the flames are dead.

_The Child:_

What is the cold, dear father?
It stings like an angry bee.
Wherever it stings my hand turns white,
See!

_The Father:_

The cold is a beast, my dear one,
With his paws he tears at the thatch,
His breath is a curse and a warning,
You can see it creep on the latch.

_The Child:_

If 'tis a wolf, dear father,
That lies with his paw on the floor,
Let us heat the spade in the embers
And drive him away from the door.

_Angels:_

God is the power of growth,
In the snail and the tree,
God is the power of growth
In the heart of the man.

_The Child:_

Did you not hear the singing,
Voices overhead?
Mother's voice and Ruth's voice,
Voices of the dead.

_The Father, musing:_

Our Ruth died in the springtime,
With the spade I turned the sod,
We buried her by the brier rose,
Her life is hid with God.

_The Child:_

All summer long in the garden
No roses came to the tree.
Father, was it for sorrow,
Sorrow for thee and me?

_The Father:_

Roses grew in the garden,
I saw them at morning and even,
Shadows of earthly roses
They bloomed for fingers in heaven.

* * * * *

_The air is very clear and still,
The moonlight falls from half the sphere;
The shadow from the silver hill
Fills half the vale, and half is clear
As the moon's self with cloudless snow;
By the dead stream the alders throw
Their shadows, shot with tingling spars;
On the sheer height the elm trees glow:
Their tops are tangled with the stars._

* * * * *

_The Child:_

Father, the coals are dying,
See! I have heated the spade,
Let me throw the door wide open,
I will not be afraid.

_The Father:_

Let me kiss you once on the forehead,
And once on your darling eyes;
We may see them both at the dawning,
In the dales of Paradise.

_The Child:_

And if I only see them,
I will tell them how you smiled;
For the wolf, you know, is angry,
And I am a little child.

_Death:_

Undaunted spirits,
I give thee peace,
For a world of dread--
Calm.
For desperate toil--
Rest.
Thou who didst say,
When the waters of poverty
Waxed deep, deep,
What we bear is best;
Just ones,
I give thee sleep.

_First Traveller:_

Keep up your spirits, I know
There's a cabin under the hill,
The fellow will make a roaring fire;
We'll heat our hands and drink our fill
And go warm t