72
POEMS.
I know not, then, why it should bring
Into my eyes such sudden tears.
But to the mountain's sheltering
The little village seems to cling,
As child, all unaware of fears,
Unconscious that it is caressed,
In perfect peace and perfect rest
Asleep upon its mother's breast.
Into my eyes such sudden tears.
But to the mountain's sheltering
The little village seems to cling,
As child, all unaware of fears,
Unconscious that it is caressed,
In perfect peace and perfect rest
Asleep upon its mother's breast.
No stir, no sound! The shadows creep.
The old and young, in common trust,
Are lying down to wait, asleep,
While Life and Joy will come to keep
With Death and Pain what tryst they must.
O faith! for faith almost too great!
Come slow, O day of evil freight!
O village hearts, sleep well, sleep late!
The old and young, in common trust,
Are lying down to wait, asleep,
While Life and Joy will come to keep
With Death and Pain what tryst they must.
O faith! for faith almost too great!
Come slow, O day of evil freight!
O village hearts, sleep well, sleep late!
TRANSPLANTED.
HEN Christ, the Gardener, said, "These many yearsBehold how I have waited
For fruit upon this barren tree, which bears
But leaves With unabated
Patience I have nurtured it; have fed
Its roots with choicest juices;
The sweetest suns their tender warmth have shed
On it; still it refuses
Its blossom; all the balmiest summer rain
Has bathed it; unrepaying,
