THE WIDOWER
FOR a season there must be pain
For a little, little space I shall lose the sight of her face, Take back the old life again While She is at rest in her place.
For a season this pain must endure, For a little, little while I shall sigh more often than smile Till Time shall work me a cure, And the pitiful days beguile.
For that season we must be apart, For a little length of years, Till my life's last hour nears, And, above the beat of my heart, I hear Her voice in my ears.
But I shall not understand
Being set on some later love,
Shall not know her for whom I strove,
Till she reach me forth her hand,
Saying, "Who but I have the right?"
And out of a troubled night
Shall draw me safe to the land.
THE PRAYER OF MIRIAM COHEN
"PROM the wheel and the drift of Things
Deliver us, Good Lord, And we will face the wrath of Kings The faggot and the sword!
