When once thy day shall burst to flower, When once the sun shall climb the sky, And busy hour by busy hour, The urgent noontide draws anigh; When the long shadows creep abreast, To dim the happy task half done, Thou wilt recall this pause of rest, This morning hush before the sun. To each, one dawning and one dew, One fresh young hour is given by fate, One rose flush on the early blue. Be not impatient then, but wait! Clasp the sweet peace on earth and sky, By midnight angels woven and spun; Better than day its prophecy,-- The morning comes before the sun. LABORARE EST ORARE. "Although St. Franceses was unwearied in her devotions, yet if, during her prayers, she was called away by her husband or any domestic duty, she would close the book cheerfully, saying that a wife and a mother, when called upon, must quit her God at the alter to find Him in her domestic affairs."--Legends of the Monastic Orders. How infinite and sweet, Thou everywhere And all abounding Love, Thy service is! Thou liest an ocean round my world of care, My petty every-day; and fresh and fair, Pour Thy strong tides through all my crevices, Until the silence ripples into prayer. That Thy full glory may abound, increase, And so Thy likeness shall be formed in me, I pray; the answer is not rest or peace, But charges, duties, wants, anxieties, Till there seems room for everything but Thee, And never time for anything but these. And I should fear, but lo! amid the press, The whirl and hum and pressure of my day, I hear Thy garment's sweep, Thy seamless dress, And close beside my work and weariness Discern Thy gracious form, not far away, But very near, O Lord, to help and bless. The busy fingers fly, the eyes may see Only the glancing needle which they hold, But all my life it, blossoming inwardly, And every breath is like a litany, While through each labor, like a thread of gold, Is woven the sweet consciousness of Thee. EIGHTEEN. Ah! grown a dim and fairy shade, Dear child, who, fifteen years ago, Out of our arms escaped and fled With swift white feet, as if afraid, To hide beneath the grass, the snow, that sunny little head. This is your birthday! Fair, so fair, And grown to gracious maiden-height, And versed in heavenly lore and ways; White-vested as the angels are, In very light of very light, Somehow, somewhere, you keep the day With those new friends, whom "new" we call, But who are dearer now than we, And better known by fate and name: And do they smile and say, "How tall The child becomes, how radiant, she Who was so little when she came!"