Methinks heaven's gates swing open very wide To welcome in a host so fair and strong; Perchance the unharmed angels as they sing, May envy these the battle-scars they bring, And sigh e'er they take up the triumph song! THE SHELLS O my brave heart! O my strong heart! My sweet heart and gay, The soul of me went with you the hour you marched away, For surely she is soulless, this woman white, and still, Who works with shining metal to make the things that kill. I tremble as I touch them,--so strange they are, and bright; Each one will be a comet to break the purple night. Grey Fear will ride before it, and Death will ride behind, The sound of it will deafen,--the light of it will blind! And whom it meets in passing, but God alone will know; Each one will blaze a trail in blood--will hew a road of woe; O when the fear is on me, my heart grows faint and cold:-- I dare not think of what I do,--of what my fingers hold. Then sounds a Voice, "Arise, and make the weapons of the Lord!" "He rides upon the whirlwind! He hath need of shell and sword! His army is a mighty host--the lovely and the strong,-- They follow Him to battle, with trumpet and with Song!" O my brave heart! My strong heart! My sweet heart and dear,-- 'Tis not for me to falter,--'Tis not for me to fear-- Across the utmost barrier--wherever you may be,-- With joy unspent, and deathless, my soul will follow thee. THE WATCHER Little White Moon--Each night from Heaven you lean To watch the lonely Seas, and all the Earth between;-- O little shining Moon! What have you seen?-- What have you seen upon the fields of France, Where through the drowsy grain, the gay red poppies dance, Unheeding splintered gun or broken lance? Deep in the green-wood, shadow-laced, and still, What is it you have found, by fern-bed and by rill? What by each hollow--and each little hill?-- When o'er the sky the driven smoke-clouds flee, And through a dusky veil look down fearfully-- What do you find adrift upon the sea? In the great mountains where the four winds blow,-- Where the King's cavalry, and his foot-soldiers go-- What have you seen beneath the shifting snow? Little white Moon! So old,--so strangely bright-- How could you still shine on, unless you knew some night Here in the world you watch, all would be right! OCTOBER GOES October goes, and its colors all pass: At dawn there's a silver film on the grass, And the reeds are shining as pipes of glass, But yesterweek where the cloud waves rolled Down a wind-swept sky that was grey, and cold, Sailed the hunter's moon,--a galleon of gold! And now in the very depth of the night It is just a little flame, blown and white, Or a broken-winged moth on a weary flight. But the steadfast trees at the forest rim, And the pines in places scented and dim, Still wait for one hunter, and watch for him.