Unto its utmost rim,
He only saw the Christ--and in the light
He rose and followed Him.

* * * * *

Oh, Bartimeus of the mask-like face,
And patient, outstretched hand,
Was it for this God set on thee the mark
No man might understand?




THE CROW

Hail, little herald!--Art thou then returning
From summer lands, this wild and wind-torn day?
Hast brought the word for which our hearts are yearning,
That spring is on the way?
Hark! Now there comes a clear, insistent calling,

From hill tops crested with untarnished snow;
The trumpet notes are drifting--floating--falling--
Whene'er the breezes blow!

"Winter is over, and the spring is coming!"
Glad is thy message, little page in black--
"Winter is over, and the spring is coming--
The spring is coming back!"