Thought shall for thee begin."

To the mirror of others, smug and neat,
With the thoughts and sayings of others replete,
This Judgment rolled from the Judgment-seat:

"Remain thou thyself, a worm to crawl.
Thou, doubly damned, canst not lower fall
Than ne'er to have thought for thyself at all."

THE MAGDALEN

He flaunted recklessly along,
With hollow laugh and mocking song;

In tawdry garb and painted mirth,
The sorrowfulest thing on earth.

Time runs apace: the fleeting years
Left but her misery and her tears.

The very brothel-door was barred
Against a wretch so crook'd and marred.

She knocked at every gate in vain,
The cast-out harlot black with stain—

At all save one,—when this she tried,—
'T was His, the High Priest crucified.

He heard her tears, flung wide His door
And said, "Come in, and sin no more."

THE REQUIREMENT

To the Steward of his vineyard spake the Lord,
When he handed him over His Keys and Sword:
"See that you harken unto my word:

"There be three chief things that I love," quoth He,
"That bear a sweet savor up to me:
They be Justice, Mercy and Purity."

Justice was sold at a thief's behest;
Purity went for a harlot's jest,
And Mercy was slain with a sword in her breast.

THE LISTENER

A sparrow sang on a weed,
Sprung from an upturned sod,
And no one gave him heed
Or heard the song, save God.

CONTRADICTION

A bishop preached Sunday on Dives forsaken:
How he was cast out and Lazarus taken;
The very next day he rejoiced he was able
To dine that evening at Dives' table.
While wretched Lazarus, sick and poor,
Was called an impostor and turned from the door.

THE QUESTION

Why may I not step from this empty room,
Where heavy round me hangs the curtained gloom,
And passing through a little darkness there,
Even as one climbs to bed an unlit stair,
Find that I know is but one step above,
And that I hunger for: my Life: my Love?

'T is but a curtain doth our souls divide,
A veil my eager hand might tear aside—
One step to take, one thrill, one throb, one bound,
And I have gained my Heaven, the Lost have found—
Have solved the riddle rare, the secret dread:
The vast, unfathomable secret of the Dead.

It seems but now that as I yearning stand,
I might put forth my hand and touch her hand;
That I might lift my longing eyes and trace
But for the darkness there the gracious face;
That could I hush the grosser sounds, my ear
The charmèd music of her voice might hear.

She may not come to me, Alas! I know,
Else had she surely come, long, long ago.
The Conqueror Death, who save One conquers all,
Had never power to hold that soul in thrall;
No narrowest prison-house; no piled up stone
Had held her heart a captive from my own.

No, 't is not these: Hell's might nor Heaven's charms,
Had never power to hold her from my arms;—
'T is that by some inscrutable, fixed Law,
Vaster than mortal vision ever saw,
Whose sweep is worlds; whose track Eternity,
Somewhere her soul angelic waits for me:—

Waits patiently His Wisdom, whose decree
Is Wisdom's self veiled in Infinity:
Who gives us Life divine with mortal breath,
Yet in its pathway, lo! hath planted Death;
Who grants us Love our dull souls to uplift
Nearer to Him; yet tears away His Gift;

Crowns us with Reason in His image made,
Yet blinds our eyes with never lifting shade.
Who may the mystery solve? 'T is His decree!
Can Mortal understand Infinity?
Prostrate thyself before His feet, dull clod,
Who saith, "Be still, and know that I am God."

Ah! did we surely know the joys that wait
Beyond the portal of the silent gate,
Who would a moment longer here abide,
The spectre, Sorrow, stalking at his side?
Who would not daring take the leap and be
Unbound, unfettered clean, a slave set free!

OUR DEAD

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep
With the earth for their bed,
With stones at their head:
We leave them and weep
When we bury our dead.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep,—
On our Mother's calm breast
We leave them to rest—
To rest while we weep.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep—
They reck not our tears,
Though the sad years creep—
Through our tears, through the years
They tranquilly sleep.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep;
We bury the bloom
Of our life,—all our bloom
In the coffin we fold:
We enfold in the tomb:
We reënter the room
We left young,—we are old.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep;
The cold Time-tides flow
With winter and spring,
With birds on the wing,
With roses and snow,
With friends who beguile
Our sorrow with pity—
With pity awhile.
Then weary and smile,
Then chide us, say, "Lo!
How the sun shines,—'t is May."
But we know 't is not so—
That the sun died that day
When we laid them away,
With the earth for a bed—
When we buried our dead.

We bury our dead,
We lay them to sleep;
We turn back to the world;
We are caught,—we are whirled
In the rush of the current—
The rush and the sweep
Of the tide, without rest.
But they sleep—they the blest—
The Blessed dead sleep:
They tranquilly rest
On our Mother's calm breast.

MY MOTHER

I knew her in her prime,
Before the seal of Time
Was graven on her brow,
As Age hath graved it now:
When radiant Youth was just subdued
To yield to gracious womanhood.
And as an inland lake
Lies tranquil mid the hills,
Unruffled by the storms that break
Beyond, and mirrors Heaven;
So, to her spirit, freed from ills,
A blessed calm was given.
Encircled by War's strife
Peace ruled her life.
Christ's teachings were her constant guide,
And naught beside,
Christ's Death and Passion were her plea—
None needed she;
For that amid earth's fiercest strife
Her life was patterned on His life.
Now when her eyes grow dim
She lives so close to Him,
The radiance of His smile
Envelops her the while.
As when the Prophet's figure shone
With light reflected from the Throne,
So, ever in her face
Shines Heaven's divinest grace.
Her soul is fresh and mild
As is a little child.
And as the fleshly tenement
With age grows worn and bent,
Her Spirit's unabated youth
Is aye to me
The mind-compelling truth
Of Immortality.
Her voice is, as it were,
A silver dulcimer,
Tuned like the seraph's lays