Hack and Hew were the sons of God In the earlier earth than now; One at his right hand, one at his left, To obey as he taught them how. And Hack was blind and Hew was dumb, But both had the wild, wild heart; And God's calm will was their burning will, And the gist of their toil was art. They made the moon and the belted stars, They set the sun to ride; They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea, The wind and the purple tide. Both flower and beast beneath their hands To beauty and speed outgrew,-- The furious fumbling hand of Hack, And the glorying hand of Hew. Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man, And painted him rosy brown; And God himself blew hard in his eyes: "Let them burn till they smolder down!" And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought Hew, "We'll rest, for our toil is done." But "Nay," the Master Workman said, "For your toil is just begun. "And ye who served me of old as God Shall serve me anew as man, Till I compass the dream that is in my heart And perfect the vaster plan." And still the craftsman over his craft, In the vague white light of dawn, With God's calm will for his burning will While the mounting day comes on, Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild, Toils with those shadowy two,-- The faltering restless hand of Hack, And the tireless hand of Hew. From 'Behind the Arras': copyrighted 1895, by Lamson, Wolffe and Company AT THE GRANITE GATE There paused to shut the door A fellow called the Wind. With mystery before, And reticence behind, A portal waits me too In the glad house of spring; One day I shall pass through And leave you wondering. It lies beyond the marge Of evening or of prime, Silent and dim and large, The gateway of all time. There troop by night and day My brothers of the field; And I shall know the way Their wood-songs have revealed. The dusk will hold some trace Of all my radiant crew Who vanished to that place, Ephemeral as dew. Into the twilight dun, Blue moth and dragon-fly Adventuring alone,-- Shall be more brave than I? There innocents shall bloom, And the white cherry tree, With birch and willow plume To strew the road for me. The wilding orioles then Shall make the golden air Heavy with joy again, And the dark heart shall dare Resume the old desire,-- The exigence of spring To be the orange fire That tips the world's gray wing. And the lone wood-bird--Hark! The whippoorwill, night-long, Threshing the summer dark With his dim flail of song!-- Shall be the lyric lift, When all my senses creep, To bear me through the rift In the blue range of sleep. And so I pass beyond The solace of your hand. But ah, so brave and fond! Within that morrow-land,