Strange, mystic shadows filled the temple dim, But on the Golden Door the ruby glow Spoke orisons more sweet than vesper hymn. No human accents voiced His gentle call, No crashing thunderbolts did wait on Him, As when of old He deigned to summon Saul. But heart did speak to heart, an unseen chord In Love’s own scale did sweetly rise and fall; Nor questioned she, but meekly answered “Lord!” To-night some household counts a vacant chair, But far on high Christ portions the reward, A hundred-fold for each poor human care. CHRIST THE COMRADE BY PADRAIC COLUM Christ, by Thine own darkened hour Live within my heart and brain! Let my hands not slip the rein. Ah, how long ago it is Since a comrade rode with me! Now a moment let me see Thyself, lonely in the dark, Perfect, without wound or mark. AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS BY PADRAIC COLUM Oh, to have a little house, To own the hearth and stool and all-- The heaped-up sods upon the fire, The pile of turf against the wall! To have a clock with weights and chains, And pendulum swinging up and down! A dresser filled with shining delph, Speckled and white and blue and brown! I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue speckled store. I could be quiet there at night Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed, and loth to leave The ticking clock and shining delph. Och! but I’m weary of mist and dark, And roads where there’s never a house or bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush. And I am praying to God on high, And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house--a house of my own-- Out of the wind’s and the rain’s way. THE HEAVIEST CROSS OF ALL BY KATHERINE ELEANOR CONWAY I’ve borne full many a sorrow, I’ve suffered many a loss-- But now, with a strange, new anguish, I carry this last dread cross; For of this be sure, my dearest, whatever thy life befall, The cross that our own hands fashion is the heaviest cross of all. Heavy and hard I made it in the days of my fair strong youth, Veiling mine eyes from the blessed light, and closing my heart to truth. Pity me, Lord, whose mercy passeth my wildest thought, For I never dreamed of the bitter end of the work my hands had wrought! In the sweet morn’s flush and fragrance I wandered o’er dewy meadows, And I hid from the fervid noontide glow in the cool green woodland shadows; And I never recked, as I sang aloud in my wilful, selfish glee, Of the mighty woe that was drawing nigh to darken the world for me.