start clean it was that I

We love, & those

ching

shunts begin.
we love die,
to the wish that we
Love was

again

and as

as long

boste hope,

may meet the first to dream,

meet chain

as we love we shall hope. [Col. R. G. Ingraal]

Who is the Angel that cometh?

Death!

But do not shudder and do not fear;
Hold your breath,

For a kingly presence is drawing near,
Cold and bright

Is his flashing steel,

Cold and bright

The smile that comes like a starry light
To calm the terror and grief we feel;
He comes to help and to save and to heal :
Then let us, baring our hearts and kneeling,
Sing, while we wait this Angel's sword,-
"Blessed is he that cometh
In the name of the Lord!"

Only to loose these pilgrim shoon,
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet,
Cool, deathly touch to these tired feet,
Till days go out which now go on.

A Voice reproves me thereupon,
More sweet than Nature's when the drone
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep

Than when the rivers overleap

The shuddering pines, and thunder on.

God's Voice, not Nature's. Night and noon
He sits upon the great white throne
And listens for the creature's praise.
What babble we of days and days?
The Day-spring he, whose days go on.

He reigns above, he reigns alone;
Systems burn out and leave his throne:
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around him, changeless amid all,
Ancient of days, whose days go on.

For us, whatever's undergone,
Thou knowest, willest what is done.
Grief may be joy misunderstood;
Only the Good discerns the good.

I trust thee while my days go on.

Whatever's lost, it first was won :
We will not struggle nor impugn.
Perhaps the cup was broken here
That Heaven's new wine might show more clear.
I praise thee while my days go on.

I praise thee while my days go on;

I love thee while my days go on;

Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,

With emptied arms and treasure lost.

I thank thee while my days go on.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Waiting by the Gate.

Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by,
Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie,
While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea,
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight,
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night;
I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more,
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.

Behold, the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now,
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow;
His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought;
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour
Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power.
I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden day,
And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes;
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair,
Moves mournfully away from amid the young and fair.

O glory of our race that so suddenly decays!

O crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze!
O breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air
Scatters a moment's sweetness, and flies we know not where!