Yet, like music rich and olden Hiding golden Words, that sweet voice hideth Christ From the hearts that wait, and weep Him. In another morning silence, When a greyer fog falls dreary And we weary With the sea's beat evermore, Cometh One, and pale and wounded, Looketh from another shore Other waters cold and misty On the wet sands grandly singing, Little bark call'd Life by men ; Watcher looks: light silvers then On the waters cold and misty. Hearts are waiting, eyes are weeping, Falls a token Light bedimm'd with blinding mist. Take us where there are no ocean's Wild commotions; Where we shall not know, O Christ! Weary hearts, or tear-wet eyelids. THE CHAMBER PEACE. A SUMMER night that blows, Fragrant with hay and flowers, on copse and lawn— A window muffled round and round with rose, Fronting the flush of dawn. O pilgrim, well is thee Till the day break, and till the shadows cease, The white moon through the trees Sails-but thou singest to a heavenly tune, "Needeth no sun the land my spirit sees, "Neither by night the moon." Before thine eyes half closing Like ink-black plumes their tops the willows shake; Through them thou seest a little boat reposing Upon a moonlit lake, And "O," thou say'st, "my soul Was like those inky plumes the night winds toss; But now it hangs in one great silver roll Over a hidden Cross. Ever on life's wild swell My heart went drifting, drifting on remote, Or if the shower that lingers In fleecy clouds of moonlight-tissued woof "Christ," the lone pilgrim saith, "My Saviour, comes this heart's poor love to win; Thy locks are fill'd with dew," he murmureth, 66 Oh that Thou wouldst come in." So rests the pilgrim ever, Hearing at solemn intervals a swell, So rests he till he knows The morning redden in the eastern skies, Another chamber yet― The curtain is of grass, and closely drawn ; Looketh toward the dawn. Ofttimes red roses lie On the green curtain of that chamber low, And when the eves are calmest, Up in the incense-laden aisles of lime, Some sweet bird meditateth like a psalmist poesy sublime. His So lay the pilgrim down Set thou his feet, and face, and closed eyes, Where they may meet the golden raying crown Of Christ's august sunrise. So let him rest, unheard Thy faithless mourning; let thy murmur cease; I A FINE DAY IN HOLY WEEK. THERE is a rapturous movement, a green growing And silent rivers of delight are flowing There is a purple weaving on the heather, Is this the season when our hearts should follow Will not the silver trumpet of the river If I might choose these notes should all be duller, That silver trump should fail in Passion week; The mountain-crowning sky wear one pale colour, Pale as my Saviour's cheek. |