IF THIS WERE FAITH

OD, if this were enough,

Go

That I see things bare to the buff

And up to the buttocks in mire;

That I ask nor hope nor hire,

Nut in the husk,

Nor dawn beyond the dusk,

Nor life beyond death:

God, if this were faith?

Having felt thy wind in my face
Spit sorrow and disgrace,
Having seen thine evil doom

In Golgotha and Khartoum,

And the brutes, the work of thine hands,

Fill with injustice lands

And stain with blood the sea:

If still in my veins the glee

Of the black night and the sun

And the lost battle, run:

If, an adept,

The iniquitous lists I still accept

With joy, and joy to endure and be withstood,

And still to battle and perish for a dream of good: God, if that were enough?

If to feel, in the ink of the slough,
And the sink of the mire,

Veins of glory and fire

Run through and transpierce and transpire,
And a secret purpose of glory in every part,
And the answering glory of battle fill my heart;
To thrill with the joy of girded men

To go on forever and fail and go on again,
And be mauled to the earth and arise,

And contend for the shade of a word and a thing not seen with the eyes:

With the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night

That somehow the right is the right

And the smooth shall bloom from the rough:
Lord, if that were enough?

MY WIFE

RUSTY, dusky, vivid, true,

TRU

With eyes of gold and bramble-dew, Steel-true and blade-straight,

The great artificer

Made my mate.

Honour, anger, valour, fire;
A love that life could never tire,
Death quench or evil stir,
The mighty master

Gave to her.

Teacher, tender, comrade, wife,

A fellow-farer true through life,

Heart-whole and soul-free The august father

Gave to me.

XXVI

WINTER

N rigorous hours, when down the iron lane
The redbreast looks in vain

For hips and haws,

Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane
The silver pencil of the winter draws.

When all the snowy hill

And the bare woods are still;

When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,

And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logsMore fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!

SARANAC LAKE.

HE stormy evening closes now in vain,

THE

Loud wails the wind and beats the driving rain,

While here in sheltered house

With fire-ypainted walls,

I hear the wind abroad,

I hark the calling squalls

"Blow, blow," I cry, "you burst your cheeks in vain! Blow, blow," I cry, "my love is home again!"

Yon ship you chase perchance but yesternight
Bore still the precious freight of my delight,
That here in sheltered house

With fire-ypainted walls,
Now hears the wind abroad,

Now harks the calling squalls.

Blow, blow," I cry, "in vain you rouse the sea, My rescued sailor shares the fire with me!"