render?
Better to curb
Self for her peace.

Dream on, my flow'r!
Eyes have caressed thee,
I have confessed me,
In this still hour.
Will she requite me?

TOLD AT SUNSET

Upon the mountain's top we pensive stood,
The day was waning and the sun drooped low;
Long shadows fell across the vale below,
And deepened as they reached the distant wood.
The sky seemed in arm's reach: in holy mood,
The trees stretched forth their boughs as to bestow
A vesper blessing, ere we turned to go.
Like feathered mother hovering her brood,
Gray twilight o'er the landscape spread her wings.
I looked into your eyes: in their clear glow,
There dwelt the light that altar candles throw
On imaged saint and penitent who clings
To God, whose likeness such pure beings show.
The strength'ning peace that contemplation brings,
Obliterating trace of earthly things,
Wrapt you in radiant aura, safe from woe.
The path became a long cathedral aisle,
The sinking sun, the Host to bow before
With folded hands and rev'rently adore,
The zephyrs wafting incense sweet the while.
There was a far-off priest, with gentle smile,
Whose parting benediction seemed to pour
Upon us, from the verge of some blest shore,
To which our ling'ring steps he would beguile.
An organ pealed from somewhere in the heights
Above us, and a sweet-voiced chorus rang
A "Nunc Dimittis," and from caverns sang
In echo all the list'ning mountain wights.
Uniting fervently in their "amen,"
We stood a moment in the dark'ning gray;
In silence, as the knowing only may,
And then, refreshed, turned to our tasks again.

TO A WILD ROSE

Awake, wild rose, lift up your lovely face
And smile a welcome sweet to one whose days
Were spent of yore in rose-embowered ways,
Where lovingly he marveled at your grace
And found in music lore for you a place,
Telling in tones the world heard with amaze,
How fair you were to his inspired gaze.
A grieving people lost him for a space,
And 'round his darkened home there hung a band
Of messengers, half-dreading, day by day,
Lest they should bear sad tidings o'er the land.
But now, as Nature wakes, joy hath full sway.
MacDowell lives! Grim death could not withstand
The tide of loving thought that flowed his way.

THE SPIRIT CALL

(_Celtic myth: "The ghosts of Fathers, they say, call away the souls
of their race, while they behold the