They saw us through the mist of dawn, And, turning, called us to their feast-- The sound of lutes and cymbals ceased-- But one He fixed His gaze upon. In whose wide eyes there seemed to be-- Behind the laughing, wine-flushed face And tilted ivy-crown's gay grace-- Faint glimpses of Eternity. Then sad, the Master bowed His head, And, through the rosy twilight, dim, Walked up and softly spake to him: "Art thou not he that late was dead?" The drinker raised his cup on high, And murmured: "Priest of Nazareth, I am he thou didst raise from death-- Lo, thus I wait again to die!" A CRUCIFIX This was the cross of God on which men's eyes Dwelt with the love of dead divinity, As they who by the desolate orient sea In battle made their sainted sacrifice, Dreaming their boundless striving should devise A symbol whereby men might know that he Who wins his way on earth to victory, Thus in his consummated sorrow dies. All things are sacred to that tender sight: Time's ancient altars whence strange incense curled Innocent to the unknown gods; the light Of love is thine; faith's banner is unfurled, Even where the farthest watchmen, through the night, Call on the cloud-wrapped ramparts of the world. NEITH Somehow the spirit of that day-- Rain-clouded streets and brooding air-- Determined me to live and dare, Living, to laugh the world away. As in a crystal dreamers see Out of unwinding mists arise The splendors of some paradise Woven of gold and ivory; Deep in the globe of thought I saw Dawn from tempestuous dust that form Toward which the endless ages storm Uproarious--to break with awe. Of all things ignorant, yet wise, Sitting enthroned at life's last goal, Dividing body from the soul, Looking at each with flameless eyes. Immutable, unknown, unsung, Through triumph and delight unearned, Through sorrow undeserved, I learned Salvation from thy wordless tongue. Then flying the embracing gloom Of burnt-out days and parched desire, I built my soul an altar fire Of laughter in the face of doom. A FAREWELL Nay: by this desolate sea our troubled ways Shall separate forever; swift hath sped The hour of youth, and yet to hang the head, Lamenting lost things of departed days, Were only from that shadowland to raise A wraith, that whispering of the quiet dead, Would mimic the strange life of love; instead, Let us relent and hail the past with praise. Go, then; and should inevitable fate Lead us at last beyond the world of men Where laurel and applause content no more, Whither the soul takes silence for its mate, There might we meet, and, smiling, once again Clasp hands and part upon some windy shore. * * * * * WILLIAM A. NORRIS OF TOO MUCH SONG