th, and down the path there shone
The Light of all the world.

The Light from whose mysterious golden depths
The Sun rose in his might--
The light from whose white, hidden fires were lit
The torches of the night;

The Light that shining on a thing of clay
Giveth it Life and Will:
The Light that with an unknown power can blast
And bid all life be still;

The Light that calls a ray of its own light
A man's undying soul--
The Light that lifts the broken lives of earth,
Touches and makes them whole.

Up towards the Radiance Bartimeus went,
Alone, and poor, and blind--
Feeling his way, if haply it led on
To One he fain would find.

Then spoke the Voice again. Oh, mystic words
Of a compelling grace:
The curtain rose from off his darkened sight--
He saw the King's own face.

So strangely beautiful--so strangely near--
He worshipped with his eyes,
Unheeding that for him at last there shone
The sunlit noonday skies.

What though the clamouring crowd echoed his name
Unto its utmost rim,
He only saw the Christ--and in the light
He rose and followed Him.

* * * * *

Oh, Bartimeus of the mask-like face,
And patient, outstretched hand,
Was it for this God set on thee the mark
No man might understand?

THE CROW

Hail, little herald!--Art thou then returning
From summer lands, this wild and wind-torn day?
Hast brought the word for which our hearts are yearning,
That spring is on the way?
Hark! Now there comes a clear, insistent calling,

From hill tops crested with untarnished snow;
The trumpet notes are drifting--floating--falling--
Whene'er the breezes blow!

"Winter is over, and the spring is coming!"
Glad is thy message, little page in black--
"Winter is over, and the spring is coming--
The spring is coming back!"

Tell me, 0 prophet, bird of sombre feather,
Who taught thee all the mysteries of spring?--
Didst note each passing mood of wind and weather,
While flying to the North on buoyant wing?

Or didst thou rest upon the bare brown branches
And hear the sap go singing through the trees?--
Didst watch with keen, far-seeing downward glances,
The leaves unlock their cells with fairy keys?

What though thy voice hath not a trace of sweetness
It thrills one through and through,
With promises of Joy in all completeness
What time the skies are blue.
When robins from the apple-trees are flinging