Closely behind, the Gulf's warm breezes follow This northern hurricane, And, borne thereon, the bobolink and swallow Shall visit us again. And, in green wood-paths, in the kine-fed pasture And by the whispering rills, Shall flowers repeat the lesson of the Master, Taught on his Syrian hills. Blow, then, wild wind! thy roar shall end in singing, Thy chill in blossoming; Come, like Bethesda's troubling angel, bringing The healing of the Spring. BETWEEN THE GATES. Between the gates of birth and death An old and saintly pilgrim passed, With look of one who witnesseth The long-sought goal at last. O thou whose reverent feet have found The Master's footprints in thy way, And walked thereon as holy ground, A boon of thee I pray. "My lack would borrow thy excess, My feeble faith the strength of thine; I need thy soul's white saintliness To hide the stains of mine. "The grace and favor else denied May well be granted for thy sake." So, tempted, doubting, sorely tried, A younger pilgrim spake. "Thy prayer, my son, transcends my gift; No power is mine," the sage replied, "The burden of a soul to lift Or stain of sin to hide. "Howe'er the outward life may seem, For pardoning grace we all must pray; No man his brother can redeem Or a soul's ransom pay. "Not always age is growth of good; Its years have losses with their gain; Against some evil youth withstood Weak hands may strive in vain. "With deeper voice than any speech Of mortal lips from man to man, What earth's unwisdom may not teach The Spirit only can. "Make thou that holy guide thine own, And following where it leads the way, The known shall lapse in the unknown As twilight into day. "The best of earth shall still remain, And heaven's eternal years shall prove That life and death, and joy and pain, Are ministers of Love." THE LAST EVE OF SUMMER. Summer's last sun nigh unto setting shines Through yon columnar pines, And on the deepening shadows of the lawn Its golden lines are drawn. Dreaming of long gone summer days like this, Feeling the wind's soft kiss, Grateful and glad that failing ear and sight Have still their old delight, I sit alone, and watch the warm, sweet day Lapse tenderly away; And, wistful, with a feeling of forecast, I ask, "Is this the last? "Will nevermore for me the seasons run Their round, and will the sun Of ardent summers yet to come forget For me to rise and set?" Thou shouldst be here, or I should be with thee Wherever thou mayst be, Lips mute, hands clasped, in silences of speech Each answering unto each. For this still hour, this sense of mystery far Beyond the evening star, No words outworn suffice on lip or scroll: The soul would fain with soul Wait, while these few swift-passing days fulfil The wise-disposing Will, And, in the evening as at morning, trust The All-Merciful and Just. The solemn joy that soul-communion feels Immortal life reveals; And human love, its prophecy and sign, Interprets love divine.