of sense, descend,
Heal all my wanderings, take me by the hand,
And lead me homeward through the shadows.
Let me not by my wilful acts of pride
Block up the windows of thy truth, and grow
A wasted, withered thing, that stumbles on
Down to the grave with folded hands of sloth
And leaden confidence.

There was more of it, as my type indicates. Full of faults, I have given
so much to my reader, just as it stood upon Ericson's blotted papers,
the utterance of a true soul 'crying for the light.' But I give also
another of his poems, which Robert read at the same time, revealing
another of his moods when some one of the clouds of holy doubt and
questioning love which so often darkened his sky, did at length

Turn forth her silver lining on the night:

SONG.

They are blind and they are dead:
We will wake them as we go;
There are words have not been said;
There are sounds they do not know.
We will pipe and we will sing--
With the music and the spring,
Set their hearts a wondering.

They are tired of what is old:
We will give it voices new;
For the half hath not been told
Of the Beautiful and True.
Drowsy eyelids shut and sleeping!
Heavy eyes oppressed with weeping!
Flashes through the lashes leaping!

Ye that have a pleasant voice,
Hither come without delay;
Ye will never have a choice
Like to that ye have to-day:
Round the wide world we will go,
Singing through the frost and snow,
Till the daisies are in blow.

Ye that cannot pipe or sing,
Ye must also come with speed;
Ye must come and with you bring
Weighty words and weightier deed:
Helping hands and loving eyes,
These will make them truly wise--
Then will be our Paradise.

As Robert read, the sweetness of the rhythm seized upon him, and, almost
unconsciously, he read the last stanza aloud. Looking up from the paper
with a sigh of wonder and delight--there was the pale face of Ericson
gazing at him from the bed! He had risen on one arm, looking like a dead
man called to life against his will, who found the world he had left
already stranger to him than the one into which he had but peeped.

'Yes,' he murmured; 'I could say that once. It's all gone now. Our world
is but our moods.'

He fell back on his pillow