"Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,
"That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun."
In the evening
The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights.
"O Master,
"Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds,
"Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks.
"Thous only needest eternal patience;
"We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord--
"Humble, idle, futile peaks."

In the night
Grey heavy clouds muffles the valleys,
And the peaks looked toward God alone.



The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.

Blood--blood and torn grass--
Had marked the rise of his agony--
This lone hunter.
The grey-green woods impassive
Had watched the threshing of his limbs.

A canoe with flashing paddle,
A girl with soft searching eyes,
A call: "John!"
. . . . . . .
Come, arise, hunter!