There in the shadows drear An angel sat serene, Of grave and tender mien, With whitest roses crowned; A scythe lay on the ground, As reaping-time were near,-- A burnished scythe and a keen. She did not start or pale As the angel rose and laid His hand on hers, nor said A word, hut beckoned on; For a glorious meaning shone On the lips that told no tale, And she followed him, unafraid. Her friends wept for a space; Then one said: "Be content; Surely some good is meant For her, our Beautiful,-- Some glorious good and full. Did you not see her face, Her dear smile, as she went?" A LONELY MOMENT. I sit alone in the gray, The snow falls thick and fast, And never a sound have I heard all day But the wailing of the blast, And the hiss and click of the snow, whirling to and fro. There seems no living thing Left in the world but I; My thoughts fly forth on restless wing, And drift back wearily, Storm-beaten, buffeted, hopeless, and almost dead. No one there is to care; Not one to even know Of the lonely day and the dull despair As the hours ebb and flow, Slow lingering, as fain to lengthen out my pain. And I think of the monks of old, Each in his separate cell, Hearing no sound, except when tolled The stated convent bell. How could they live and bear that silence everywhere? And I think of tumbling seas, 'Neath cruel, lonely skies; And shipwrecked sailors over these Stretching their hungry eyes,-- Eyes dimmed with wasting tears for weary years on years,-- Pacing the hopeless sand, Wistful and wan and pale, Each foam-flash like a beckoning hand, Each wave a glancing sail, And so for days and days, and still the sail delays. I hide my eyes in vain, In vain I try to smile; That urging vision comes again, The sailor on his isle, With none to hear his cry, to help him live--or die! And with the pang a thought Breaks o'er me like the sun, Of the great listening Love which caught Those accents every one, Nor lost one faintest word, but always, always heard. The monk his vigil pale Could lighten with a smile, The sailor's courage need not fail Upon his lonely isle; For there, as here, by sea or land, the pitying Lord stood close at hand. O coward heart of mine! When storms shall beat again, Hold firmly to this thought divine, As anchorage in pain: That, lonely though thou seemest to be, the Lord is near, remembering thee. COMMUNION. What is it to commune? It is when soul meets soul, and they embrace As souls may, stooping from each separate sphere For a brief moment's space.