Not the mysterious music of the heights,
The grandeur of harmony whose eagling flights
Wing us to clouds dim, distant, dark, and dull.
Give us the simple songs that, free and full,
Find echo in our hearts, as when we lift
The lattice, that through all the house may drift
The red-robed robin's twittering song, that wings
Its flight by the vined window as it sings.

And as the leper with the bell,
So some men through their lives must bear
Faces that serve the world as well
To tell the unclean hiding there.
And though the leper, shunned, conceals
His bell, and quiets its shrill stroke,
Some quick, unthinking step reveals
Its jingling presence, 'neath his cloak.

Ragged and starved, with shifting look, and eyes
Too old for childhood, and too dull for joy,
How shall you guess, thro' this forlorn disguise,
The Man you hope for, in this hopeless Boy?

There is no heart so cold but may be warmed;
And — by the grace of God — can be transformed.

An Epigram from the Greek.

To a mouse says a Miser “my dear Mr. Mouse,
Pray what may you please for to want in my house?”
Says the Mouse “Mr. Miser, pray keep yourself quiet,
You are safe in your person, your purse, and your diet:
A lodging I want, which ev'n you may afford,
But none wou'd come here to beg, borrow, or board.”

O spring, you are pale and fanatic, and I dread
The motion of your sandals: they
Are strapped with a green lightning and their tread
Is the thunder of water and your eyes are wild grey
And earth is a black womb fiercely tenanted
And the winds sway —
And I am shaken with something I cannot say.

Jesus lived and died for you;
Try to love and serve Him too,
Do the work you have to do
With a purpose strong and true,
Ev'ryday, ev'ryday.

“We are proud of death,” Sacco said.
But better to be living than be dead.

Yes, proud of death; and death should be proud, too,
Proud of these men that Justice slew.

But death is far too proud. She'd rather give
Them back to life, and let them live!

We thank Thee, dear Father, for care through the night,
For flowers that blossom, for morning's clear light;

For wind, rain and sunshine, for home, friends and food;
From Thee comes each blessing, and ev'rything good.

Our Father in heaven, be with us each day,
And help us to love Thee, in work and in play.

Awake, little flowers, asleep in the snows, . .
For this is the morning when Jesus arose, when Jesus . . . . . . . . . . arose.

Each lily He loved in the meadows of old, . .
Will welcome the Master with blossoms of gold, with blossoms. . . . . . . . . . . of gold,

Messiah is living, the Cherubims say, . .
Shine forth in your beauty to greet Him today, to greet Him . . . . . . . . . . today.

" BOOK against book." " Agreed," I said:
But 'twas the truck of Diomed!

— And yet, in Fairy-land, I'm told
Dead leaves — as these — will turn to gold.
Take them, Sir Alchemist, and see!
Nothing transmutes like sympathy.