Now in the still
Shadow and glamour of the departed sun
Beauty's immortal ritual is done,
The divine word and will.

Now, lost in lone
Worship and breathless adoration, lies
The loving at the belovèd breast and cries
His prayer up to her throne.

Now thrills the dim
Heart of compassionate and conquering love
With solemn pride, and from her throne above
Listens, and leans to him.

No sound is here.
Mysteriously the many are made one.—
O peace, now the eternal will is done,
And God's own heart how near!

A day will come, in not undreamed of years
Where men shall wake with singing in their lips.
Their toil will bloom with hope uncursed by fears;
They will not labor to the tune of whips;
They will not close their days as battered ships!
Then all shall be as gods, Olympus-born,
And joy shall grace each heart. As beauty drips
From Summer downs, so from the fields of corn
Shall gladness be set forth on all the sons of morn.
Then lust will die, and gold will lose its lure.
No soul will gloat, while others starve for bread.

Say! but the sun is shinin' bright!
And don't the sky look nice and blue?
And the trees are green—I guess the dew
Was a heavy one last night.

The river's pretty windin' there
And sparklin' in the mornin' sun,
An' automobiles are on the run
Whizzin' and flyin' everywhere.

God! but I'm tired! I like this ridin';
My shoes are worn through to my feet—
Like ridin'! Two cops along the seat
Would make some feel like hidin'!

I ain't been fed a day or more;
I'm sort of hazy why I'm took—
God! but the Park has a pretty look!

My country is the world;
My flag with stars impearled,
Fills all the skies,
All the round earth I claim,
Peoples of every name;
And all inspiring fame,
My heart would prize.

Mine are all lands and seas,
All flowers, shrubs and trees,
All life's design,
My heart within me thrills
For all uplifted hills,
And for all streams and rills;
The world is mine.

And all men are my kin,
Since every man has been,
Blood of my blood,
I glory in the grace
And strength of every race
And joy in every trace

Heaven bless grocers' shops wherein
Raisins are with tawny skin,
Murrey wine, and green liquers,
Curious spice in canisters,
Honest ham, and mother tea,
Isinglass and carroway,
Rennet, vinegar, and salt
That honor has, and clear cobalt:
Coffee, that swart Mussulman,
Caviar the Caspian,
Suave oil, angry condiments,
Anchovies, and sweet essence
Of clove and almond, honeycomb,
Jam our English orchards from,
Portly cheeses full of mould,
Sugars and treacles brown or gold;
Soap, to keep us pure, and white

See where the stones are worn beside the street
By leisured, prosperous, long-departed feet,
And swept again, already smooth and neat,
As swaying shadows of the lilac fall
Over the crumbled, secret garden wall.
Behind that knocker and that kind, green door
Aunt Sarah lived in eighteen-thirty-four.
By then, her father, Robert Pearce, was dead:
‘He loved the very stones of Lyne,’ she said,
And now each ledge and cornice seem to rise,
Washed by the love of long-acquainted eyes.

Where the church towers to the equal sky,

Ae modest, winsome, little flower
Within an humble garden grew;
It cheered a lonely woman's hame—
But cauld decay the flowers did pu'.
My orphan bairn, my only ane,
Ran round her widow'd mother's knee,
And sleepit on her mother's breast
Yet she is reft awa' frae me!

Fu' meek and gentle was her face,
And sweeter far my lassie's heart
She wasna made for care or toil—
Her saft, laigh voice, has made me start:
She was my last; but pale she grew—
Pale as the summer's fading day:
I grat in secret; for I saw

There was a king in the West. His name,
Taimus, was spread wide by the drum of fame.
Of royal power and wealth possessed,
No wish unanswered remained in his breast.
His brow gave lustre to glory's crown,
And his foot gave the thrones of the mighty renown.
With Orion from heaven his host to aid,
Conquest was his when he bared his blade.
His child Zulaikha was passing fair,
None in his heart might with her compare;
Of his royal house the most brilliant star,
A gem from the chest where the treasures are.
Praise cannot equal her beauty, no;

There is a bed-time sadness in this place
That seemed ahead so promising and sweet,
Almost like music calling us from home;

But now the staircase does not need our feet,
The drawer is ignorant of my brush and comb,
The mirror quite indifferent to your face.

The whistling frogs of Riddell's Bay
Pipe loud by night and low by day.
The rain, it falls from noon to noon;
Pray God we'll have a dry day soon.

To Hamilton the cyclists fly,
Provisions, meats and wines to buy.
The traffic's thick in all the streets;
The one-car train stands still and bleats.

The catbirds sing at Elbow Beach,
The breakers splash,—the bathers screech,
The tall Bermuda cedars stand
Surveying strangers in their land.

In Somerset the natives go
Wending their steady way and slow;