THE darkest wood that the north-wind stings
Hath its balsamum and its silverlings,
OH, what is Christ, that we should call on Him?
Wasted Armenia, in her utter woe,
Dies in the mocking desert, calling so.
I. In South Africa
Over the lonesome African plain
The stars look down, like eyes of the slain.
ALAS, alas for those blond boys who stalk
Their prey in ambush of the shuddering seas,
Whiling the wait with merry, tender talk
HOPE of the Nations, lift thy stricken heart.
Thyself art Sorrow, and to thee the cry
Of battle-anguish comes more piercingly
THE wolf of want is howling
At doors no angel keeps.
Young Mary smiled on her Holy Child,
But many a mother weeps.
THE sunset, woven of soft lights
And tender colors, lingers late,
As looking back on all day's dreary plights,
BESIDE the country road with truant grace
Wild carrot lifts its circles of white lace.
From vines whose interwoven branches drape
A stranger, schooled to gentle arts,
He stept before the curious throng;
His path into our waiting hearts
Already paved by song.