Spring, with all love and all dear delights pulsing in every vein, The old earth knows her, and thrills to her touch, as she claims her own again.

Spring, with the hyacinths filling her lap and violet seeds in her hair, With the crocus hiding its satin head in her bosom warm and fair;

Spring, with the daffodils at her feet and pansies abloom in her eyes, Spring, with enough of G.o.d in herself to make the dead to arise!

For see, as she bends o'er the coffin deep--the frozen valley and hill-- The dead river stirs,--ah, that ling'ring kiss is making its heart to thrill!

And then as she closer and closer leans, it slips from its snowy shroud, Frightened a moment, then rushing away, calling and laughing aloud!

The hill where she rested is all abloom, the wood is green as of old, And wakened birds are striving to send their songs to the Gates of Gold.

MADAM GRUNDY.

Madam, they say, has lost her way.

Tell me, has she pa.s.sed thither?

Let her alone and she'll come home, And bring her _tales_ all with her.

THE SPLENDOR OF THE DAYS.

Sweet and shrill the crickets hiding in the gra.s.ses brown and lean Pipe their gladness--sweeter, shriller--one would think the world was green.

O the haze is on the hilltops, and the haze is on the lake!

See it fleeing through the valley with the bold wind in its wake!

Mark the warm October haze!

Mark the splendor of the days!

And the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

See the bare hills turn their furrows to the shine and to the glow; If you listen you can hear it, hear a murmur soft and low-- "We are naked," so the fields say, "stripped of all our golden dress."

"Heed it not," October answers, "for I love ye none the less.

Share my beauty and my cheer While we rest together here, In these sun-filled days of languor, in these late days of the year."

All the splendor of the summer, all the springtime's light and grace, All the riches of the harvest, crown her head and light her face; And the wind goes sighing, sighing, as if loath to let her pa.s.s, While the crickets sing exultant in the lean and withered gra.s.s.

O the warm October haze!

O the splendor of the days!

O the mingling of the crimson with the sombre brown and grays!

G.o.d'S WARMTH IS SHE.

O glad sun, creeping through the cas.e.m.e.nt wide, A million blossoms have you kissed since morn, But none so fair as this one at my side-- Touch soft the bit of love, the babe new born.

Towards all the world my love and pity flow, With high resolves, with trust, with sympathy.

This happy heart of mine is all aglow-- This heart that was so cold--G.o.d's warmth is she.

HER PRAYER.

Low in the ivy-covered church she kneeled, The sunshine falling on her golden hair; The moaning of a soul with hurt unhealed Was her low-breathed and broken cry of prayer.

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, Thy wounded hand!

I pray Thee, lay it on this heart of mine-- This heart so sick with grief it cannot stand Aught heavier than this tender touch of Thine.

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let it press Here, where the hurt is hardest, where the pain Throbs fiercest, and the utter emptiness Mocks at glad memories and longings vain!

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, who long ago Slept by Thy mother's side in Bethlehem!

Think of her cradling arms, her love-song low, And pity me when Thou dost think of them.

"My baby girl, my pretty dear, I miss Morning and noon and night--her ways so wise, The patting of her soft, warm hands, the kiss, The cooing voice, the sunshine of her eyes.

"I sleep, and dream she nestles close, my own, Her red mouth on my breast; I wake and cry.

She sleeps out yonder in the dark, alone-- My arms are empty and my bosom dry.

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, will surely bring Healing for this great anguish that I bear!

A nursing babe, a little dimpled thing, G.o.d might have left her to her mother's care!

"Thy wounded hand, dear Christ, O let me feel Its touch to-day, and past all doubting prove Thou hast not lost Thine ancient power to heal-- Press out the bitterness, fill up with love!

"O Babe that in the manger rude did sleep!

O Prince of Peace, Thy tender wounded palm Still holds the oil of joy for those that weep!

Still holds the comforting, the Gilead's balm!"

DECORATING THE OLD CHURCH.

Gray old gardener, what do you bring?

"Laurel and ivy and bay, With palms for the crowning of a King-- The morrow is Christmas Day.

"Holly with thorns, and berries like blood On its shiny greenness flung.

O the pierced side, and the th.o.r.n.y crown, And the cross whereon He hung!

"The mistletoe, meaning All-healing, Hangs close to the holly's thorn, Lest we forget that on Christmas Day The Healer of Souls was born.

"Ivy's for faith; on the altar rail Let it creep where all may see; It crept till it kissed a cheek so pale That night in Gethsemane.