's cloister do we grope,
We seek a gate that leads to life immortal,
We see it loom before us dim and vast,
And doubt's dark shadow's veil the light of hope:
When lo, Death's hand flings wide the sombre portal,
And light unfading meets our gaze at last.

CATHEDRAL VESPERS

The gloom of night creeps down the shadowy choir,
But through the great rose-window's gorgeous bloom
Red shafts of sunset fall upon a tomb,
And makes the gray stone burn--a crimson pyre.
The creeping tide of darkness rises higher,
Tall ghostly pillars through the shadows loom,
And from dim altars through the minster's gloom,
Pale yellow gleams the guttering candles' fire.

Sudden from out the shadow streams a song,
--A sword of sound that cleaves the dark in twain--
And rings and glows triumphant, swift and strong,
Victorious over sorrow, death and pain;
And golden visions pass before my soul
As through dim arches the last echoes roll.

THE LOTUS-WORSHIPPERS

With silent feet in trailing robes of white
They crept from shadowy temples, far beyond
Tall bamboo groves, to seek the lotus-pond
That gleamed like some dark jewel through the night
Upon great Buddha's breast. The crimson height
Echoed their chanting as the morning dawned,
And each bud, breaking from its silver bond,
Lifted its cup to catch the golden light.

And here beside this mist-bound northern lake,
Encircled by tall spires of Gothic firs,
The ancient beauty-worship wakes and stirs
Within me, as I watch the morning break
Upon white lily-buds, whose lips agleam
Whisper the secret of the world-old dream.

THE BROKEN MAST

It lies alone upon a tide-swept shore,
Above a crescent beach of silver sand,
Flung high upon the rocks by some great hand
Stretched from the dark, whose fingers clutched and tore
The main-mast from the ship. Above it soar
White gulls, and near in wild-rose tangle stand
Old twisted pines, where song-birds of the land
Mingle soft singing with the ocean's roar.

And through long summer days it dreams old dreams
Of far-off southern forests, and the sighing
Of wind-blown boughs above bird-haunted streams;
But when the storm sets the white spindrift flying
It thrills and trembles with the old unrest,
And shakes the wild-rose petals from its breast.

THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES