Song to the Divine Mother

And yet the world is held by wintry chain,

Dead to Thy social passion, Holy One: The dried-up furrows need the vital rain, The cold seeds the quick spirit of the

sun.

Some day our homeless cries will draw Thee down,

And the old brightness on the ways of

men

Will send a hush upon the jangling town, And broken hearts will learn to love again.

Come, Bride of God, to fill the vacant Throne,

Touch the dim Earth again with sacred

feet;

Come build the Holy City of white stone,

And let the whole world's gladness be complete.

Song to the Divine Mother

Come with the face that hushed the heavens

of old

Come with Thy maidens in a mist of

light;

Haste for the night falls and the shadows fold,

And voices cry and wander on the height.

The Flying Mist

I watch afar the moving Mystery,

The wool-shod, formless terror of the seaThe Mystery whose lightest touch can change

The world God made to phantasy, death

strange.

Under its spell all things grow old and gray
As they will be beyond the Judgment Day.
All voices, at the lifting of some hand,
Seem calling to us from another land.
Is it the still Power of the Sepulcher
That makes all things the wraiths of things.
that were?

It touches, one by one, the wayside posts, And they are gone, a line of hurrying ghosts. It creeps upon the towns with stealthy feet, And men are phantoms on a phantom

street.

The Flying Mist

It strikes the towers and they are shafts of

air,

Above the spectres passing in the square.

The city turns to ashes, spire by spire;

The mountains perish with their peaks afire. The fading city and the falling sky

Are swallowed in one doom without a cry.

It tracks the traveler fleeing with the gale, Fleeing toward home and friends without avail ;

It springs upon him and he is a ghost,

A blurred shape moving on a soundless

coast.

God! it pursues my love along the stream, Swirls round her and she is forever dream.

What Hate has touched the universe with

eld,

And left me only in a world dispelled?

From the Hand of a Child

One day a child ran after me in the street, To give me a half-blown rose, a fire-white

rose,

Its stem all warm yet from the tight-shut

hand.

The little gift seemed somehow more to me Than all men strive for in the turbid towns, Than all they hoard up through a long wild life.

And as I breathed the heart-breath of the

flower,

The Youth of Earth broke on me like a dawn, And I was with the wide-eyed wondering things,

Back in the far forgotten buried time.

A lost world came back softly with the rose: I saw a glad host follow with lusty cries Diana flying with her maidens white,

Down the long reaches of the laureled hills.