warped with the years of toil,
And her young form bent and bowed.

Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance
At the throng that round her pressed;
But her face was the face of the Mother of God
As she looked at the babe on her breast.

AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW

Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass,
From a jumble of curios quaint and rare;
And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass
The whole day long, through the ancient square.

Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade,
Here by the window he patiently waits
For the sound that the gongs and the conches made,
In the days of old at the temple gates.

He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears,
For his heart is bronze, and he does not know
That his temple has been for a thousand years
But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.

So here he sits through the nights and the days,
And the sun goes up and down the sky;
But he often looks with a wistful gaze
At the crowds that always pass him by.

And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream
Of his poppy-land of long ago,
Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream
And the kneeling throng he used to know.

But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd
Of human folks that pass him by;
Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,—
And the sun once more goes down the sky.

IN A FOREST

Silver birch and dusky pine,
Reaching up to find the light
From the forest's gloomy night,
From the thicket where entwine
Stunted shrub and creeping vine,
From the damp where witch-fire glows
And the poison fungus grows,
High you lift your heads, O trees,
To the kisses of the breeze,
To the far-off vaulted sky,
To the clouds that pass you by,
To the sun that shines on high.

From the dusk of earthly night
Strive, O soul, to reach the light.

THE GOLDEN BOWL

On seeing a picture of a boy gazing at a golden bowl which among Eastern nations was a symbol of life.

In a dream he seems to lie
Gazing at the golden bowl,
Where dim visions passing by
Whisper vaguely to his soul.

Restless phantoms come and go
Crowned with cypress or with bay;
Sad or merry, swift or slow,
Tread they down the winding way.

Still the pageant winds along,—
Youth and age and love and lust,
Till at last the motley throng
Fades and crumbles into dust.

All in vain upon the bowl
Gaze the wondering, boyish eyes;
He shall read its hidden scroll
Only when it shattered lies.

For a wondrous light shall gleam
From the scattered fragments born.
Boy, dream on, for life's a dream,
Followed by a golden morn.

ON A SWISS MOUNTAIN

Lad, the mighty hills are calling,
Hills of promise gleaming bright,
And the floods of sunshine falling
Fill their deepest vales with light.

There the young dawn's golden fire
Beckons to a brighter day,
Untrod paths of youth's desire,
Heights unconquered far away.

Steep and dark and spectre-haunted
Winds the pathway to the height;
Sturdy youth with heart undaunted
Deems the toiling short and light.

Short or long, an easy Master,
Gives each tired toiler rest,
Counts not failure or disaster
If the striving be the best.

Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you,
Mates of old must soothe their pain,
Mindless of whate'er befalls you
If but honour still remain.

THE NUN'S GARDEN

They have made me a lovely garden
With walls that are rugged and gray;
They have filled it with pinks and roses
And lilies that bloom but a day;
But the walls are so high and frowning,
And the paths are so smooth and straight,
And even their smallest winding
Leads straight to the chapel gate.

I have planted a bed of pansies
Along by the chapel wall,
But though I have watered and weeded
They never have blossomed at all.
The sunshine of God cannot fall there,
For the chapel tower is too high;
So under its cold, gray shadow
My poor little blossoms die.

The Mother of God—in marble—
Gleams white where the willows toss,
And at the far end of the pathway
The dear Christ hangs 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