No fruitful word, life no power to move
Our deeper reverence, did we not see
How more than all he said, he was,--how, deep
Below this broken life, he ever wove
The finer substance of a life to be.




BY A GRAVE

Oft have I stood within the carven door
Of some cathedral at the close of the day,
And seen its softened splendors fade away
From lucent pane and tessellated floor,
As if a parting guest who comes no more,--
Till over all silence and blackness lay,
Then rose sweet murmurings of them that pray,
And shone the altar lamps unseen before,
So, Dear, as here I stand with thee alone,
The voices of the world sound faint and far,
The glare and glory of the moon grow dim,
And in the stillness, what I had not known,
I know,--a light, pure shining as a star,
A song, uprising like a holy hymn.




DUALITY