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POEMS.
To do their will. Hath light a mate
For swiftness? Can it overweight
The air? Or doth the sun know accidents?
The light, the air, the sun, inviolate
For them, do constant keep and state
Message of their ineffable contents
And raptures, each in each. So great
Their bliss of loving, even fate
In parting them, hath found no instruments
Whose bitter pain insatiate
Doth kill it, or their faith abate
In presence of Love's hourly sacraments.
For swiftness? Can it overweight
The air? Or doth the sun know accidents?
The light, the air, the sun, inviolate
For them, do constant keep and state
Message of their ineffable contents
And raptures, each in each. So great
Their bliss of loving, even fate
In parting them, hath found no instruments
Whose bitter pain insatiate
Doth kill it, or their faith abate
In presence of Love's hourly sacraments.
THE GIFT OF GRAPES.
A LEGEND OF THE FOURTH CENTURY.
HE desert sun was sinking red;Hot as at noon the light was shed.
Bareheaded, on the scorching sands,
Macarius knelt with clasped hands,
And prayed, as he had prayed for years,
With smitings and with bitter tears.
With smitings and with bitter tears.
"Good hermit, here!"—a hand outstretched,—
It was as if an angel fetched
It was as if an angel fetched
