heart and gay, The soul of me went with you the hour you marched away, For surely she is soulless, this woman white, and still, Who works with shining metal to make the things that kill.

I tremble as I touch them,--so strange they are, and bright; Each one will be a comet to break the purple night;-- Grey Fear will ride before it, and Death will ride behind: The sound of it will deafen,--the light of it will blind!

And whom it meets in pa.s.sing, but G.o.d alone will know.

Each one will blaze a trail in blood--will hew a road of woe; O when the fear is on me, my heart grows faint and cold;-- I dare not think of what I do,--of what my fingers, hold!

Then sounds a Voice, "Arise, and make the weapons of the Lord!"

"He rides upon the whirlwind! He hath need of sh.e.l.l, and sword!

His army is a mighty host--the lovely and the strong,-- They follow Him to battle, with trumpet and with song!"

O my brave heart! My strong heart! My sweet heart and dear,-- 'Tis not for me to falter,--'Tis not for me to fear;-- Across the utmost barrier--wherever you may be,-- With joy unspent, and deathless, my soul will follow thee!

REQUIEM

Weep for the dead; weep for the swift slain dead, November skies; Too few the tears that day and night are shed From women's eyes.

Blow o'er them lightly with a soft caress, Wind of the sea; If you are tender they may miss love less-- Where'er they be.

Come, gentle moon, swing low your lantern light On reddened fields, And find the lonely harvest of the night That battle yields.

Banish the darkness filled with quivering dread, Lest they should know Some last strange horror,--even they--the dead;-- Sweet moon, swing low!

Fold them at dawn, dear Earth, within your arms So safe and strong; Hold them asleep till they forget alarms, And woe and wrong.

Master of Kings! If peace be bought with pain, These paid the price; O show Thy tortured world that not in vain, Is sacrifice!

THE CROSSES

The little lonely crosses, the crosses low and white, They haunt me most in the silver hour That lies against the night; Or when the rose-dusk dawn comes in, With a star for candlelight.

The little lonely crosses in fields so far away, They cast a shadow on my path-- And, take which road I may, It follows, follows, follows-- Throughout the livelong day.

O little lonely crosses that gentle hands have made, You mean to us forevermore The price that has been paid For a heritage of Freedom, And a People unafraid.

So, as a Pilgrim to his shrine, in dreams I rise and go, To find the poppied place of sleep, And the crosses row on row; The crosses carved with names beloved, The crosses white and low.

THE LONELY ROAD

We used to fear the lonely road That twisted round the hill; It dipped down to the river-way, And pa.s.sed the haunted mill, And then crept on, until it reached The churchyard, green and still.

No pipers ever took that road,-- No gipsies, brown and gay;-- No shepherds with their gentle flocks,-- No loads of scented hay;-- No market-wagons jingled by On any Sat.u.r.day.

The dog-wood there flung wide its stars In April, silvery sweet; The squirrels crossed that path all day On tiny flying feet; The wild, brown rabbits knew each turn, Each shadowy safe retreat.

And there the golden-belted bee Sang his sweet summer song; The crickets chirped there to the moon With steady note and strong; Till cold and silence wrapped them round When autumn nights grew long.

But, oh! they brought the lonely dead Along that quiet way, With strange procession, dark and slow, On sunny days and grey; We used to watch them, wonder-eyed, Nor care again to play,--

And we forgot each merry jest; The birds on bush and tree Silenced the song within their throats, And with us watched to see, The soft, slow pa.s.sing out of sight Of that dark mystery.