Shall I falter on my pathway
Never more as I do now?
Tell me then, O elfin legend,
Where to gather, when, and how.
Must I go for it at midnight,
When the witches gather fast?
Must I walk alone, and backward,
Till the mystic leaf is passed?
Tell me, for I grow aweary,
On the pathway of my life—
Weary of its sombre shadows,
Weary of its aimless strife.
And I falter, fearful often;
Tell me, legend, witch, or fay,
How to gather the St. John's wort,
So I faint not by the way.
THE DOORWAY OF SLEEP.
THERE'S a strangely solemn moment
When, outside the tent of sleep,
We lay out beyond its circle,
All we love for God to keep.
Then, before the doorway waiting,
Must we bid a day good-bye,