he guarded gates and went its way.
The blue, translucent beams of morning play
On arch triumphal, veiled in silver light;
And here, where blind, red fury reached its height,
An ancient column rises grim and gray.

Slumbering in mystic sleep it seems to be,
And dreaming dreams of Egypt long ago,
Unmindful of the ceaseless ebb and flow
About its feet of life's unresting sea;
But 'mid the roar, I hear it murmur low:
Poor fools, they know not all is vanity!

The Parting Ways

We trod together pleasant ways;
The earth was fair and blue the sky;
Clear were the nights and bright the days
And life was joy, for you were nigh.

To-day the road looks steep and grim,
And shadows fall on every side,
The sun grows strangely blurred and dim--
For in this place our paths divide.

Calvary

The women stood and watched while thick, black night
Enclosed the awful tragedy. Afar
Three crosses stood, against a single bar
Of crimson-glowing, black-encircled light.
No hint of Easter dawn. In all the height
Of that dark heaven, not a single star
To whisper;--Love and Life the victors are.
It seemed to them that wrong had conquered right.

O ye who watch and wait, the night is long.
A curtain of spun fire and woven gloom
Across the mighty tragedy is drawn.
But soon your ears shall hear a triumph song,
And golden light shall touch each sacred tomb,
And voices shout at last--The Dawn! The Dawn!

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 bays;
Sad or merry, swift or slow,
Tread they through the mystic maze.

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.

The Lace-Maker of Bruges

Her age-worn hands upon her apron lie
Idle and still. Agai