ALAS, my tent! see through it a whirlwind sweep! Moaning, poor Fancy's doves are swept away. I sit alone, a sorrow half asleep, My consciousness the blackness all astir....
FROM thine, as then, the healing virtue goes Into our hearts--that is the Father's plan. From heart to heart it sinks, it steals, it flows, From these that know thee still infecting those....
THE song birds that come to me night and morn, Fly oft away and vanish if I sleep, Nor to my fowling-net will one return: Is the thing ever ours we cannot keep?--...
WHAT though my words glance sideways from the thing Which I would utter in thine ear, my sire! Truth in the inward parts thou dost desire-- Wise hunger, not a fitness fine of speech:...
THOU art of this world, Christ. Thou know'st it all; Thou know'st our evens, our morns, our red and gray; How moons, and hearts, and seasons rise and fall; How we grow weary plodding on the way;...
REMEMBER, Lord, thou hast not made me good. Or if thou didst, it was so long ago I have forgotten--and never understood, I humbly think. At best it was a crude,...
WE are a shadow and a shining, we! One moment nothing seems but what we see, Nor aught to rule but common circumstance-- Nought is to seek but praise, to shun but chance;...
"Death, whaur do ye bide, auld Death?" "I bide in ilka breath," Quo' Death; "No i' the pyramids, No whaur the wormie rids 'Neth coffin-lids; I bidena whaur life has been,...
There is not any weed but hath its shower, There is not any pool but hath its star; And black and muddy though the waters are We may not miss the glory of a flower,...
The brother knew well the castle old, Every closet, each outlook fair, Every turret and bartizan bold, Every chamber, garnished or bare. The brother was out in the heavenly air;...
Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome! Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home, High in the church-tower, lone and unseen, In a twilight of ivy, cool and green; With his Bing, Bing, Bim, Bing, Bang, Bome!...
Doon cam the sunbeams, and up gaed the stour, As we spangt ower the road at ten mile the hoor, The horse wasna timmer, the cart wasna strae, And little cared we for the burn or the brae. ...
My little child receives my gift, A simple piece of bread; But to her mouth she doth not lift The love in bread conveyed, Till on my lips, unerring, swift, The morsel first is laid. ...
My Lily snatches not my gift; Glad is she to be fed, But to her mouth she will not lift The piece of broken bread, Till on my lips, unerring, swift, The morsel she has laid. ...