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strength or help, so cast them forth, and threw Your whole souls up to one ye deemed most true, Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line, Seeing before you that divine face shine; Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few, Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you, White souls whose beauty made their world divine: Yet still across life's tangled storms we see, Following the cross, your pale procession led, One hope, one end, all others sacrificed, Self-abnegation, love, humility, Your faces shining toward the bended head, The wounded hands and patient feet of Christ. A NIGHT OF STORM. Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sown With restless drift, scarce broken now of any, Out of the dark thy windows dim and many Gleam red across the storm. Sound is there none, Save evermore the fierce wind's sweep and moan, From whose grey hands the keen white snow is shaken In desperate gusts, that fitfully lull and waken, Dense as night's darkness round thy towers of stone. Darkling and strange art thou thus vexed and chidden; More dark and strange thy veiled agony, City of storm, in whose grey heart are hidden What stormier woes, what lives that groan and beat, Stern and thin-cheeked, against time's heavier sleet, Rude fates, hard hearts, and prisoning poverty. THE RAILWAY STATION. The darkness brings no quiet here, the light No waking: ever on my blinded brain The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain, The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite: I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight, Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain: I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train Move labouring out into the bourneless night. So many souls within its dim recesses, So many bright, so many mournful eyes: Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses; What threads of life, what hidden histories, What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses, What unknown thoughts, what various agonies! A FORECAST. What days await this woman, whose strange feet Breathe spells, whose presence makes men dream like wine, Tall, free and slender as the forest pine, Whose form is moulded music, through whose sweet Frank ey
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