Holy Father, hear me;
Thou art my Defender;
Be Thou ever near me,
Loving, true, and tender.

Jesu, blessèd Master,
Lord of life and glory,
Bid the hours fly faster,
Till I kneel before Thee.

Comforter benignest,
Tabernacling in me,
Thou my need divinest:
Move me, draw me, win me.

Holy, Holy, Holy,
Come and leave me never,
Thine abode most lowly,
Only Thine for ever.

Taking us by and large, we're a queer lot
We women who write poetry. And when you think
How few of us there've been, it's queerer still.
I wonder what it is that makes us do it,
Singles us out to scribble down, man-wise,
The fragments of ourselves. Why are we
Already mother-creatures, double-bearing,
With matrices in body and in brain?
I rather think that there is just the reason
We are so sparse a kind of human being;
The strength of forty thousand Atlases
Is needed for our every-day concerns.
There's Sapho, now I wonder what was Sapho.

LXI

Of purpose Love chose first for to be blind,
For he with sight of that that I behold
Vanquished had been against all godly kind.
His bow your hand and truss should have unfold
And he with me to serve had been assigned.
But for he blind and reckless would him hold
And still by chance his deadly strokes bestow,
With such as see I serve and suffer woe.

There's a great big mystery
And it surely is worrying me
This diddie wa diddie
This diddie wa diddie
I wish somebody would tell me what diddie wa diddie means

The little girl about four feet four:
“Come on papa and give me some more
Of your diddie wa diddie
Your diddie wa diddie”
I wish somebody would tell me what diddie wa diddie means

I went out and walked around
Somebody yelled, said: “Look who's in town—
Mister diddie wa diddie
Mister diddie wa diddie”
I wish somebody would tell me what diddie wa diddie means

When the weary at heart and the laden with sin
Have open'd to Jesus the things that have been,
When all is forgiven, for all is confess'd,
In the blood of His cross there is rest, blessèd rest.

When in struggling for right and in wrestling with wrong
The rough doubtful path seems most lonesome and long,
Ah, then like a babe by its mother caress'd
In the bosom of Jesus is rest, blessèd rest.

When the home of our childhood is shadow'd and dim
And the loved ones we clung to are gather'd to Him,
While we nestle and weep on His sheltering breast,

'Twas at the close of a warm summer's day,
We spread our orphan's couch in the sweet air;
And she was happy as the healthiest there;
While, with each changing posture, as she lay,
A star, that lurk'd within the whispering firs,
Look'd forth upon her, glistening tenderly;
‘How like,’ she said, ‘a mother's watchful eye,
‘That wakes and brightens, when her infant stirs!’
She loved God's world, that maiden meek and mild;
She challenged kith and kin on every hand,
Like Francis of Assisi—that dear child
Spoke sisterly of flowers and song-birds wild;

O SWEET is Love, and sweet is Lack!
But is there any charm
When Lack from round the neck of Love
Drops her languid arm?

Weary, I no longer love,
Weary, no more lack;
O for a pang, that listless Loss
Might wake, and, with a playmate's voice,
Call the tired Love back!

One little noise of life remain'd—I heard
The train pause in the distance, then rush by,
Brawling and hushing, like some busy fly
That murmurs and then settles; nothing stirr'd
Beside. The shadow of our travelling earth
Hung on the silver moon, which mutely went
Through that grand process, without token sent,
Or any sign to call a gazer forth,
Had I not chanced to see; dumb was the vault
Of heaven, and dumb the fields—no zephyr swept
The forest walks, or through the coppice crept;
Nor other sound the stillness did assault,

Within his breast the gift he placed,
That guide of youth and age,
A gentle sister's name was traced
Upon its blessed page.

On to the strife the soldier press'd,
With inmost spirit stirr'd,
For 'mid the scenes of joy and rest,
His martial vow was heard.

The rattling hail went sweeping by,
Upon a field of gore,
Stern death was out, careering high,
'Mid havoc's deafening roar.

The youthful hero still advanced,
With heart of Spartan mould,
The standard to the breeze that danced
Had made his bosom bold.

Oh , weep not, Jerusalem's daughters,
For Him who is toiling along,
He drinketh of agony's waters,
But the Cross is preceding the song.

But weep that the Roman invader
Shall march to your city of pride,
And when in the dust he has laid her,
Your deep-seated anguish deride.

And weep that the child of your bosom,
By parents so fondly adored,
Shall perish an innocent blossom,
A prey to the conqueror's sword.

The curse is upon thee, my nation,
The sword from its scabbard shall leap,
And Salem, in stern desolation,