angs on the cross;
And when the vespers are over,
If I have not sinned all day,
I may walk to the end of the garden
And kneel by the cross and pray.

But oh, for the wild, wild garden
That I knew in the days gone by,
Where the birches and elms and maples
Stretched up to the wind-swept sky;
Where, murmuring silver music,
The brook through the ferny dell
Ran down to the fields of clover,--
But hush, there's the vesper bell!

YOU WENT AWAY IN SUMMERTIME

You went away in summertime
When leaves and flowers were young,
And birds still lingered in the fields
With many songs unsung.

I'm glad it was in summertime
When skies were clear and blue,
I could not say good-bye to you
And bear the winter too.

TO A MODERN POET

Why must you sing of sorrow
When the world is so full of woe?
Why must you sing of the ugly?
For the ugly and sad I know.
Why will you sing of railways,
Of Iron and Steel and Coal,
And the din of the smoky cities?
For these will not feed my soul.

But sing to me songs of beauty
To gladden my tired eyes,--
The beauty of waving forest,
Of meadows and sunlit skies;
Sing me of childish laughter,
Of cradles and painted toys,
Of the sea and the brooks and the rivers,
And the shouting of bathing boys.

For the earth has a store of beauty
Deep hid from our blinded eyes,
And only the true-born poet
Knows just where the treasure lies.
So lead me from paths that are ugly,
From the dust of the city street.
To paths that are fringed with flowers,
Where the sky and the meadows meet.

And though Sorrow may walk beside me
To the far, far end of the road,
If Beauty but beckon me onward,
Less heavy will seem my load;
And led in the paths of beauty,
The world from its strife will cease;
For I know that the paths of beauty
Lead on to the paths of peace.

THE MYSTIC

The mystic sits by the sacred stream
Watching the sun as it mounts the sky;
And life to him is a haunting dream
Or a motley pageant passing by.

Sorrow and joy go on their way,
Passion and lust and love and hate;
Only a band of mummers they,
Blindly led by the hand of fate.

Though the pageant is real and himself the dream,
Though men are born and strive and die,
Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream
Watching the