sleep in the silent temple;
Only the lapping of waves on the sea-sand
Mingles its drowsy rhythmical beating
With the bells of the fountain.

Soft lie the panther-skins on the cool grasses,
Not in vain are your white arms lifted;
And my dream of beauty and your dream eternal
Embrace in the moonlight.

OMNIPRESENCE

What are the great pine boughs
That stretch over me so lovingly
Shielding me from the heat?
They are the sheltering arms of God,
Visible
Against white drifting clouds.

And the trailing white clouds,--
What are they?
They are the tattered, worn-out clothes,
Bordered with broken pearls,
Cast off by the angels and archangels,
And by God himself.

MY CATHEDRAL

All my life long I have loved cathedrals;
Their gray, mysterious vaults and arches
Are the home of peace and beauty,
And sometimes, too, of hope.
Their roofs of stone and walls of painted glass
Shut out the noisy world,
And protect tired eyes from the glare of day.
Their singing-boys and organs thrill lonely hearts;
Their blue welling clouds of incense
Bring a pungent smell as of burning flowers,
And their gleaming candles
Beckon like lights of home across the twilight.

And now I have a cathedral all my own.
It has great pine trunks for pillars,
For painted windows red and golden leaves;
White slender birches are the singing-boys,
And the great organ the winds of God
Playing among the pine-boughs.
The prim little spruces are virgin nuns,
Telling their beads in drops of dew;
And the bare broken tree-stumps
Are hooded monks shattered by worldly storms,
But now in a safe refuge beneath my cathedral dome.
The white-throated sparrows chant prime for me;
The wood-thrush rings the vesper bell;
From beds of fern roll perfumed clouds of incense;
And from the great high altar of eternal rock,
God himself looks forth
In the red glory of the dawn.

THE FOUNDRY

Two monsters,
Iron and Coal,
Sleep in the darkness.
A poisonous scarlet breath blows over them,
And they awake hissing and writhing,
And spew forth blood-red vomit
In streams like fiery serpents.
Then from the reeking pools
A monstrous brood is born,
Black, strong, beautiful.
But we turn away our tired eyes,
And try to find the sky above the smoke-clouds.

SWISS SKETCHES

I.--AFTER SUNSET ON JURA

The Alps--
A mig