HOPE SHINES--AS IN A STABLE A WISP OF STRAW Hope shines--as in a stable a wisp of straw. Fear not the wasp drunk with his crazy flight! Through some chink always, see, the moted light! Propped on your hand, you dozed--But let me draw Cool water from the well for you, at least, Poor soul! There, drink! Then sleep. See, I remain, And I will sing a slumberous refrain, And you shall murmur like a child appeased. Noon strikes. Approach not, Madam, pray, or call.... He sleeps. Strange how a woman's light footfall Re-echoes through the brains of grief-worn men! Noon strikes. I bade them sprinkle in the room. Sleep on! Hope shines--a pebble in the gloom. --When shall the Autumn rose re-blossom,--when? SLEEP, DARKSOME, DEEP Sleep, darksome, deep, Doth on me fall: Vain hopes all, sleep, Sleep, yearnings all! Lo, I grow blind! Lo, right and wrong Fade to my mind.... O sorry song! A cradle, I, Rocked in a grave: Speak low, pass by, Silence I crave! [Illustration: Le Ciel et Les Toits.] THE SKY-BLUE SMILES ABOVE THE ROOF The sky-blue smiles above the roof Its tenderest; A green tree rears above the roof Its waving crest. The church-bell in the windless sky Peaceably rings, A skylark soaring in the sky Endlessly sings. My God, my God, all life is there, Simple and sweet; The soothing bee-hive murmur there Comes from the street! What have you done, O you that weep In the glad sun,-- Say, with your youth, you man that weep, What have you done? IT IS YOU It is you, it is you, poor better thoughts! The needful hope, shame for the ancient blots, Heart's gentleness with mind's severity, And vigilance, and calm, and constancy, And all!--But slow as yet, though well awake; Though sturdy, shy; scarce able yet to break The spell of stifling night and heavy dreams. One comes after the other, and each seems Uncouther, and all fear the moonlight cold. "Thus, sheep when first they issue from the fold, Come,--one, then two, then three. The rest delay, With lowered heads, in stupid, wondering way, Waiting to do as does the one that leads. He stops, they stop in turn, and lay their heads Across his back, simply, not knowing why."* Your shepherd, O my fair flock, is not I,-- It is a better, better far, who knows The reasons, He that so long kept you close, But timely with His own hand set you free. Him follow,--light His staff. And I shall be, Beneath his voice still raised to comfort you, I shall be, I, His faithful dog, and true. * Dante, Purgatorio. 'TIS THE FEAST OF CORN