Dawn lights her candles in the East once more,
And darkness flees her chariot before;
The Lenten morning breaks with holy ray,
            And it is day!

CHRISTMASTIDE

I may not go to-night to Bethlehem,
Nor follow star-directed ways, nor tread
The paths wherein the shepherds walked, that led
To Christ, and peace, and God’s good will to men.

I may not hear the Herald Angel’s song
Peal through the Oriental skies, nor see
The wonder of that Heavenly company
Announce the King the world had waited long.

The manger throne I may not kneel before,
Or see how man to God is reconciled,
Through pure St. Mary’s purer, holier child;
The human Christ these eyes may not adore.

I may not carry frankincense and myrrh
With adoration to the Holy One;
Nor gold have I to give the Perfect Son,
To be with those wise kings a worshipper.

Not mine the joy that Heaven sent to them,
For ages since Time swung and locked his gates,
But I may kneel without—­the star still waits
To guide me on to holy Bethlehem.

CLOSE BY

So near at hand (our eyes o’erlooked its nearness
In search of distant things)
A dear dream lay—­perchance to grow in dearness
Had we but felt its wings
Astir.  The air our very breathing fanned
It was so near at hand.

Once, many days ago, we almost held it,
The love we so desired;
But our shut eyes saw not, and fate dispelled it
Before our pulses fired
To flame, and errant fortune bade us stand
Hand almost touching hand.

I sometimes think had we two been discerning,
The by-path hid away
From others’ eyes had then revealed its turning
To us, nor led astray
Our footsteps, guiding us into love’s land
That lay so near at hand.

So near at hand, dear heart, could we have known it! 
Throughout those dreamy hours,
Had either loved, or loving had we shown it,
Response had sure been ours;
We did not know that heart could heart command,
And love so near at hand!

What then availed the red wine’s subtle glisten? 
We passed it blindly by,
And now what profit that we wait and listen
Each for the other’s heart beat?  Ah! the cry
Of love o’erlooked still lingers, you and I
Sought heaven afar, we did not understand
’Twas—­once so near at hand.

THE IDLERS

The sun’s red pulses beat,
Full prodigal of heat,
Full lavish of its lustre unrepressed;
But we have drifted far
From where his kisses are,
And in this landward-lying shade we let our paddles rest.

The river, deep and still,
The maple-mantled hill,
The little yellow beach whereon we lie,
The puffs of heated breeze,
All sweetly whisper—­These
Are days that only come in a Canadian July.