The moon that shineth overhead once saw these mysteries—­
  And then the world was young, that hath these many years been old;
If Egypt drank her bitter cup down even to the lees
  Who careth now?  ’Tis but an ancient tale that hath been told.

   Yet still we hear the footsteps—­as he goeth to and fro—­
   Of Azrael, the Angel, that the Lord God sent below,
   To Egypt—­long ago.

A SONG OF POPPIES

I love red poppies!  Imperial red poppies! 
  Sun-worshippers are they;
Gladly as trees live through a hundred summers
  They live one little day.

I love red poppies!  Impassioned scarlet poppies! 
  Ever their strange perfume
Seems like an essence brewed by fairy people
  From an immortal bloom.

I love red poppies!  Red, silken, swaying poppies! 
  Deep in their hearts they keep
A magic cure for woe—­a draught of Lethe—­
  A lotus-gift of sleep.

I love red poppies!  Soft silver-stemmed, red poppies,
  That from the rain and sun
Gather a balm to heal some earth-born sorrow,
  When their glad day is done.

A PAGAN PRAYER

Lord of all Life!  When my hours are done,
  Take me and make me anew—­
And give me back to the earth and the sun,
  And the sky’s unlimited blue.

The nightingale sings in an ecstasy
  To the moonlit April night,
But my songs are locked in the heart of me,
  Like birds that may not take flight.

The little purple-winged swallows that fly
  Through waves of the upper air,
Have a sweeter liberty, Lord, than I,
  Who may not follow them there.

Pavilions of sunshine—­tents of the rain,
  For these, the wild and the free;
And for us walled garden and window-pane,
  And bolt and staple and key.

We are worn with wisdom that never brings
  Peace to the world and its woe—­
For a space with Thy joyous lesser things,
  Teach me the faith I would know.

A LOVE SONG

Oh haste, my Sweet!  Impatient now I wait,
The crescent moon swings low, it groweth late,
A night bird sings, of Life, and Love, and Fate!

Oh haste, my Sweet!  Youth and its gladness goes,
Joy hath one summer time, like to the rose,
Love only lives through all the winter snows.

Then haste, my Sweet!  These hours are all our own,
And see!  A rose leaf on the night breeze blown! 
For thee I wait—­for thee I wait alone!

***End of the project gutenberg EBOOK the miracle and other poems***

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