“See, I am young, and the blood is hot, Longing for what I compass not-- Love, and sunshine, and fond delight In beauty warm and white. “Lord, Thy Cross is a heavy load, Thorny and steep the upward road-- Lord, from the woods astir I hear Laughter and joyous cheer. “Far be it from me, Lord, to scorn The bitter anguish that Thou hast borne: But redder his mouth in its youthful pride Than the spear-wound in Thy side! “Ah, see how his hair like soft-spun gold Falls curling over his raiment’s fold, And his laughing eyes look out with glee The great wide world to see! “I thrill at his music silvery sweet, And I long to follow his dancing feet: For lo! where they fall the flowers are born-- And hearts no more forlorn! “My soul goes out to him since the hour He passed me by in his winsome power, And my blood is stirred by his witchery-- Prince Jesus, set me free!” Bowed to my prayer the wounded Head, Died in the west the sunset red-- And a slow, slow drop of blood ran down From under the thorny crown. Strange, in the years that have gone, the Cross Had grown so dear to me that its loss Went to my heart with a thrill of pain-- I had half turned back again! O sweet Lord Spring, I am free at last To follow wherever thy feet have passed, Over the dales and over the rills To the gladsome Grecian hills! A VISION OF MAN The proud free glance, the thinker’s mighty brow, The curling locks and supple, slender limbs, The eye that speaks dominion, victor’s smile-- All these I know. By them I hail thee Man, Lord of the earth. Thou art the woman’s slave, And yet her master.... I know thee when about thy sunburnt thighs Thou swing’st the tawny skin a tiger wore Till thy rude weapon dashed him to the ground. I know thee also when thy shoulders bear The purple mantle of an emperor, Stained with the blood of thousand tiny lives; The golden sandals clasped upon thy feet; Thy hair made rich with spikenard, and thy brow Graced with the gifts that mutual east and west Conspire to offer to their sovereign lord. I know thee too in lust’s relentless rage, Dragging the chosen woman to thy lair, To frame upon her body at thy will Sons in thine image, strong of loin as thou: And when, the bearer of thy father’s sins, Within the portals of the House of Shame Monstrous delight thy passion seeks to find In futile quest, and Nature pitiful Will not transmit unto the future’s womb Thy weakened generation....