All mine anguish let me smother
In thy brooding heart.

CHRISTMAS FOLK-SONG

Those who die on Christmas Day
(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)
Will be remembered, for they died
Upon the Holy Christmastide;
When they attain to Paradise,
The Angels with the tranquil Eyes
Will ask if Jesus rules on Earth
The Anniversary of His Birth;
This Question do they ask alway
Of those who die on Christmas Day.

Those who are born on Christmas Day
(I heard the triumphant Seraph say)
Will bring again the Peace on Earth
That came with gentle Christ His Birth;
They may be lowly Folk and poor
Living about the Manger Door,
They may be Kings of Mighty Line,
Their Lives alike will be benign;
To them belongeth Peace alway,
Those who are born on Christmas Day.

FROM BEYOND

Here there is balm for every tender heart
Wounded by life;
Rest for each one who bore a valiant part
Crushed in the strife.

I suffered there and held a losing fight
Even to the grave;
And now I know that it was very right
To suffer and be brave.

THE LEAF

This silver-edged geranium leaf
Is one sign of a bitter grief
Whose symbols are a myriad more;
They cluster round a carven stone
Where she who sleeps is never alone
For two hearts at the core,

Bound with her heart make one of three,
A trinity in unity,
One sentient heart that grieves;
And myriad dark-leaved memories keep
Vigil above the triune sleep,--
Edged all with silver are the leaves.

A MYSTERY PLAY

CHARACTERS

The Father. The Child. Death. Angels.
Two Travellers.

* * * * *

_The even settles still and deep,
In the cold sky the last gold burns,
Across the colour snow flakes creep.
Each one from grey to glory turns
Then flutters into nothingness;
The frost down falls with mighty stress
Through the swift cloud that parts on high;
The great stars shrivel into less
In the hard depth of the iron sky._

* * * * *

_The Child:_

What is that light, dear father,
That light in the dark, dark sky?

_The Father:_

Those are the lights of the city
And the villages thereby.

_The Child:_

There must be fire in the city
To throw that yellow glare;
And fire in the little villages
On all the hearthstones there.

_The Father, musing:_

Yea, flames are on the hearthstones;
The ovens are full of bread,
But here the coals are dying
And