tenderness, he yields,
    Feeling in dreams for the dear mother heart
    He knew, ere he forsook the starry way,
    And clings there, pillowed far above the smoke
    And the dim murmur from the duns of men. 
    I can enchant the trees and rocks, and fill
    The dumb brown lips of earth with mystery,
    Make them reveal or hide the god.  I breathe
    A deeper pity than all love, myself
    Mother of all, but without hands to heal: 
    Too vast and vague, they know me not.  But yet
    I am the heartbreak over fallen things,
    The sudden gentleness that stays the blow,
    And I am in the kiss that foemen give
    Pausing in battle, and in the tears that fall
    Over the vanquished foe, and in the highest;
    Among the Danaan gods, I am the last
    Council of mercy in their hearts where they
    Mete justice from a thousand starry thrones.

REMEMBRANCE

    There were many burning hours on the heart-sweet tide,
    And we passed away from ourselves, forgetting all
    The immortal moods that faded, the god who died,
    Hastening away to the King on a distant call.

    There were ruby dews were shed when the heart was riven,
    And passionate pleading and prayers to the dead we had wronged;
    And we passed away unremembering and unforgiven,
    Hastening away to the King for the peace we longed.

    Love unremembered and heart-ache we left behind,
    We forsook them, unheeding, hastening away in our flight;
    We knew the hearts we had wronged of old we would find
    When we came to the fold of the King for rest in the night.

THE HOUR OF THE KING

    Who would think this quiet breather
    From the world had taken flight? 
    Yet within the form we see there
    Wakes the golden King to-night.

    Out upon the face of faces
    He looked forth before his sleep: 
    Now he knows the starry races
    Haunters of the ancient deep;

    On the Bird of Diamond Glory
    Floats in mystic floods of song: 
    As he lists Time’s triple story
    Seems but as a day is long.

    From the mightier Adam falling
    To his image dwarfed in clay,
    He will at our voices calling
    Come to this side of the day.

    When he wakes, the dreamy-hearted,
    He will know not whence he came,
    And the light from which he parted
    Be the seraph’s sword of flame,

    And behind it hosts supernal
    Guarding the lost paradise,
    And the tree of life eternal
    From the weeping human eyes.

THE WINDS OF ANGUS