Of colored stones which curiously are wrought
Into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught
By patient labor any hue to take

And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
With storied meaning for religion's sake.

GOD IS NOT DUMB

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

From Bibliolaters

God is not dumb, that He should speak no more;
If thou hast wanderings in the wilderness
And findest not Sinai, 'tis thy soul is poor;

There towers the Mountain of the Voice no less,
Which whoso seeks shall find; but he who bends,
Intent on manna still and mortal ends,

Sees it not, neither hears its thundered lore.

Slowly the Bible of the race is writ,

And not on paper leaves nor leaves of stone; Each age, each kindred, adds a verse to it,

Texts of despair and hope, of joy or moan.

While swings the sea, while mists the mountains shroud,
While thunders' surges burst on cliff of cloud,
Still at the prophets' feet the nations sit.

THE POET

ANGELA MORGAN

Why hast thou breathed, O God, upon my thoughts
And tuned my pulse to thy high melodies,

Lighting my soul with love, my heart with flame,
Thrilling my ear with songs I cannot keep-

Only to set me in the market place

Amid the clamor of the bartering throng,
Whose ears are deaf to my impassioned plea,
Whose hearts are heedless of the word I bring?

And yet dear God, forgive! I will sing on.
I will sing until that shining day.

When one, perchance, one only may it be-
Shall turn aside from out the sordid way,
List'ning with eager ears that understand
Until that day-thy day-help me to bear
The hurt of cold indifference and the pain
Of seeing all the multitude rush by,
Drowning thy music with their cry for gold!

HE WHOM A DREAM HATH POSSESSED

SHAEMUS O SHEEL

He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of doubting, For mist and the blowing of winds and the mouthing of words he scorns;

Not the sinuous speech of schools he hears, but a knightly shouting,

And never comes darkness down, yet he greeteth a million

morns.

He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of roaming; All roads and the flowing of waves and the speediest flight he knows,

But wherever his feet are set, his soul is forever homing,
And going, he comes, and coming he heareth a call and goes.

He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of sorrow, At death and the dropping of leaves and the fading of suns he smiles,

For a dream remembers no past, and scorns the desire of a

morrow,

And a dream in a sea of doom sets surely the ultimate isles.

He whom a dream hath possessed treads the impalpable marches,

From the dust of the day's long road he leaps to a laughing star, And the ruin of worlds that fall he views from eternal arches, And rides God's battlefield in a flashing and golden car.

THE FOUNTS OF SONG

WILLIAM SHARP (Fiona Macleod)

"What is the song I am singing?”

Said the pine tree to the wave:
"Do you not know the song

You have sung so long

Down in the dim green alleys of the sea,

And where the great blind tides go swinging

Mysteriously,

And where the countless herds of the billows are hurl'd

On all the wild and lonely beaches of the world?"

"Ah, pine tree," sighed the wave,

"I have no song but what I catch from thee:

Far off I hear thy strain

Of infinite sweet pain

That floats along the lovely phantom land.

I sigh, and murmur it o'er and o'er and o'er,

When 'neath the slow compelling hand

That guides me back and far from the loved shore,

I wander long

Where never falls the breath of any song,
But only the loud, empty, crashing roar

Of seas swung this way and that for evermore."

"What is the song I am singing?"

Said the poet to the pine:

"Do you not know the song

You have sung so long

Here in the dim green alleys of the woods,

Where the wild winds go wandering in all moods,

And whisper often o'er and o'er

Or in tempestuous clamours roar

Their dark eternal secret evermore?"

"Oh, Poet," said the pine,

"Thine

Is that song!

Not mine!

I have known it, loved it, long!

Nothing I know of what the wild winds cry
Through dusk and storm and night,

Or prophesy

When tempests whirl us with their awful might. Only, I know that when

The poet's voice is heard

Among the woods

The infinite pain from out the hearts of men

Is sweeter than the voice of wave or branch or bird

In these dumb solitudes."

From INSPIRATION

HENRY DAVID THOREAU

If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,

From my poor love of anything,

The verse is weak and shallow as its source.

But if with bended neck I grope,
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,

More anxious to keep back than forward it,—

Time cannot bend the line that God hath writ.

I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before;
I moments live, who lived but years,

And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.

GENIUS

EDWARD LUCAS WHITE

He cried aloud to God: "The men below
Are happy, for I see them come and go,
Parents and mates and friends, paired,
clothed with love;

They heed not, see not, need me not above,—
I am alone here. Grant me love and peace,
Or if not them, grant me at least release."

God answered him: "I set you here on high
Upon my beacon tower, you know not why,
Your soul-torch by the cruel gale is blown,
As desperate as our aching heart is lone.
You may not guess but that it shines in vain,
Yet, till it is burned out, you must remain."