merciful
On good and bad.

Our little sister was now at peace.
The snow began to fall.
The flakes soon hid that gift of ours
Beneath their pall.

Under the white, white flakes the rose,
Crumpled, tawdry and red;
Hinting the pity which all men need
When they are dead.

* * * * *

The dogs still whined as they dragged the sled
To where the spruces dream;
And there we left her, a wayward child,
At rest in Him.

_Two Quests_

Every day I watch men go
Up the trail
Seeking gold. It is a show
Worth the watching; much I know
About the game.

In the dead of night they creep
Past my door;
But I hear them in my sleep,
And I pity. Very steep
The road to Fame.

_The Return of the Sun_

Winter is passing. The inconstant sun--
Neglectful lover, therefore doubly dear--
Kisses the stern, white faces of the hills,
Melting their hearts to tenderness again;
Kisses the earth, still shiv'ring 'neath its shroud,
And whispers it of blossoms to be born.
Kisses the boughs and lures the fresh young leaves,
Spring's verdant heralds, from their hiding place;
Kisses the trees and tells them of bright birds
Seeking new homes for merry families.

Winter is passing. The inconstant sun--
Neglectful lover, therefore doubly dear--
Enters the hearts of long despondent men,
Bidding them smile and be consoled again;
Enters their souls and whispers them of God,
Of distant homes and friends that pray for them;
Enters our cabins and dispels the gloom
Of soundless days and never-ending nights;
Enters our eyes and bids us rise and see
Winter's interment, mourn'd by laughing Spring.

_Klondyke Roses_

When melts at last the lingering snow
In sunny days of May or June,
Amid the velvet mosses grow
Shy roses, fragrant-smelling.
A fated sisterhood is theirs,
They sigh their souls out wistfully;
No bee makes love to them or hears
Their tender love a-telling.

They dream, perhaps, of distant lands,
(O lands, that seem as far-off spheres;)
Of love-lit eyes and tender hands
That pluck far happier roses.
But while they dream the days pass by
And August comes with ebon nights,
And somb