The aloes grow upon the sand, The aloes thirst with parching heat; Year after year they waiting stand, Lonely and calm, and front the beat Of desert winds; and still a sweet And subtle voice thrills all their veins: "Great patience wins; it still remains, After a century of pains, To you to bloom and be complete." I grow upon a thorny waste; Hot noontide lies on all the way, And with its scorching breath makes haste Each freshening dawn to burn and slay, Yet patiently I bide and stay: Knowing the secret of my fate, The hour of bloom, dear Lord, I wait, Come when it will, or soon or late, A hundred years are but a day.

MY LITTLE GHOST

I know where it lurks and hides, In the midst of the busy house, In the midst of the children's glee, All clay its shadow bides: Nobody knows but me. On a closet-shelf it dwells, In the darkest corner of all, Mid rolls of woollen and fur, And faint, forgotten smells Of last year's lavender. That a ghost has its dwelling there Nobody else would guess,— "Only a baby's shoe, A curl of golden hair," You would say, "a toy or two,— "A broken doll, whose lips And cheeks of waxen bloom Show dents of fingers small,— Little, fair finger-tips,— A worn sash,—that is all." Little to see or to guess; But whenever I open the door, There, faithful to its post, With its eyes' sad tenderness, I see my little ghost. And I hasten to shut the door, I shut it tight and fast, Lest the sweet, sad thing get free, Lest it flit beside on the floor, And sadden the day for me, Lest between me and the sun, And between me and the heavens, And the laugh in the children's eyes, The shadowy feet should run, The faint gold curls arise Like a gleam of moonlight pale, And all the warmth and the light Should die from the summer day, And the laughter turn to wail, And I should forget to pray. So I keep the door shut fast, And my little ghost shut in, And whenever I cross the hall I shiver and hurry past; But I love it best of all.

CHRISTMAS

How did they keep his birthday then, The little fair Christ, so long ago? O, many there were to be housed and fed, And there was no place in the inn, they said, So into the manger the Christ must go, To lodge with the cattle and not with men. The ox and the ass they munched their hay They munched and they slumbered, wondering not, And out in the midnight cold and blue The shepherds slept, and the sheep slept too, Till the angels' song and the bright star ray Guided the wise men to the spot. But only the wise men knelt and praised, And only the shepherds came to see, And the rest of the world cared not at all For the little Christ in the oxen's stall; And we are angry and amazed That such a dull, hard thing should be! How do we keep his birthday now? We ring the bells and we raise the strain, We hang up garland, everywhere And bid the tapers, twinkle fair, And feast and frolic—and then we go Back to the Mine old lives again. Are we so better, then, than they Who failed the new-born Christ to see? To them a helpless babe,—to us He shines a Saviour glorious, Our Lord, our Friend, our All—yet we Are half asleep this Christmas day.

BENEDICAM DOMINO

Thank God for life: life is not sweet always. Hands may he heavy-laden, hearts care full, Unwelcome nights follow unwelcome days, And dreams divine end in awakenings dull. Still it is life, anil life is cause for praise. This ache, this restlessness, this quickening sting, Prove me no torpid and inanimate thing, Prove me of Him who is of life the Spring. I am alive!—and that is beautiful. Thank God for Love: though Love may hurt and wound Though set with sharpest thorns its rose may be, Roses are not of winter, all attuned Must be the earth, full of soft stir, and free And warm ere dawns the rose upon its tree. Fresh currents through my frozen pulses run; My heart has tasted summer, tasted sun, And I can thank Thee, Lord, although not one Of all the many roses blooms for me.

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