High are the heavens and steep to us who would enter in
By the fasts that our faint hearts keep and the
thorn-set crowns we win.
Sweetly the child awaketh, brightly the day-dawn breaketh
On the eyes that fell asleep or ever they looked
on sin.
FLIGHT.
GRAY shadows roughen all the sea,
The birds are met on rock and tree,
But no debate of love or hate
Doth sway this busy company.
Ah, what impatient pulses beat
In those poised wings, what sudden heat
To quit the isle whose April smile
The blithe nest-builders found so sweet!
The silent, dark, unswerving line,
Obedient to the impulse fine,
Begins its flight at shut of night
Across the leagues of bitter brine.
Before tnem lie the gardens fair
With balm and bloom and purple air.
