Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies? Although his whole heart yearn In passionate tragedy: Never was face so stern With sweet austerity. Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends. Brief life, and hapless? Nay: Through death, life grew sublime. _Speak after sentence?_ Yea: And to the end of time. Armoured he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom: He triumphs now, the dead, Beholding London’s gloom. Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world’s employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy. King, tried in fires of woe! Men hunger for thy grace: And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face. Yet, when the city sleeps; When all the cries are still: The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will. THE HOUSEWIFE’S PRAYER BY BLANCHE MARY KELLY Lady, who with tender word Didst keep the house of Christ the Lord, Who didst set forth the bread and wine Before the Living Wheat and Vine, Reverently didst make the bed Whereon was laid the holy Head That such a cruel pillow prest For our behoof, on Calvary’s crest; Be beside me while I go About my labors to and fro. Speed the wheel and speed the loom, Guide the needle and the broom, Make my bread rise sweet and light, Make my cheese come foamy white, Yellow may my butter be As cowslips blowing on the lea. Homely though my tasks and small, Be beside me at them all. Then when I shall stand to face Jesu in the judgment place, To me thy gracious help afford, Who art the Handmaid of the Lord. BROTHER JUNIPER BY BLANCHE MARY KELLY As unto Francis Poverty, So Folly was a bride to thee. Not the jade that fashions quips For the smiles of mocking lips, And in the face of stony Death Capers till she’s out of breath, But the maid that moves and sings About divinely foolish things, She that gives her substance all For love, and laughs to find it small, She that drew God’s Son to be A butt, a jest on Calvary, And ’neath the leper’s guise doth know The King in his incognito. The world is grown too wise, and we Go our sad ways sensibly. O, would that our lean souls might win Some grace of thine, God’s harlequin, Whose days were lavished like fool’s gold Upon His pleasures manifold. “Would God,” cried Francis, on his knees, “I had a forest of such trees!” THE THRONE OF THE KING BY FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY