d by the mark of sin.

Yet when at last she raised her troubled face,
Haunted by sorrow, whitened by alarms,
Mary leaned down from out the pictured place,
And laid the little Christ within her arms.

Rosy and warm she held Him to her heart,
She--the abandoned one--the thing apart.

SAINTS

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.

Rope-girdled monk, and pallid maid,
And men who for Thy cross
Fought with the Saracen of old,
Counting their lives no loss--
Martyrs who rose through golden flames,
Free of the body's dross.

Yet there be Saints uncanonised,
Unrecognised, unknown--
Here on the common roads of earth,
Oft times they walk alone;
Saints whom no soul hath ever praised,
Saints whom no Church doth own.

Men who against their souls' grim foes
Wage an unyielding fight;
Men of new creeds, and men of old,
Men of dark hue, and white,
Each pressing hard towards some far gleam
Of Thy celestial light.

Dwellers in places waste and lone,
Toilers upon the seas--
Mayhap they seldom pray high heaven.
Softly--on bended knees--
Yet in the roll-call of Thy Saints,
Dear Christ--remember these.

AT MIDNIGHT

Turn Thou the key upon our thoughts, dear Lord,
And let us sleep;
Give us our portion of forgetfulness,
Silent and deep.

Lay Thou Thy quiet hand upon our eyes
To close their sight;
Shut out the shining of the moon and stars
And candle-light.

Keep back the phantoms and the visions sad,
The shades of grey,
The fancies that so haunt the little hours
Before the day.

Quiet the time-worn questions that are all
Unanswered yet,
Take from the spent and troubled souls of us
Their vain regret;

And lead us far into Thy silent land,
That we may go
Like children out across the field o' dreams
Where poppies blow.

So all Thy saints--and all Thy sinners too--
Wilt Thou not keep,
Since not alone unto Thy well-beloved
Thou givest sleep?

NOVEMBER

How like a hooded friar, bent and grey,
Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray
Doth sad November pass upon his way.

Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low--
In God's cathedral where the great trees grow,
Now all day long he paceth to and fro.

When shadows gather and the night-mists rise,
Up to the hills he lift