And the wind in the branches whispers, "Why?" And the yellow leaves that go rustling by, Say only, "Remember," and sigh,--and sigh. DREAMS Keep thou thy dreams--though joy should pass thee by; Hold to the rainbow beauty of thy thought; It is for dreams that men will oft-times die,-- And count the passing pain of death as nought. Keep though thy dreams, though faith should faint and fail, And time should loose thy fingers from the creeds, The vision of the Christ will still avail To lead thee on to truth and tender deeds. Keep thou thy dreams all the winter's cold, When weeds are withered, and the garden grey, Dream thou of roses with their hearts of gold,-- Beckon to summers that are on their way. Keep thou thy dreams--the tissue of all wings Is woven first of them; from dreams are made The precious and imperishable things, Whose loveliness lives on, and does not fade. Keep thou thy dreams, intangible and dear As the blue ether of the utmost sky,-- A dream may lift thy spirit past all fear, And with the great, may set thy feet on high! BEFORE THE DAWN In that one darkest hour, before the dawn is here, Each soul of us goes sailing, close to the coast of Fear. There in the windless quiet, from out the folded black, The things we have forgotten--or would forget--come back. Old sorrows, long abandoned, or kept with lock and key, Steal from their prison places to bear us company. All softly come our little sins--our scarlet sins--and gray, To keep with us a vigil till breaking of the day. And there are velvet footsteps; or oft we seem to hear Light garments brush against the dark; so near--so very near! Then heavily, as weighed by tears, each haunted moment goes, For dawn steps down the morning sky, in robes of gray and rose. * * * * * O fairies of the forest-ring, and little men in green, And pixies of the moonlight, and elves no eye hath seen, Brew us a magic potion, of deep and fairy power, A draught of Lethe--for one night--to tide us past that hour. CROSSES All your broken war-spent heroes, Lord of War and Grief--you pay With a cross of moulded iron, Hard-wrought iron cold and grey. On the Somme you grant five thousand And five thousand at Verdun; At the dawn of day you count them And at setting of the sun. On the trampled fields of Flanders, On the bitter roads of France, Where the big guns chant their war-songs, And the crimson death-lights dance, There you count the iron crosses Of such high and far renown,--- Grim and grey the men who win them-- Theirs the cross--and yours the crown;-- * * * * *