"Ah, what am I, that God has chosen me To bear this blessed burden, to endure Daily the presence of this loveliness,

To guide this Glory that shall guide the world?

"Brawny these arms to win Him bread, and broad
This bosom to sustain Her. But my heart
Quivers in lonely pain before that Beauty
It loves and serves-and cannot understand!"

Elsa Barker

CHILD

The young child, Christ, is straight and wise
And asks questions of the old men, questions
Found under running water for all children,
And found under shadows thrown on still waters
By tall trees looking downward, old and gnarled,
Found to the eyes of children alone, untold,
Singing a low song in the loneliness.

And the young child, Christ, goes on asking

And the old men answer nothing and only know love
For the young child, Christ, straight and wise.

COMRADE JESUS

Carl Sandburg

Thanks to Saint Matthew, who had been
At mass-meetings in Palestine,

We know whose side was spoken for
When Comrade Jesus had the floor.

"Where sore they toil and hard they lie,
Among the great unwashed, dwell I;-
The tramp, the convict, I am he;
Cold-shoulder him, cold-shoulder me."

By Dives' door, with thoughtful eye,
He did to-morrow prophesy:-
"The kingdom's gate is low and small;
The rich can scarce wedge through at all."

"A dangerous man," said Caiaphas,
"An ignorant demagogue, alas!
Friend of low women, it is he
Slanders the upright Pharisee."

For law and order, it was plain,
For Holy Church, he must be slain.
The troops were there to awe the crowd:
And violence was not allowed.

Their clumsy force with force to foil
His strong, clean hands we would not soil.
He saw their childishness quite plain
Between the lightnings of his pain.

Between the twilights of his end,
He made his fellow-felon friend:
With swollen tongue and blinded eyes,
Invited him to Paradise.

Ah, let no Local him refuse!

Comrade Jesus hath paid his dues.

Whatever other be debarred,

Comrade Jesus hath his red card.

Sarah N. Cleghorn

AN UNBELIEVER

All these on whom the sacred seal was set,

They could forsake thee while thine eyes were wet.
Brother, not once have I believed in thee,
Yet having seen I cannot once forget.

I have looked long into those friendly eyes,
And found thee dreaming, fragile and unwise.
Brother, not once have I believed in thee,
Yet have I loved thee for thy gracious lies.

One broke thee with a kiss at eventide,
And he that loved thee well has thrice denied.
Brother, I have no faith in thee at all,

Yet must I seek thy hands, thy feet, thy side.

Behold that John that leaned upon thy breast;
His eyes grew heavy and he needs must rest.
I watched unseen through dark Gethsemane
And might not slumber, for I loved thee best.

Peace thou wilt give to them of troubled mind,
Bread to the hungry, spittle to the blind.
My heart is broken for my unbelief,

But that thou canst not heal, though thou art kind.

They asked one day to sit beside thy throne.

I made one prayer, in silence and alone.

Brother, thou knowest my unbelief in thee.

Bear not my sins, for thou must bear thine own.

Even he that grieves thee most "Lord, Lord," he saith,

So will I call on thee with my last breath!

Brother, not once have I believed in thee.
Yet I am wounded for thee unto death.

Anna Hempstead Branch

THE JEW TO JESUS

O Man of my own people, I alone

Among these alien ones can know thy face,
I who have felt the kinship of our race
Burn in me as I sit where they intone

Thy praises, those who, striving to make known
A God for sacrifice, have missed the grace

Of thy sweet human meaning in its place,
Thou who art of our blood-bond and our own.

Are we not sharers of thy Passion? Yea,

In spirit-anguish closely by thy side

We have drained the bitter cup, and, tortured, felt
With thee the bruising of each heavy welt.

In every land is our Gethsemane.

A thousand times have we been crucified.

Florence Kiper Frank

THE BALLAD OF THE CROSS

Melchior, Gaspar, Balthazar,
Great gifts they bore and meet;
White linen for His body fair
And purple for His feet;

And golden things-the joy of kings—
And myrrh to breathe Him sweet.

It was the shepherd Terish spake,
"Oh, poor the gift I bring—
A little cross of broken twigs,
A hind's gift to a king-
Yet, haply, He may smile to see
And know my offering."

And it was Mary held her Son
Full softly to her breast,
"Great gifts and sweet are at Thy feet
And wonders king-possessed,
O little Son, take Thou the one
That pleasures Thee the best."

It was the Christ-Child in her arms
Who turned from gaud and gold,

Who turned from wondrous gifts and great,
From purple woof and fold,

And to His breast the cross He pressed

That scarce His hands could hold.

"Twas king and shepherd went their wayGreat wonder tore their bliss;

'Twas Mary clasped her little Son

Close, close to feel her kiss,

And in His hold the cross lay cold

Between her heart and His!

Theodosia Garrison

NATURE IN CONTEMPORARY POETRY

In the past decade the stimulating themes of democracy, industrial civilization and the great war have engaged the attention of the poets. But the ancient and everlasting themes of human life have never been forgotten. While we have love and birth and death, poets will sing of them. While we have changing seasons and streams clamorous with the white danger of rapids, woods blessed by early hepaticas or late asters, poets will go back to the open world for refuge and for inspiration. The joy and solace of that open world will be echoed in their poems.

Probably the poets of to-day have written as many poems of nature as were ever written in any period. Even poets who can seldom summon sufficient vigor of spirit to write acceptably of anything else can make a few acceptable poems about the beauty of the natural world. It is the only world that our forefathers knew in the days before there were cities. It is the world to which the psyche of mankind has been attuned by time.

But we shall find the new spirit of new days even in the poems of nature. Poets of to-day do not write of the out of doors as their ancestors wrote of it. No contemporary poet of the first rank would be likely to write lines like the famous ones of Wordsworth:

"One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man

Of moral evil and of good

Than all the sages can."

He could not write in this way because he would not be likely to think and feel in this way. Certainly nature is good for us. Air is good to breathe and water is good to drink and the natural beauty of the out of doors is like the breath of life and the water