Well knows he, that he is thy Son, “Ventre quem portasti”; All thou dost ask Him, then, is won, “Partum quem lactasti”; So pitiful He is and kind, By Him the road to bliss we find “Superni”; He doth the gates of darkness bind “Inferni.” AN AUTUMN ROSE-TREE BY MICHAEL EARLS, S.J. It seemed too late for roses When I walked abroad to-day, October stood in silence, By the hedges all the way: Yet did I hear a singing, And I saw a red rose-tree:-- In fields so gray with autumn How could song or roses be? Oh, it was never maple Nor the dogwood’s coat afire, No sage with scarlet banners, Nor the poppy’s vested choir: The breeze that may be music When the summer lawns are fair Will have no heart for singing In the autumn’s mournful air. As I went up the roadway, Under cold and lonely skies, A song I heard, a rose-tree Waved to me in glad surprise:-- A red cloak and a ribbon, (Round the braided hair of jet) And redder cheeks than roses Of a little Margaret. Now God is good in autumn, He can name the birds that sing, He loves the hearts of children More than flowery fields of spring: And when the years of winter Gray with Margaret will be, God will find her love still blossom Like a red rose-tree. TO A CARMELITE POSTULANT (San Francisco, May, 1910) BY MICHAEL EARLS, S.J. Oh, the banks of May are fair, Charm of sound and sight, Breath of heaven fills the air, To the world’s delight. Far more wondrous is a bower, Fairer than the May, Love-of-God it wears in flower, Blooming night and day. Love-of-God within the heart Multicolored grows, Now a lily’s counterpart, Now the blood-red rose. Come the sun or chilling rain, Come the drought or dew, Crocus health or violet pain, Love-of-God is true. Hard may be the mountain-side, Soft the valley sod, Yet will fragrance sure abide With the Love-of-God. Where the grace of Heaven leads, There it makes a home, Hills a hundred and the meads Will its pathway roam. Carmel by the western sea Holds your blessed bower: Love-of-God eternally Keep your heart a-flower. A PURPOSE OF AMENDMENT BY HELEN PARRY EDEN He who mangold-patch doth hoe, Sweating beneath a sturdy sun, Clearing each weed-disguised row Till day-light and the task be done, Standeth to view his labour’s scene-- Where now, within the hedge-row’s girth, The little plants untrammeled green Stripes the brown fabric of the earth. So when the absolution’s said Behind the grille, and I may go, And all the flowers of sin are dead, And all the stems of sin laid low,