Dear Lord,"

 Purple the night, and high were the skies, and higher The eyes that leaned like the stars of my soul, to me. Whom loveth the Queen? Him who hath right to crown her. Who but the King is he? 

The eyes that leaned like the stars of my soul, to me.

Who but the King is he?

 Sultry the day, and gold was the hair, and golden The mist that blinded my soul away from me. Dethroned for a dream, for a gleam, for a glance, for a color, How could the crownèd be? 

The mist that blinded my soul away from me.

How could the crownèd be?

 Life goeth by like a deed, nor returneth forever. Death cometh on, fleet-footed as pity should be. Hush! When she waketh at last and looketh about her, Whom will a woman see? 

Death cometh on, fleet-footed as pity should be.

Whom will a woman see?

 Thus in her cell, Deep in the summer night, sang Guinevere— A little, broken, blind, sweet melody— And then she kneeled upon the convent floor, And, peaceful, finished all her prayer and slept; For she had naught to say God might not hear. 

Thus in her cell,

 

 

 SUNG TO A FRIEND. 

 The tide is rising, rising Out of the infinite sea; From ripple, to wave, to billow, Past beryl and gold and crimson, A prism of perfect splendor; What shall the white surf be? 

Out of the infinite sea;

What shall the white surf be?

 The sacred tide is rising, Rising for you and me. Defiant across the breaker, Wave unto wave must answer, The sea to the shore will follow; When shall the great flood be? 

Rising for you and me.

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