The cry of all the ages, of each soul
  In sad captivity;
The endless cry from depths of bitter woe—­
  “Have mercy upon me!”

What though the wild oncoming multitude
  Jested and bade him cease;
What though the Scribes and mighty Pharisees
  Told him to keep his peace;

What though his heart grew faint, and all the strength
  Slipped from each trembling limb—­
The One of all the earth his soul desired
  Stood still—­and spoke to him.

Then silence fell, while the upheaving throng,
  As sea-waves backward curled,
Left a great path, and down the path there shone
  The Light of all the world.

The Light from whose mysterious golden depths
  The Sun rose in his might—­
The light from whose white, hidden fires were lit
  The torches of the night;

The Light that shining on a thing of clay
  Giveth it Life and Will: 
The Light that with an unknown power can blast
  And bid all life be still;

The Light that calls a ray of its own light
  A man’s undying soul—­
The Light that lifts the broken lives of earth,
  Touches and makes them whole.

Up towards the Radiance Bartimeus went,
  Alone, and poor, and blind—­
Feeling his way, if haply it led on
  To One he fain would find.

Then spoke the Voice again.  Oh, mystic words
  Of a compelling grace: 
The curtain rose from off his darkened sight—­
  He saw the King’s own face.

So strangely beautiful—­so strangely near—­
  He worshipped with his eyes,
Unheeding that for him at last there shone
  The sunlit noonday skies.

What though the clamouring crowd echoed his name
  Unto its utmost rim,
He only saw the Christ—­and in the light
  He rose and followed Him.

* * * * *

Oh, Bartimeus of the mask-like face,
  And patient, outstretched hand,
Was it for this God set on thee the mark
  No man might understand?

THE CROW

  Hail, little herald!—­Art thou then returning
From summer lands, this wild and wind-torn day? 
  Hast brought the word for which our hearts are yearning,
    That spring is on the way? 
  Hark!  Now there comes a clear, insistent calling,

From hill tops crested with untarnished snow;
  The trumpet notes are drifting—­floating—­falling—­
    Whene’er the breezes blow!

  “Winter is over, and the spring is coming!”
  Glad is thy message, little page in black—­
  “Winter is over, and the spring is coming—­
  The spring is coming back!”

  Tell me, 0 prophet, bird of sombre feather,
Who taught thee all the mysteries of spring?—­
  Didst note each passing mood of wind and weather,
While flying to the North on buoyant wing?

  Or didst thou rest upon the bare brown branches
And hear the sap go singing through the trees?—­
  Didst watch with keen, far-seeing downward glances,
  The leaves unlock their cells with fairy keys?