Come, small musicians in the rough sea grass,
  Pipe us the serenade we love the best;
And winds of midnight, chant for us a mass,
  Our hearts would be at rest.

God of all beauty, though the world is thine,
  Our faith grows often faint, oft hope is spent;
Show us Thyself in all things fair and fine,
  Teach us the stars’ content.

A SONG OF LOVE

Love reckons not by time—­its May days of delight
Are swifter than the falling stars that pass beyond our sight.

Love reckons not by time—­its moments of despair
Are years that march like prisoners, who drag the chains they wear.

Love counts not by the sun—­it hath no night or day—­
’Tis only light when love is near—­’tis dark with love away.

Love hath no measurements of height, or depth, or space,
But yet within a little grave it oft hath found a place.

Love is its own best law—­its wrongs seek no redress;
Love is forgiveness—­and it only knoweth how to bless.

THE UNKNOWING

If the bird knew how through the wintry weather
An empty nest would swing by day and night,
It would not weave the strands so close together
  Or sing for such delight.

And if the rosebud dreamed e’er its awaking
How soon its perfumed leaves would drift apart,
Perchance ’twould fold them close to still the aching
  Within its golden heart.

If the brown brook that hurries through the grasses
Knew of drowned sailors—­and of storms to be—­
Methinks ’twould wait a little e’er it passes
  To meet the old grey sea.

If youth could understand the tears and sorrow,
The sombre days that age and knowledge bring,
It would not be so eager for the morrow
  Or spendthrift of the spring.

If love but learned how soon life treads its measure,
How short and swift its hours when all is told,
Each kiss and tender word ’twould count and treasure,
  As misers count their gold.

THE PETITION

Sweet April! from out of the hidden place
  Where you keep your green and gold,
We pray thee to bring us a gift of grace,
  When the little leaves unfold.

Oh! make us glad with the things that are young;
  Give our hearts the quickened thrills
That used to answer each robin that sung
  In the days of daffodils.

For what is the worth of all that we gain,
  If we lose the old delight,
That came in the time of sun and rain,
  When the whole round world seemed right?

It was then we gave, as we went along,
  The faith that to-day we keep;
And those April days were for mirth and song,
  While the nights were made for sleep.

Yet, though we follow with steps that are slow
  The feet that dance and that run;
We would still be friends with the winds that blow,
  And companions to the sun!