The people of tired cities
Come up to their shrines and pray;
God freshens again within them,
As he passes by all day.

And lo, I have caught their secret,
The beauty deeper than all.
This faith--that life's hard moments,
When the jarring sorrows befall,

Are but God ploughing his mountains;
And the mountains yet shall be
The source of his grace and freshness
And his peace everlasting to me.

WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT.


* * * * *

SUNRISE.


As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed,
I saw my lattice prankt upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal--
A sunny phantom interlaced with shade;
"Thanks be to Heaven," in happy mood I said,
"What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than this fair glory from the east hath made?