Like a pillar of opal glory
        Lit through with many a gem—­
“Why, look at him now,” said Rory,
        “He has turned to a faery like them!”

The elfin kings ascending
        Leaped up from the thrones of might,
And one with another blending
        They vanished in air and light.

The rill to its bed came splashing
        With rocks on the top of that: 
The children awoke with a flashing
        Of wonder, “What were we at?”

They groped through the reeds and clover—­
        “What funny old markings:  look here,
They have scrawled the rocks all over: 
        It’s just where the door was:  how queer!”

—­September 15, 1896

The Voice of the Wise

They sat with hearts untroubled,
        The clear sky sparkled above,
And an ancient wisdom bubbled
        From the lips of a youthful love.

They read in a coloured history
        Of Egypt and of the Nile,
And half it seemed a mystery,
        Familiar, half, the while.

Till living out of the story
        Grew old Egyptian men,
And a shadow looked forth Rory
        And said, “We meet again!”

And over Aileen a maiden
        Looked back through the ages dim: 
She laughed, and her eyes were laden
        With an old-time love for him.

In a mist came temples thronging
        With sphinxes seen in a row,
And the rest of the day was a longing
        For their homes of long ago.

“We’d go there if they’d let us,”
        They said with wounded pride: 
“They never think when they pet us
        We are old like that inside.”

There was some one round them straying
        The whole of the long day through,
Who seemed to say, “I am playing
        At hide-and-seek with you.”

And one thing after another
        Was whispered out of the air,
How God was a big kind brother
        Whose home was in everywhere.

His light like a smile come glancing
        From the cool, cool winds as they pass;
From the flowers in heaven dancing
        And the stars that shine in the grass,

And the clouds in deep blue wreathing,
        And most from the mountains tall,
But God like a wind goes breathing
        A heart-light of gold in all.

It grows like a tree and pushes
        Its way through the inner gloom,
And flowers in quick little rushes
        Of love to a magic bloom.

And no one need sigh now or sorrow
        Whenever the heart-light flies,
For it comes again on some morrow
        And nobody ever dies.

The heart of the Wise was beating
        In the children’s heart that day,
And many a thought came fleeting,
        And fancies solemn and gay.