Works

Oh haste, my Sweet! Impatient now I wait,
The crescent moon swings low, it groweth late,
A night bird sings, of Life, and Love, and Fate!

Oh haste, my Sweet! Youth and its gladness goes,...

Love maketh its own summer time,
'Tis June, Love, when we are together,
And little I care for the frost in the air,
For the heart makes its own summer weather.

Love maketh its own winter time,...

Love reckons not by time - its May days of delight
Are swifter than the falling stars that pass beyond our sight.

Love reckons not by time - its moments of despair...

I love red poppies! Imperial red poppies!
Sun-worshippers are they;
Gladly as trees live through a hundred summers
They live one little day.

I love red poppies! Impassioned scarlet poppies!...

'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow,
To every vagrant passing breeze they dip a courtesy low,
'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here, you know.
...

As pearls slip off a silken string and fall into the sea,
These rounded summer days fall back into eternity.

Into the deep from whence they came; into the mystery -...

Little honey baby, shet yo' eyes up tight; -
(Shadow-man is comin' from de moon!) -
You's as sweet as roses if dey is so pink an white;
(Shadow-man '11 get here mighty soon.)
...

He is not desolate whose ship is sailing
Over the mystery of an unknown sea,
For some great love with faithfulness unfailing
Will light the stars to bear him company.
...

The Saints of Thy great Church, 0 Christ,
How vast their numbers be -
On holy page and ancient scroll
Their blessed names we see,
And from the painted window panes
They smile eternally.
...

Afar in the turbulent city,
In a hive where men make gold,
He stood at his loom from dawn to dark,
While the passing years were told.

And when he knew it was summer-time...

"Thou trumpet made for Shakespeare's lips to blow!"


No more for thee the music and the lights,
Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown;
For thee, 0 dear interpreter of dreams,...

Oh, fairy palace of pink and pearl
Frescoed with filigree silver-white,
Down in the silence beneath the sea
God by Himself must have fashioned thee
Just for His own delight!
...

When hills and plains are powdered white,
And bitter cold the north wind blows,
Upon my window in the night
A fairy-garden grows.

Here poppies that no hand hath sown...

When day is ended, and grey twilight flies
On silent wings across the tired land,
The slumber angel cometh from the skies -
The slumber angel of the peaceful eyes,
And with the scarlet poppies in his hand....

WHO DIED BRAVELY AT NIAGARA, ON THE AFTERNOON OF SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 4TH, 1912.

No tears for thee, no tears, or sighs,
Or breaking heart -
But smiles, that thou so well that bitter hour
Didst play thy part!