Eyes of Youth

"Nature is the living mantle of God"

—Goethe

 
O for the time when some impetuous breeze
Will catch Thy garment, and, like autumn trees,
Toss it and rend it till Thou standest free,
And end Thy long secluded reverie!
 
 
Still now its beauty folds Thee, and—as she
Who kissed Thy garment and had health from Thee—
I feel the sun, or hear some bird in bliss,
And Thou hast then my sudden, humble kiss.
 

Secret Prayer

 
Since that with lips which moved in one we prayed,
So that God ceased to hear us speak apart,
What law irrevocable have we made?
How shall He hear a solitary heart
 
 
When He did need that we, to have His ear,
Should go aside and pray together there
With urgent breath? Ah, now I pause and fear—
How shall uprise my lonely, separate prayer?
 

The Unheeded

 
Upon one hand your kisses chanced to rest:
I smiled upon the other hand and said
"Poor thing," when you had gone: and then in quest
Of pity rose a clamour from the dead—
Some way of mine, some word, some look, some jest
Complained they too went all uncoveted …
That night I took these troubles to my breast,
And played that you and I, my own, were wed;
Those troubles were our child, with eyes of fear,—
A wailing babe, whom I, his mother dear,
Must soothe to quiet rest and calm relief,
And urge his eyes to sleeping by and by.
"O hush," I said, and wept to see such grief;
"Hush, hush, your father must not hear you cry."
 

Dream of Death

 
In sleep my idle thoughts were sadly led
By wild dark ways: it strangely seemed that I
Must join the number of the silent dead,
And with my young and fearful heart must die.
 
 
But ah, what drew my bitter moans and sighs,
And pierced my sleeping spirit, was that she
Who with the saddest tears would close these eyes
And with maternal passion mourn for me,
 
 
She on some pleasure-errand stayed away.
Ah, bitter, bitter thought! Ah, lonely death
To seek me in the night! And not till day
Had come and soothed my fear, and calmed my breath,
 
 
And in the sun my new life I could kiss,
And look with prayer and hope to future years,
Did I discern God's mercy still in this—
That I was spared the anguish of her tears.
 

RUTH TEMPLE LINDSAY

Mater Salvatoris

 
Ah, wilt thou turn aside and see
The little Child on Mary's knee?
Enter the stable bleak and cold,
Grope through the straw and myrrh and gold;
Seek in the darkness near and far—
Lift up the lantern and the Star.
Rough shepherds came to love and greet,
There knelt three kings at Mary's feet.
Ah! draw thee nigh the holy place—
He sleepeth well in her embrace,
The little Saviour of thy race—
Then raise thine eyes to Mary's face.
 
 
But wilt thou come in years to be?
She held Him dead across her knee.
Stretch Him aloft on planks of wood;
Offer Him gall for tears and blood.
Blazon thy hatred far and near:
Lift up the hammer and the spear.
Red thorns about his head were wound—
There lay three nails upon the ground.
Yea I Heed the Lover of thy race—
He lieth dead in her embrace.
Ah! scourge thy soul with its disgrace:
Then raise thine eyes to Mary's face.
 

To Choose

 
Thou canst choose the eastern Circle for thy part,
And within its sacred precincts thou shalt rest;
Thou shalt fold pale, slender hands upon thy breast,
Thou shalt fasten silent eyes upon thy heart.
If there steal within the languor of thine ark
The thunder of the waters of the earth,
The human, simple cries of pain and mirth,
The wails of little children in the dark,
Thou shalt contemplate thy Circle's radiant gleam,
Thou shalt gather self and God more closely still:
Let the Piteous and the Foolish moan at will,
So thou shelter in the sweetness of thy dream.
 
 
Thou canst bear a bloodstained Cross upon thy breast,
Thou shalt stand upon the common, human sod,
Thou shalt lift unswerving eyes unto thy God,
Thou shalt stretch torn, rugged hands to east and west
Thou shalt call to every throne and every cell—
Thou shalt gather all the answers of the Earth,
Thou shalt wring repose from weariness and dearth,
Thou shalt fathom the profundity of Hell—
But thy height shall touch the height of God above,
And thy breadth shall span the breadth of pole to pole,
And thy depth shall sound the depth of every soul,
And thy heart the deep Gethsemane of Love.
 

The Hunters

"The Devil, as a roaring lion, goeth about seeking whom he may detour"

 
The Lion, he prowleth far and near,
Nor swerves for pain or rue;
He heeded nought of sloth nor fear,
He prowleth—prowleth through
The silent glade and the weary street,
In the empty dark and the full noon heat;
And a little Lamb with aching Feet—
He prowleth too.
 
 
The Lion croucheth alert, apart—
With patience doth he woo;
He waiteth long by the shuttered heart,
And the Lamb—He waiteth too.
Up the lurid passes of dreams that kill,
Through the twisting maze of the great Untrue,
The Lion followeth the fainting will—
And the Lamb—He followeth too.
 
 
From the thickets dim of the hidden way
Where the debts of Hell accrue,
The Lion leapeth upon his prey:
But the Lamb—He leapeth too.
Ah! loose the leash of the sins that damn,
Mark Devil and God as goals,
In the panting love of a famished Lamb,
Gone mad with the need of souls.
 
 
The Lion, he strayeth near and far;
What heights hath he left untrod?
He crawleth nigh to the purest star,
On the trail of the saints of God.
And throughout the darkness of things unclean,
In the depths where the sin-ghouls brood,
There prowleth ever with yearning mien—
A lamb as white as Blood!