* * * * *

We fear no more the lonely road
  That winds around the hill;
Far from the busy world’s highway
  And the gods’ slow-grinding mill;
It only seems a peaceful path,
  Pleasant, and green, and still.

SEA-BORN

Afar in the turbulent city,
  In a hive where men make gold,
He stood at his loom from dawn to dark,
  While the passing years were told.

And when he knew it was summer-time
  By the grey dust on the street,
By the lingering hours of daylight,
  And the sultry noon-tide heat—­

Oh! he longed as a captive sea-bird
  To leave his cage and be free,
For his heart like a shell kept singing
  The old, old song of the sea.

And amid the noise and confusion
  Of wheels that were never still,
He heard the wind through the scented pines
  On a rough, storm-beaten hill;

While, beyond a maze of painted threads,
  Where his tireless shuttle flew,
In fancy he saw the sunlit waves
  Beckon him out to the blue.

THE ANGEL

Down the white ward with slow, unswerving tread
  He came ere break of day—­
A cowl was drawn about his down-bent head,
  His misty robes were grey.

And no man even knew that he went by,
  None saw or heard him pass;
Softly he moved as clouds drift down the sky,
  Or shadows cross the grass.

Close to a little bed where one lay low,
  At last he took his stand,
And touched the head that tossed in restless woe
  With gentle, outstretched hand.

“When bitterness,” he said, “is at an end,
  And joy grows far and dim,
I am the angel whom the Lord doth send
  To lead men on to Him.

“Past the innumerable stars, my friend,
  Past all the winds that blow,
We, too, must travel to our journey’s end. 
  Arise!  And let us go!”

“Stay!  Stay!” the other cried.  “I know thy face! 
  Death is thy dreaded name!”
“Nay—­I am known as ‘Love’ in that far place,”
  He said, “from whence I came.”

But still the other cried, with moan and tear,
  “I fear the dark—­and thee!”
“There is no dark,” the angel said, “nor fear,
  For those who go with me.

“There is no loneliness, and nevermore
  The shadow-haunted night,
When we pass out beyond Life’s swinging door
  The road,” he said, “is bright.”

Then backward slipped the cowl from off his head,
  Downward the robe of grey;
A radiant presence by the lowly bed
  Greeted the breaking day.

* * * * *

Within the long white ward one lay alone,
  None watched by him awhile,
But some who passed him said, in whispered tone,
  “See—­on his lips—­the smile!”