e, too, must travel to our journey's end.
Arise! And let us go!"

"Stay! Stay!" the other cried. "I know thy face!
Death is thy dreaded name!"
"Nay--I am known as 'Love' in that far place,"
He said, "from whence I came."

But still the other cried, with moan and tear,
"I fear the dark--and thee!"
"There is no dark," the angel said, "nor fear,
For those who go with me.

"There is no loneliness, and nevermore
The shadow-haunted night,
When we pass out beyond Life's swinging door
The road," he said, "is bright."

Then backward slipped the cowl from off his head,
Downward the robe of grey;
A radiant presence by the lowly bed
Greeted the breaking day.

* * * * *

Within the long white ward one lay alone,
None watched by him awhile,
But some who passed him said, in whispered tone,
"See--on his lips--the smile!"

WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES

For thee, my small one--trinkets and new toys,
The wine of life and all its keenest joys,
When Christmas comes.
For me, the broken playthings of the past
That in my folded hands I still hold fast,
When Christmas comes.

For thee, fair hopes of all that yet may be,
And tender dreams of sweetest mystery,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the future in a golden haze,
For me, the memory of some bygone days,
When Christmas comes.

For thee, the things that lightly come and go,
For thee, the holly and the mistletoe,
When Christmas comes.
For me, the smiles that are akin to tears,
For me, the frost and snows of many years,
When Christmas comes.

For thee, the twinkling candles bright and gay,
For me, the purple shadows and the grey,
When Christmas comes.
For thee, the friends that greet thee at the door,
For me, the faces I shall see no more,
When Christmas comes.

But ah, for both of us the mystic star
That leadeth back to Bethlehem afar,
When Christmas comes.
For both of us the child they saw of old,
That evermore his mother's arms enfold,
When Christmas comes.

THE OPAL MONTH

Now cometh October--a nut-brown maid,
Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed
Hath taken the king's highway!
On the world she smiles--but to me it seems
Her eyes are misty with mid-summer dreams,
Or memories of the May.

Opals agleam in the dusk of her hair
Flash their hearts of fire and colours rare
As she dances gaily by--
Yet she sighs for each empty swinging nest,
And she tenderly holds against her bre