Each day upon the yellow Nile, 'tis said. Joseph, the youthful ruler, cast forth wheat, That haply, floating to his father's feet,— The sad old father, who believed him dead,— It might be sign in Egypt there was bread; And thus the patriarch, past the desert sands And scant oasis fringed with thirsty green, Be lured toward the love that yearned unseen. So, flung and scattered—ah! by what dear hands?— On the swift-rushing and invisible tide, Small tokens drift adown from far, fair lands, And say to us, who in the desert bide, "Are you athirst? Are there no sheaves to bind? Beloved, here is fulness; follow on and find."

HER GOING

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE

She stood in the open door, She blessed them faint and low: "I must go," she said, "must go Away from the light of the sun, Away from you, every one; Must see your eyes no more,— Your eyes, that love me so. "I should not shudder thus, Nor weep, nor be afraid. Nor cling to you so dismayed, Could I only pierce with ray eyes Where the dark, dark shadow lies; Where something hideous Is hiding, perhaps," she said. Then slowly she went from them, Went down the staircase grim, With trembling heart and limb; Her footfalls echoed In the silence vast and dead, Like the notes of a requiem, Not sung, but uttered. For a little way and a black She groped as grope the blind, Then a sudden radiance shined, And a vision her eyelids burned; All joyfully she turned, For a moment turned she back, And smiled at those behind. There in the shadows drear An angel sat serene, Of grave and tender mien, With whitest roses crowned; A scythe lay on the ground, As reaping-time were near,— A burnished scythe and a keen. She did not start or pale As the angel rose and laid His hand on hers, nor said A word, hut beckoned on; For a glorious meaning shone On the lips that told no tale, And she followed him, unafraid. Her friends wept for a space; Then one said: "Be content; Surely some good is meant For her, our Beautiful,— Some glorious good and full. Did you not see her face, Her dear smile, as she went?"

A LONELY MOMENT

I sit alone in the gray, The snow falls thick and fast, And never a sound have I heard all day But the wailing of the blast, And the hiss and click of the snow, whirling to and fro. There seems no living thing Left in the world but I; My thoughts fly forth on restless wing, And drift back wearily, Storm-beaten, buffeted, hopeless, and almost dead. No one there is to care; Not one to even know Of the lonely day and the dull despair As the hours ebb and flow, Slow lingering, as fain to lengthen out my pain. And I think of the monks of old, Each in his separate cell, Hearing no sound, except when tolled The stated convent bell. How could they live and bear that silence everywhere? And I think of tumbling seas, 'Neath cruel, lonely skies; And shipwrecked sailors over these Stretching their hungry eyes,— Eyes dimmed with wasting tears for weary years on years,— Pacing the hopeless sand, Wistful and wan and pale, Each foam-flash like a beckoning hand, Each wave a glancing sail, And so for days and days, and still the sail delays. I hide my eyes in vain, In vain I try to smile; That urging vision comes again, The sailor on his isle, With none to hear his cry, to help him live—or die! And with the pang a thought Breaks o'er me like the sun, Of the great listening Love which caught Those accents every one, Nor lost one faintest word, but always, always heard. The monk his vigil pale Could lighten with a smile, The sailor's courage need not fail Upon his lonely isle; For there, as here, by sea or land, the pitying Lord stood close at hand. O coward heart of mine! When storms shall beat again, Hold firmly to this thought divine, As anchorage in pain: That, lonely though thou seemest to be, the Lord is near, remembering thee.

COMMUNION

What is it to commune? It is when soul meets soul, and they embrace As souls may, stooping from each separate sphere For a brief moment's space. What is it to commune? It is to lay the veil of custom by, To be all unafraid of truth to talk, Face to face, eye to eye. Not face to face, dear Lord; That is the joy of brighter worlds to be; And yet, Thy bidden guests about Thy board, We do commune with Thee. Behind the white-robed priest Our eyes, anointed with a sudden grace, Dare to conjecture of a mighty guest, A dim beloved Face. And is it Thou, indeed? And dost Thou lay Thy glory all away To visit us, and with Thy grace to feed Our hungering hearts to-day? And can a thing so sweet, And can such heavenly condescension be? Ah! wherefore tarry thus our lingering feet? It can be none but Thee. There is the gracious ear That never yet was deaf to sinner's call; We will not linger, and we dare not fear, But kneel,—and tell Thee all. We tell Thee of our sin Only half loathed, only half wished away, And those clear eyes of Love that look within Rebuke us, seem to say,— "O, bought with my own blood, Mine own, for whom my precious life I gave, Am I so little prized, remembered, loved, By those I died to save?" And under that deep gaze Sorrow awakes; we kneel with eyelids wet, And marvel, as with Peter at the gate, That we could so forget, We tell Thee of our care, Of the sore burden, pressing day by day, And in the light and pity of Thy face The burden melts away. We breathe our secret wish, The importunate longing which no man may see; We ask it humbly, or, more restful still, We leave it all to Thee. And last our amulet Of precious names we thread, and soft and low We crave for each beloved, or near or far, A blessing ere we go. The thorns are turned to flowers, All dark perplexities seem light and fair, A mist is lifted from the heavy hours, And Thou art everywhere.

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