Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hide Like all created things, secrets from me, And stand a barrier to eternity. And I, how can I praise thee well and wide From where I dwell--upon the hither side? Thou little veil for so great mystery, When shall I penetrate all things and thee, And then look back? For this I must abide. Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled Literally between me and the world. Then I shall drink from in beneath a spring. And from a poet’s side shall read his book. O daisy mine, what will it be to look From God’s side even of such a simple thing? THE NEWER VAINGLORY BY ALICE MEYNELL Two men went up to pray; and one gave thanks, Not with himself aloud, With proclamation, calling on the ranks Of an attentive crowd. “Thank God, I clap not my own humble breast, But other ruffians’ backs, Imputing crime--such is my tolerant haste-- To any man that lacks. “For I am tolerant, generous, keep no rules, And the age honors me. Thank God, I am not as these rigid fools, Even as this Pharisee.” THE FOLDED FLOCK BY WILFRID MEYNELL I saw the shepherd fold the sheep, With all the little lambs that leap. O Shepherd Lord, so I would be Folded with all my family. Or go they early, come they late, Their mother and I must count them eight. And how, for us, were any heaven If we, sore-stricken, saw but seven? Kind Shepherd, as of old Thou’lt run And fold at need a straggling one. CONVENT ECHOES BY HELEN LOUISE MORIARTY Clear on the air, their pulsing cadence pealing, I hear a sweet refrain, While o’er my thoughts a gentle mist is stealing, And mem’ries come again, Of quiet halls where dusk is slow descending, Where peace has spread her wings. Soft music in the distance only lending More charms where twilight clings. Anon appear the black robed nuns, their faces Serene in sweet repose; Across their brows the world has left no traces Of earthly dreams or woes. Now loud on air the organ music swelling, They reach the chapel door-- The sweet faint incense stealing upward, telling ’Tis Benediction’s hour. Now low-bowed heads, and hearts to Him ascending On incense laden air. Ah surely Heaven must smile with ear attending The nun’s low whispered prayer. Fond memory lingers on those dim old hallways-- Lingers and drops a tear, And kind affection drapes the picture always Through each succeeding year. ENGLAND BY JOHN HENRY NEWMAN