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ling the sorrows I had, Wisdom came with you; the old sad history Glowed; and I knew in my heart why the sad And outcast Lord grew suddenly glad As the children thronged to crown Him with flowers, When their cry was voiced by some tiny lad, "This is no Stranger: we name Him ours!" L'ENVOI. So do I thank you; and if some day You in your gained Paradisal bowers Hear me knocking, be bold to pray, "This is no stranger: we claim him ours!" _IN THE MIDST OF THEM_ "_Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, Look on me, a little child. Pity my simplicity And suffer me to come to Thee_." Now prevails a creed which tells Us to seek no miracles. Reason by discovered lore Reigns where Faith was found before. God, Who set our world aspin, Now is weary of its din; He, Who for our fathers' sake Conjured lightning and earthquake, Vanquished sorrow, sickness, death, Deems we are not worth the Breath That blessed the trusting prophet's rod When Moses called upon his God. How dare _we_ expect Him give Miracles to help us live? Yet I build on Him Who saith, "Move the mountains with your faith"-- Doubt the lips that falter, wan, "The age of miracles is gone!" I have learned to read the grim Testimony unto Him Printed with starvation's hand On every hove! through the land; I have swung the crazy door To find huddled on a floor Rat-gnawed and riddled, with never a clout To keep the eager winter out, Some six or seven of our kind Shivering beneath the wind, Foodless, fireless, hungry-eyed, Crouched round one who just had died, Hopeless that the dawn would bring Friendly aid and comforting. And after prayer for the parted soul, They have thanked the slender dole, And spoken of hope of days to come, And have forgotten their martyrdom. The anguished grief of motherhood Has firmly whispered "God is good And can in His Eternity Repay this present loss"; till I Have almost turned my head to see If Christ has not come in with me! _Gentle Jesus, mild and meek, These the simple words I speak Are the faith Thou gavest me; Suffer me to come to Thee!_ _SIC TRANSIT_ They camped in the meadow at sunrise, And their crests gleamed bright in the sun, And the breeze that blew sighed soft, for it knew Their fate e'er the day was done. They lay in the meadow at sunset, As the sky in anger blushed red; For the host of the dawn lay still on the lawn
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