SAVOIR C’EST PARDONNER.

 Myriad rivers seek the sea,
   The sea rejects not any one;
 A myriad rays of light may be
   Clasped in the compass of one sun;
 And myriad grasses, wild and free,
   Drink of the dew which faileth none.

 A myriad worlds encompass ours;
   A myriad souls our souls enclose;
 And each, its sins and woes and powers,
   The Lord He sees, the Lord He knows,
 And from the Infinite Knowledge flowers
   The Infinite Pity’s fadeless rose.

 Lighten our darkness, Lord, most wise;
   All-seeing One, give us to see;
 Our judgments are profanities,
   Our ignorance is cruelty,
 While Thou, knowing all, dost not despise
   To pardon even such things as we.

MORNING.

 O word and thing most beautiful! 
 Our yesterday was cold and dull,
   Gray mists obscured the setting sun,
 Its evening wept with sobbing rain;
 But to and fro, mid shrouding night,
   Some healing angel swift has run,
 And all is fresh and fair again.

 O, word and thing most beautiful! 
 The hearts, which were of cares so full,
   The tired hands, the tired feet,
 So glad of night, are glad of morn,—­
 Where are the clouds of yesterday? 
   The world is good, the world is sweet,
 And life is new and hope re-born.

 O, word and thing most beautiful! 
 O coward soul and sorrowful,
   Which sighs to note the ebbing light
 Give place to evening’s shadowy gray! 
   What are these things but parables,—­
 That darkness heals the wrongs of day,
   And dawning clears all mists of night.

 O, word and thing most beautiful! 
 The little sleep our cares to lull,
   The long, soft dusk and then sunrise,
 To waken fresh and angel fair,
   Lite all renewed and cares forgot,
   Ready for Heaven’s glad surprise. 
 So Christ, who is our Light, be there.

A BLIND SINGER.

 In covert of a leafy porch,
     Where woodbine clings,
 And roses drop their crimson leaves,
     He sits and sings;
 With soft brown crest erect to hear,
     And drooping wings.

 Shut in a narrow cage, which bars
     His eager flight,
 Shut in the darker prison-house
     Of blinded sight,
 Alike to him are sun and stars,
     The day, the night.

 But all the fervor of high noon,
     Hushed, fragrant, strong,
 And all the peace of moonlit nights
   When nights are long,
 And all the bliss of summer eves,
   Breathe in his song.

 The rustle of the fresh green woods,
   The hum of bee,
 The joy of flight, the perfumed waft
   Of blossoming tree,
 The half-forgotten, rapturous thrill
  Of liberty,—­

 All blend and mix, while evermore,
   Now and again,
 A plaintive, puzzled cadence comes,
   A low refrain,
 Caught from some shadowy memory
   Of patient pain.