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A Mother's Loss.

When I did name her little lost one, she
Brushed from her eyes the precious drops of love,
As if her memory with his sweet name shaken


In life's exigencies men have been known
To pass themselves, and to attain to more
Than hope; as if in combat with the gods

Birth And Death.

I who have known thee, Birth, must know Death too:
As old, old men their children's children fold

Youth And Age.

The last fruit off a tree is oft more sweet
And finely flavoured than the first, and so
Within life's autumn men may pleasures pluck

Poet And Priest.

The poet's born, the priest is made: at last
Shall come a day when all men at the shrine
Of poesy shall pay their vows, and know

For Lillian

She was so dear, so fair. Her memory stays,
Even her dying robs me not of this,
That I have walked with her in mortal ways
Whose tender beauty now immortal is.

Winged Words

The winged words, they pass
Still everywhere,
Seeds of the spirit-grass
The dream-winds bear

The Song-God.

The Song-god helps me mightily, and runs
Before life's purpose like a primal power,
Spirit in sense of all that I am still;

The Stream.

God but knows what path
This small stream must take,
Through what gleams and glooms
Which the years shall make.

Sleep And Death.

Sleep puts sin by, as the grave life's despair;
And though bad dreams in sleep may come, the soul
Is tainted not with error, being then

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7/31/2021 8:31:07 AM #