I shall cry in my need for a Voice and Hand, And the solace of love-wet eyes-- And an icy clutch will close on my heart, When Echo, the mocker, replies. I know my good soul will fail me not, When Forms from the Dark round me creep, And whisper ’twere sweet to journey no more, But lay down the burden and sleep. (_Look onward and up, O Heart of my Heart, Where the road strikes the skies afar! To cheer you, and guide, thro’ your darkest hour, Behold yon beckoning Star!_) I set my face to the grey wild wastes, I bend my back to the load-- Dear God be kind with the heart-sick child Who steps on the Lonely Road. A SONG OF COLOURS BY THEODORE MAYNARD Gold for the crown of Mary, Blue for the sea and sky, Green for the woods and the meadows Where small white daisies lie, And red for the colour of Christ’s blood When He came to the cross to die. These things the high God gave us And left in the world He made-- Gold for the hilt’s enrichment, And blue for the sword’s good blade, And red for the roses a youth may set On the white brows of a maid. Green for the cool, sweet gardens Which stretch about the house, And the delicate new frondage The winds of spring arouse, And red for the wine which a man may drink With his fellows in carouse. Blue and green for the comfort Of tired hearts and eyes, And red for that sudden hour which comes With danger and great surprise, And white for the honour of God’s throne When the dead shall all arise. Gold for the cope and chalice, For kingly pomp and pride, And red for the feathers men wear in their caps When they win a war or a bride, And red for the robe which they dressed God in On the bitter day He died. THE WORLD’S MISER BY THEODORE MAYNARD I A miser with an eager face Sees that each roseleaf is in place. He keeps beneath strong bolts and bars The piercing beauty of the stars. The colours of the dying day He hoards as treasure--well He may!-- And saves with care (lest they be lost) The dainty diagrams of frost. He counts the hairs of every head, And grieves to see a sparrow dead. II Among the yellow primroses He holds His Summer palaces, And sets the grass about them all To guard them as His spearmen small. He fixes on each wayside stone A mark to show it as His own, And knows when raindrops fall through air Whether each single one be there, That gathered into ponds and brooks. They may become His picture books, To show in every spot and place The living glory of His face. CECIDIT, CECIDIT BABYLON MAGNA! BY THEODORE MAYNARD