come, led by the starshine bright, With broken heart to bring to Thee The fruit of Thine Epiphany, The gift my fellows send by me, The myrrh to bed Thine agony. I set it here beneath Thy Feet, In token of Death’s great defeat; And hail Thee Conqueror in the strife; And hail Thee Lord of Light and Life. All hail! All hail the Virgin’s Son! All hail! Thou little helpless One! All hail! Thou King upon the Tree! All hail! The Babe on Mary’s knee, The centre of all mystery!

p. 52All Souls’ Day in a German Town

p. 52

The leaves fall softly: a wind of sighs Whispers the world’s infirmities, Whispers the tale of the waning years, While slow mists gather in shrouding tears On All Souls’ Day; and the bells are slow In steeple and tower. Sad folk go Away from the township, past the mill, And mount the slope of a grassy hill Carved into terraces broad and steep, To the inn where wearied travellers sleep, Where the sleepers lie in ordered rows, And no man stirs in his long repose. They wend their way past the haunts of life, Father and daughter, grandmother, wife, To deck with candle and deathless cross, The house which holds their dearest loss. I, who stand on the crest of the hill, Watch how beneath me, busied still, The sad folk wreathe each grave with flowers. Awhile the veil of the twilight hours Falls softly, softly, over the hill, Shadows the cross:—creeps on until Swiftly upon us is flung the dark. Then, as if lit by a sudden spark, Each grave is vivid with points of light, Earth is as Heaven’s mirror to-night; The air is still as a spirit’s breath, The lights burn bright in the realm of Death. Then silent the mourners mourning go, Wending their way to the church below; While the bells toll out to bid them speed, With eager Pater and prayerful bead, The souls of the dead, whose bodies still Lie in the churchyard under the hill; While they wait and wonder in Paradise, And gaze on the dawning mysteries, Praying for us in our hours of need; For us, who with Pater and prayerful bead Have bidden those waiting spirits speed.

The

p. 55Rivers and Streams

p. 55

Running water has a charm all its own; it proffers companionship of which one never tires; it adapts itself to moods; it is the guardian of secrets. It has cool draughts for the thirsty soul as well as for drooping flowers; and they who wander in the garden of God with listening ears learn of its many voices.

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