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of thee !

and sang

I'll tell you now the little history

The feast was spread, and flowed the Of Sister Mary of the Love of God.

rarest wine

In golden goblets clinking round the
A lovely maiden of a high estate,
She danced away her days in careless The flashing cups from hand to hand did
glee ;

A bird beside her window came and sate, And rang and chimed “Go, give thee to
And piped and sang,
The Lord has need

the Lord !"

Within her chamber long the lady sate, Deep in the night, when everything was Then raised her downcast face, all pale still,

and sweet : The restless dance, the music's merry “There is a beggar lying at the gateclang,

Go, bring him in, that I may wash his That bird would perch upon the window sill:

feet." The Lord hath need of thee,” it piped

They looked

upon her robes of satin sheen,

They looked upon her eyes so strange She rose and fled her chamber in affright,

and glad ; And roused with eager call the minstrel They whispered, “She is not as she hath gray :

been ;'
“ The birds are singing strange things in Her damsels wept, “Our lady hath gone
the night ;

Tune me, 0 minstrel, something blythe
and gay!”

But in the night she stole away alone.

Then sang the minstrels many a mournThe minstrel struck his harp with ready

ful rhyme, power ;

Till some forgot her as one never known,
The laughing echoes wakened merrily ; And others said, “ She hath some heavy
The lady turned as white as lily-flower,

The music trilled, “ The Lord has need
of thee !

Ah me, it is a hundred years ago !

This ivy on the walls is thick, you see ; Her guests came round her and her ball- The world would laugh if I should tell it so room blazed,

Of Sister Mary's little history.
While lively footsteps on the floor did

Another dances in her shoes to-day ;
The lady led the dance with looks One wears that gem of hers, another this;

But she is happy and the poor are gay, The Lord doth need thee!" said the The sick are smiling and the dead in dancers' feet.

bliss !

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It waits till the daylight passes

And closes them one by one.

I have asked why it closed at even,

And I know what it wished to say : There are stars all night in the heaven,

And I am the star of day.


When the last bitterness was past, she bore
Her singing Cæsar to the Garden Hill,
Her fallen pitiful dead emperor.
She lifted up the beggar's cloak he wore
- The one thing living that he would not

kill – And on those lips of his that sang no more, That world-loathed head which she found

lovely still, Her cold lips closed, in death she had her

will. Oh wreck of the lost human soul left free To gorge the beast thy mask of manhood

screened ! Because one living thing, albeit a slave, Shed those hot tears on thy dishonored

grave, Although thy curse be as the shoreless sea, Because she loved, thou art not wholly



Is this the man by whose decree abide
The lives of countless nations, with the

trace Of fresh tears wet upon the hard cold

face ? – He wept, because a little child had

died. They set a marble image by his side, A sculptured Eros, ready for the chase ; It wore the dead boy's features, and the

grace Of pretty ways that were the old man's

pride. And so he smiled, grown softer now, and

tired Of too much empire, and it seemed a joy Fondly to stroke and pet the curly head, The smooth round limbs so strangely like

the dead, To kiss the white lips of his marble boy And call by name his little heart's-desired.

WHEN I am dead, my spirit

Shall wander far and free, Through realms the dead inherit

Of earth and sky and sea ; Through morning dawn and gloaming,

By midnight moons at will, By shores where the waves are foaming,

By seas where the waves are still. I, following late behind you,

In wingless sleepless flight, Will wander till I find you,

In sunshine or twilight; With silent kiss for greeting

On lips and eyes and head,
In that strange after-meeting

Shall love be perfected.
We shall lie in summer breezes

And pass where whirlwinds go,
And the northern blast that freezes

Shall bear us with the snow.
We shall stand above the thunder,

And watch the lightnings hurled
At the misty mountains under,

Of the dim forsaken world.
We shall find our footsteps' traces,

And passing hand in hand
By old familiar places,
We shall laugh, and understand.


THERE never were such radiant noons,

Such roses, such fair weather,
Such nightingales, such mellow moons,

As while we were together!
But now the suns are poor and pale,

The cloudy twilight closes,
The mists have choked the nightingale,

The blight has killed the roses.


With little white leaves in the grasses,

pread wide for the smile of the sun,

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