Gather, gather, Drawn by the Father! Not now He dwelleth in the Virgin’s womb: In the harvests He hath His room; From the lovely vintage, from the wheat, From the harvests that we this year have grown, He giveth us His flesh to eat, And in very substance makes us His own. III Gather, gather, Drawn by the Father! The sun is down, it is the sundown hour. He, who set the fair sun to flower, And the stars to rise and fall-- Kneel, and your garments before Him spread! Kneel, He loveth us all; He is come in the breaking of Bread. IV Gather, gather (Drawn by the Father), To our God who is shown to us so mild, Borne in our midst, a child! He is King and with an orb so small: And not a word will He say, Nor on the Angels call, Though we trample Him down on the way. On the Holy Angels He will not call.... Oh, guard Him with breasts impregnable! _Sept. 25-26, 1908_ COLUMBA MEA “_Una est Columba mea, perfecta mea._” Dove of the Holy Dove, His one, His mate-- One art thou, single in thy mortal state To be the chosen of Love, His one, white Dove, For whom He left His place in Trinity, Letting His pinions fall Low to the earth, that His great power might be Around thee, nor appal, But, soft in singleness of strength, might bring The glory of the Father and the Son To thee, the chosen One, Amid the sounding clash of each vast wing. His Perfect, thou art made Immaculate; For thou with dovelike whiteness must elate That Heavenly Spouse arrayed, Beyond all shade, In whiteness of the Godhead of God’s throne, That loves in utter white From Person unto Person, and alone Had dwelt in His pure light, Until one day the Holy Dove was sent To Thee, O Mary, thee, O Dove on earth, And God the Son had birth Of thee, Perfection of thy God’s intent. VIRGO POTENS Young on the mountains and fresh As the wind that thrills her hair, As the dews that lap the flesh Of her feet from cushions of thyme; While her feet through the herbage climb, Growing hardier, sweeter still On rock-roses and cushions of thyme, As she springs up the hill! A goat in its vaultings less lithe, From rock, to a tuft, to a rock; As the young of wild-deer blithe, The young of wild-deer, yet alone: Strong as an eaglet just flown, She wanders the white-woven earth, As the young of wild-deer, yet alone, In her triumph of mirth.