Ay Me!

Silent, with hands crost meekly on his breast, Long time, with keen and meditative eye, Stood the old painter of Siena by A canvas, whose sign manual him confest.

His head droopt low, his eye ceased from its quest, As tears filled full the fountains long since dry; And from his lips there broke the haunting cry: "May God forgive me--I did not my best!"

THE YEARS.

"Time in advance behind him hides his wings."--YOUNG.

As comes amain the glossy flying raven, That with unwavering wing, breast on the view, Cleaves slow the lucid air beneath the blue, And seems scarce other than a figure graven-- Ha! now the sweeping pinions flash as levin, And all their silken cordage whistles loud!-- Lo, the departing flight, like fleck of cloud, Is swallowed quick by the awaiting heaven!

So lag and tarry, to the youth, the years In their oncoming from the brooding sky, Till bursts at middle life their rushing speed All breathless with the world of hopes and fears; And, lo, departing, the Eternal Eye Winks them to moments in His endless brede!

THE NOTE OF NATURE.

Earth's manifold noises break Overhead, in the calm, In unison full, and wake The note of a psalm.

On the sunny hills, in the vales, It falls on my ear; Down the baffling winds it sails, In the night draweth near.

It sounds like great mountains to me, A deep monotone-- Like the veiled AEonian sea, That girdles Time's zone.

The sun and the stars and the moon Keep time with this note, The evening and morning and noon, Things near and remote.

The tides ebb and flow to its beat, 'Tis the seasons' rhyme,-- The harebell and twin-flower sweet Its undertone chime.

The night-moth stirs to the reed, And the beetle booms; The bird and the beast are keyed To the flower that blooms.

And man to his high service goes Aswing to his goal, Like the tides and the stars and the rose,-- Tone, overtone, whole!

I hear it by day and by night, In storm and in calm,-- A low swelling note from a height, With the roll of a psalm.

AT THE FORD.

I.

A death-like dew was falling On the herbs and the grassy ground; The stars to their bournes prest forward, Night cloaked the hills around.

He thought of a night long past,-- Of the ladder that reached to heaven, The Face that shone above it, The pillar, his pillows of even.

II.

From out of the sleeve of the darkness Was thrust an arm of strength,-- Long he wrestled for mastery, But begged for blessing at length.

White fear fell on him at dawn, As the Nameless spake with him then; "Prevailer and Prince," called He him, "A power with God and with men."

And, alone, the lame wrestler mused: "The Face of God is this place! Ah me--and my life is preserved, Yet God have I seen face to face!"

III.

Life's darkness is background for God, For unsleeping Love's high command, And the shadowy heap of each life Is revealed at the touch of His hand.

And the arm of Love doth wrestle All night by the fords we cross, To shrivel our sinews of self And give His blessing for loss.

Night shows the houses of heaven, O pilgrim for life's journey shod! And from out the sleeve of darkness Is thrust the arm of God.

REPOSE.

A mossy footfall in this wood A peal of thunder were, Or autumn tempest-shriek, compared With the unwhispered stir Of massy fluids lift in air, To build these leafy pillars fair.

Lavished at wordless wish or mute Command, the chemic wealth Upsprings to meet the builders' hands, All hushed as dusky stealth. Noiseless as love, as silent prayer Mysterious, the builders are.

Ah, sure, these silences are works Of God's sabbatic rest, A music perfect as the calm Of wave's unbroken crest! These woven leaves that stilly nod, These violets, ope their eyes on God.

The deep serene that worketh here Works, too, 'mid human tears; A thousand years as one day is, One day a thousand years. Fell death still thunders at his task, But death the peace of God doth mask.