The Paymaster

There is a sacred Something on all ways—
Something that watches through the Universe;
One that remembers, reckons and repays,
Giving us love for love, and curse for curse.

The Last Furrow

The Spirit of Earth, with still restoring hands,

'Mid ruin moves, in glimmering chasm gropes, And mosses mantle and the bright flower opes; But Death the Ploughman wanders in all lands, And to the last of Earth his furrow stands.

The grave is never hidden; fearful hopes Follow the dead upon the fading slopes, And there wild memories meet upon the sands.

When willows fling their banners to the plain, When rumor of winds and sound of sudden showers

The Last Furrow

Disturb the dream of winter- all in vain
The grasses hurry to the graves, the flowers
Toss their wild torches on their windy towers;
Yet are the bleak graves lonely in the rain.

In the Storm

I huddled close against the mighty cliff. A sense of safety and of brotherhood

Broke on the heart: the shelter of a rock Is sweeter than the roofs of all the world.

Blithe Fancy lightly builds with airy hands
Or on the edges of the darkness peers,
Breathless and frightened at the Voice she hears:
Imagination (lo! the sky expands)

Travels the blue arch and Cimmerian sands,-
Homeless on earth, the pilgrim of the spheres,
The rush of light before the hurrying years,
The Voice that cries in unfamiliar lands.

Men weigh the moons that flood with eerie light The dusky vales of Saturn-wood and stream;