Yet I build on Him Who saith,
“Move the mountains with your faith”—­
Doubt the lips that falter, wan,
“The age of miracles is gone!”
I have learned to read the grim
Testimony unto Him
Printed with starvation’s hand
On every hove! through the land;
I have swung the crazy door
To find huddled on a floor
Rat-gnawed and riddled, with never a clout
To keep the eager winter out,
Some six or seven of our kind
Shivering beneath the wind,
Foodless, fireless, hungry-eyed,
Crouched round one who just had died,
Hopeless that the dawn would bring
Friendly aid and comforting.

And after prayer for the parted soul,
They have thanked the slender dole,
And spoken of hope of days to come,
And have forgotten their martyrdom. 
The anguished grief of motherhood
Has firmly whispered “God is good
And can in His Eternity
Repay this present loss”; till I
Have almost turned my head to see
If Christ has not come in with me!

Gentle Jesus, mild and meek, These the simple words I speak Are the faith Thou gavest me; Suffer me to come to Thee!

SIC TRANSIT

They camped in the meadow at sunrise,
  And their crests gleamed bright in the sun,
And the breeze that blew sighed soft, for it knew
  Their fate e’er the day was done. 
They lay in the meadow at sunset,
  As the sky in anger blushed red;
For the host of the dawn lay still on the lawn—­
  The host was a host of dead.

Let the gardener but pass his scythe o’er the grass—­
  And the life of a daisy is sped!

* * * * *

MONICA SALEEBY

RETROSPECT

You loved the child of fifteen years. 
  I knew not this vast thing. 
Your great heart shrank beneath your fears;
  You left me wondering.

Now fourteen years have passed us by;
  Our souls meet once again;
And, meeting, I have asked you why
  Our ways apart have lain?

And now your answer comes at last:—­
  “I loved you in that day.” 
Oh, strange reply!  Oh, tender past! 
  Oh, long love locked away!

And now, yes, I have climbed Love’s hill;
My heart is bound, yet free. 
And is there not some young child still
For you to love in me?

You have the right to love her yet,
  For he who loves me grown
Knew not the child you’ll ne’er forget;
  I give her for your own.

Oh, keep her young within your breast,
  Allow her to survive;
For love of you I’ll do my best
  To keep your child alive.

* * * * *

FRANCIS MEYNELL

ANY STONE

A myriad years God toiled to mould
  A nerveless stone to His intent—­
From peace to war, from heat to cold,
  It triumphed against the Omnipotent: 
God strove until His strength grew old,
  Then cried “Thy help, My firmament!”