The thought of her was sweet

As blossoms are in Lent,

Green turned our wending Convent street,
And all about was Kent.

Kent lilies round her nod;

I drew her staid and fair;
I drew her with the Son of God
Clasped to her bosom there.

Brief is our life and dark;

The grave shall hold us fast;
Yet here I find in old Saint Mark

That only right shall last.

I Basil, too, must heed,

Else were my task undone,

God has more books than I can read,
I praise Him for this one.

FRA GREGORY'S WORD TO THE LORD

From 'A Quiet Road.'

My years in this green close are set;
The mint buds lilac row by row;
Thy suns blaze on; Thy showers wet;
And I rejoice that it is so.

Each stalk of lavender is sweet;

As I fare back from ailing men,
I smell it out there in the street,
And praise Thee I am home again.

Lord, in the shop at Nazareth,

Was not the scent of Cedar thine Mixed with thy work a country breath, As is this Lavender with mine?

Ever the while I sow or reap

My sick folks seem about me, Lord, As were I shepherd, they the sheep; Their cares smite through me like a sword.

Fra Simon has a lovely book,

On rainy days he comes to me, Over the painted leaves to crook

And therefrom read some word of Thee.

Fra Simon wrought this book himself;
Luke with his viol breaks my heart;
A few dried simples on a shelf
Are all my song, and all my art.

I sort them out on floor and sill;
Fennel, and balm, and silver sage;
This one for fever, this for chill;
And loving each, I get my wage.

Do such as I to glory pass,

Skilled but in what each season grows? I, gatherer of the Convent grass, With smell of mould about my clothes?

I cannot sing; I scarce can pray;

Let me have there some garden space,
Where I may dig in mine old way,
And looking up, Lord, see thy face.

A CELTIC MAYING SONG
From 'A Quiet Road.'

Seven candles burn at my love's head,
Seven candles at his feet;

He lies as he were carved of stone
Under the winding sheet.

The Mayers troop into the town
Each with a branch of May,

But when they come to my love's house
Not one word do they say.

But when they come to my love's house,

Silent they stand before;

Out steps a lad with one white bough,
And lays it at the door.

APRIL WEATHER

From 'A Quiet Road.'

Oh! hush, my heart, and take thine ease,
For here is April weather!

The daffodils beneath the trees

Are all a-row together.

The thrush is back with his old note;

The scarlet tulip blowing;

And white-ay, white as my love's throat-
The dogwood boughs are growing.

The lilac bush is sweet again;

Down every wind that passes,

Fly flakes from hedge row and from lane;
The bees are in the grasses.

And Grief goes out, and joy comes in,
And care is but a feather;

And every lad his love can win;
For here is April weather.

THE MYSTERY

From The Smart Set. Copyright, and used here by permission of the author and the

publishers.

"I have been here before."-Rosetti.

As up and down the world I go,
All ancient do the places show;
The gardens full of honeybees,
The roofs, the high and windy trees.

April begins. The gnarled pear
Out in the lane buds white and fair;
Long since-for I can see it plain-
It blossomed in just such a lane.

This sunset light upon the glass,
Long since I saw across the grass;
Perhaps in Rouen, perhaps in Rome;
Where'er, I know that it was home.

The very thought of this is sweet;
What though the memory be fleet!
The sound, the odor but a snatch?
It is the clicking of the latch.

THE YOUNG MOTHER

From The Smart Set. Copyright, and used here by permission of the author and the publishers.

The Host lifts high the candle-light

Out in the dark she waits before"Now who is this at mid of night, Comes faring to my door?"

With rushes is the chamber set;
The house is sweet without, within;

For it may be she will forget

The place where she hath been.

But lonely, lonely in the room,

With strange eyes looks she all about;
She sees the broken boughs in bloom,
The red wine poured out.

They crowd around her where she stands,
The children and the elders there;

They put the cup within her hands;
They break the loaf so fair.

Oh! what to her that they are kind!
Oh! let the tears come like a tide!
She cannot keep from out her mind
The son for whom she died!

AT COCKCROW

From The Congregationalist. Copyright, and used here by permission of the author and the publishers.

The stars are gone out spark by spark;
A cock crows up the cloudy lane,

A cart toils creaking through the dark;
Lord, in Thy sight all roads are plain,
Or run they up or down,

Sheep tracks, highways to town,

Or even that little one,

Beneath the hedge, where seldom falls the sun.

If it were light, I would go west;

I would go east across the land;

But it is dark, I needs must rest

Till morn breaks forth on every hand;
Lord, choose for me,

The road that runs to Thee.