And I blushed for the world we'd made, Putting G.o.d's hand aside, Till for the want of sun and shade His little children died;

And blushed that I who every year With Spring went up and down, Must greet a soul that ached for her With "penny for a bun!"

Struck as a thief in holy place Whose sin upon him cries, I watched the flowers leave her face, The song go from her eyes.

Then she, sweet heart, she saw my rout, And of her charity A hand of grace put softly out And took the coin from me.

A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood, A lark o'er Golder's lane; But I, alone, still glooming stood, And April plucked in vain;

Till living words rang in my ears And sudden music played: ~Out of such sacred thirst as hers The world shall be remade.~

Afar she turned her head and smiled As might have smiled the Spring, And humble as a wondering child I watched her vanishing.

Little Things. [Orrick Johns]

There's nothing very beautiful and nothing very gay About the rush of faces in the town by day, But a light tan cow in a pale green mead, That is very beautiful, beautiful indeed . . .

And the soft March wind and the low March mist Are better than kisses in a dark street kissed . . .

The fragrance of the forest when it wakes at dawn, The fragrance of a trim green village lawn, The hearing of the murmur of the rain at play -- These things are beautiful, beautiful as day!

And I shan't stand waiting for love or scorn When the feast is laid for a day new-born . . .

Oh, better let the little things I loved when little Return when the heart finds the great things brittle; And better is a temple made of bark and thong Than a tall stone temple that may stand too long.

New Dreams for Old. [Cale Young Rice]

Is there no voice in the world to come crying, "New dreams for old!

New for old!"?

Many have long in my heart been lying, Faded, weary, and cold.

All of them, all, would I give for a new one.

(Is there no seeker Of dreams that were?) Nor would I ask if the new were a true one: Only for new dreams!

New for old!

For I am here, half way of my journey, Here with the old!

All so old!

And the best heart with death is at tourney, If naught new it is told.

Will there no voice, then, come -- or a vision -- Come with the beauty That ever blows Out of the lands that are called Elysian?

I must have new dreams!

New for old!

Invocation. [Clara Shanafelt]

O Gla.s.s-Blower of time, Hast blown all shapes at thy fire?

Canst thou no lovelier bell, No clearer bubble, clear as delight, inflate me -- Worthy to hold such wine As was never yet trod from the grape, Since the stars shed their light, since the moon Troubled the night with her beauty?

Dream. [Anna Hempstead Branch]

But now the Dream has come again, the world is as of old.

Once more I feel about my breast the heartening splendors fold.

Now I am back in that good place from which my footsteps came, And I am hushed of any grief and have laid by my shame.

I know not by what road I came -- oh wonderful and fair!

Only I know I ailed for thee and that thou wert not there.

Then suddenly Time's stalwart wall before thee did divide, Its solid bastions dreamed and swayed and there was I inside.

It is thy nearness makes thee seem so wonderful and far.

In that deep sky thou art obscured as in the noon, a star.

But when the darkness of my grief swings up the mid-day sky, My need begets a shining world. Lo, in thy light am I.

All that I used to be is there and all I yet shall be.

My laughter deepens in the air, my quiet in the tree.

My utter tremblings of delight are manna from the sky, And shining flower-like in the gra.s.s my innocencies lie.

And here I run and sleep and laugh and have no name at all.

Only if G.o.d should speak to me then I would heed the call.

And I forget the curious ways, the alien looks of men, For even as it was of old, so is it now again.

Still every angel looks the same and all the folks are there That are so bounteous and mild and have not any care.

But kindest to me is the one I would most choose to be.

She is so beautiful and sheds such loving looks on me.

She is so beautiful -- and lays her cheek against my own.

Back -- in the world -- they all will say, "How happy you have grown."

Her breath is sweet about my eyes and she has healed me now, Though I be scarred with grief, I keep her kiss upon my brow.

All day, sweet land, I fight for thee outside the goodly wall, And 'twixt my breathless wounds I have no sight of thee at all!

And sometimes I forget thy looks and what thy ways may be!

I have denied thou wert at all -- yet still I fight for thee.