Fires of Driftwood Part 6

NEVER in all her sweet and holy youth Seemed she so beautiful! The tired lines Etch her white face with look so wholly pure I tremble--dare I speak to her of aught?-- She is so wrapt in silence. Yet her lips Part on a word whose honey she doth taste And fears to lose by uttering too soon.

I know the word; its meaning is plain writ In the wide eyes she turns upon the Child.

I dare not speak. No word of mine could find Its way into a soul close sealed with G.o.d And busy with the thousand mysteries Revealed to every mother. The soft hair Veiling her placid brow is all unbound, Ungentle hands are mine but, trained by love, She might conceive them gentle--yet, I pause-- I'll not disturb her thought . . . . .

What meant those men, Far-famed and wise, who came to see the Child?

Their gifts lie by forgotten, though the Babe Smiled on the s.h.i.+ning treasure in his hands.

(Those tiny hands like crumpled bits of gauze) Their sayings were mysterious to me.

"A King!" they said. What King?

The mother smiled As one who knew; and it is true they knelt As to a King. The thing disturbs me much!

I'll ask--but no . . . . .

The breathless shepherds, too; Plain men, blank-eyed with awe, in broken speech Stumbling some strange, glad tale of midnight sky A-s.h.i.+ne with angel wings! And at their word Again the mother smiled, as one who sees No wonder but what well might happen since A child is born to her. Are mothers so?

And are they p.r.o.ne to dream the careless earth And distant heaven wait upon their joy?

I'll speak to her . . . . .

What is that in her look Which answers me--yet leaves me wondering still, With wonder so like rapture that I seem Caught up a breathless second into Heaven?

She turns deep eyes upon me, and she smiles, Always she smiles! Ah, Mary! could I know The source of that glad smile--what would I know?

I dare not dream, save that the mystery Is not yet given . . . one day I may know!

A Christmas Child

SHE came to me at Christmas time and made me mother, and it seemed There was a Christ indeed and He had given me the joy I'd dreamed.

She nestled to me, and I kept her near and warm, surprised to find The arms that held my babe so close were opened wider to her kind.

I hid her safe within my heart. "My heart" I said, "is all for you,"

But lo! She left the door ajar and all the world came flocking through.

She needed me. I learned to know the royal joy that service brings, She was so helpless that I grew to love all little helpless things.

She trusted me, and I who ne'er had trusted, save in self, grew cold With panic lest this precious life should know no stronger, surer hold.

She lay and smiled and in her eyes I watched my narrow world grow broad, Within her tiny, crumpled hand I touched the mighty hand of G.o.d!

Spring in Nazareth

"THE Spring is come!" a shepherd saith; Sing, sweet Mary, "The Spring is come to Nazareth And swift the Summer hurrieth."

Sing low, the barley and the corn!

Across the field a path is set-- Sing, sweet Mary, Green shadow in a golden net-- The tears of night have left it wet.

Sing low, the barley and the corn!

The Babe forsakes His mother's knee, Haste, sweet Mary-- See how He runneth merrily, One foot upon the path hath He-- Green, green, the barley and the corn!

The mother calls with mother-fear-- Hush, sweet Mary!

Another sound is in His ear, A sound he cannot choose but hear-- Hush, hush, the barley and the corn!

Far and still far--through years yet dim List, sweet Mary!

From o'er the waking earth's green rim Another Springtime calleth Him!

Bend low, the barley and the corn!

Call low, call high, and call again, Ah, poor Mary!

Know, by thy heart's prophetic pain, That one day thou shalt call in vain-- Moan, moan, the barley and the corn!

O mother! make thine arms a s.h.i.+eld, Sing, sweet Mary!

While love still holds what love must yield Hide well the path across the field!-- Sing low, the barley and the corn!

"The Spring is come!" a shepherd saith; Rest thee, Mary-- The pa.s.sing years are but a breath And Spring still comes to Nazareth-- Green, green, the barley and the corn!

Inheritance

THERE lived a man who raised his hand and said, "I will be great!"

And through a long, long life he bravely knocked At Fame's closed gate.

A son he left who, like his sire, strove High place to win;-- Worn out, he died and, dying, left no trace That he had been.

He also left a son, who, without care Or planning how, Bore the fair letters of a deathless fame Upon his brow.

"Behold a genius, filled with fire divine!"

The people cried; Not knowing that to make him what he was Two men had died.

Song of the Sleeper

SLEEPER rest quietly Deep underground!

Lord of your kingdom Of murmurous sound.

Hear the gra.s.s growing Sweet for the mowing; Hear the stars sing As they travel around-- Gra.s.s blade and star dust, You, I, and all of us, One with the cause of us, Deep underground!