Good people, since the tavern door Is shut to you, come here instead. See, I have cleansed my stable floor And piled fresh hay to make a bed. Here is some milk and oaten cake. Lie down and sleep and rest you fair, Nor fear, O simple folk, to take The bounty of a child of care. On nights like this the huddled sheep-- I never saw a night so fair. How huge the sky is, and how deep! And how the planets flash and glare! At dawn beside my drowsy flock What wingéd music I have heard! But now the clouds with singing rock As if the sky were turning bird. O blinding Light, O blinding Light! Burn through my heart with sweetest pain. O flaming Song, most loudly bright, Consume away my deadly stain! The stable glows against the sky, And who are these that throng the way? My three old comrades hasten by And shining angels kneel and pray. The door swings wide--I cannot go-- I must and yet I dare not see. Lord, who am I that I should know-- Lord, God, be merciful to me! O Whiteness, whiter than the fleece Of new-washed sheep on April sod! O Breath of Life, O Prince of Peace, O Lamb of God, O Lamb of God! EASTER The air is like a butterfly With frail blue wings. The happy earth looks at the sky And sings. MOUNT HOUVENKOPF Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned, And draws a cloak of trees about his breast. The thunder roars but cannot break his rest And from his rugged face the tempests bound. He does not heed the angry lightning’s wound, The raging blizzard is his harmless guest, And human life is but a passing jest To him who sees Time spin the years around. But fragile souls, in skyey reaches find High vantage-points and view him from afar. How low he seems to the ascended mind, How brief he seems where all things endless are; This little playmate of the mighty wind, This young companion of an ancient star. THE HOUSE WITH NOBODY IN IT Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black. I suppose I’ve passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. I know this house isn’t haunted, and I wish it were, I do; For it wouldn’t be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass. It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.