_Lo, the Light!_ (they answer) _O the pure,
the pulsing Light,
Beating like a heart of life, like a heart of love,
Soaring, searching, filling all the breadth and depth and height,
Welling, whelming with its peace worlds below, above!_

"O my soul, how art thou to that living Splendor blind,
Sick with thy desire to see even as these men see!--
Yet to look upon them is to know that God hath shined:
Faces lit as sunlit stars, be all my light to me!"




THE TRUMPETER


Two ships, alone in sky and sea,
Hang clinched, with crash and roar;
There is but one--whiche'er it be--
Will ever come to shore.

And will it be the grim black bulk,
That towers so evil now?
Or will it be The Grace of God,
With the angel at her prow?

The man that breathes the battle's breath
May live at last to know;
But the trumpeter lies sick to death