SŒUR LOUISE DE LA MISÉRICORDE. 379 Hungry here with the crunching swine, There is plenty of bread at home, His servants have bread enough and to spare; The purple wine-fat froths with foam, Oil and spices make sweet the air, Rich and blessed those servants, rather SŒUR LOUISE DE LA MISERICORDE. (1674) I HAVE desired, and I have been desired; Now dust and dying embers mock my fire; Longing and love, pangs of a perished pleasure, And memory a bottomless gulf of mire, Now from my heart, love's deathbed, trickles, trickles, Drop by drop slowly, drop by drop of fire, The dross of life, of love, of spent desire; Alas, my rose of life gone all to prickles,— Oh vanity of vanities, desire; Stunting my hope which might have strained up higher, Turning my garden plot to barren mire; Oh death-struck love, oh disenkindled fire, Oh vanity of vanities, desire! TO-DAY'S BURDEN. ARISE, depart, for this is not your rest. Oh burden of all burdens, still to arise And still depart, nor rest in any wise! Rolling, still rolling thus to east from west Earth journeys on her immemorial quest, Whom a moon chases in no different guise: Thus stars pursue their courses, and thus flies The sun, and thus all creatures manifest. Unrest the common heritage, the ban Flung broadcast on all humankind, on all Who live; for living, all are bound to die: That which is old, we know that it is man : These have no rest who sit and dream and sigh, Nor have those rest who wrestle and who fall. AN IMMURATA" SISTER. LIFE flows down to death; we cannot bind That current that it should not flee: Life flows down to death, as rivers find Men work and think, but women feel; And so I should be glad to die And cease from hope, and cease from dread, Hearts that die, by death renew their youth, Unveiled makes them wise. Why should I seek and never find That something which I have not had? The world hath sought time out of mind; For we have spent our strength for nought, Sparks fly upward toward their fount of fire, Kindling, flashing, hovering : Kindle, flash, my soul; mount higher and higher, Thou whole burnt-offering! THERE IS A BUDDING MORROW IN WINTRY boughs against a wintry sky; Yet the sky is partly blue And the clouds are partly bright : Who can tell but sap is mounting high Ready to burst through? Winter is the mother-nurse of Spring, Lovely for her daughter's sake, Not unlovely for her own: For a future buds in everything; Grown, or blown, Or about to break. "IF THOU SAYEST, BEHOLD, WE KNEW IT NOT."-PROVERBS Xxiv. 11, I 2. I. I HAVE done I know not what,-what have I done? My brother's blood, my brother's soul, doth cry: And I find no defence, find no reply, No courage more to run this race I run Not knowing what I have done, have left undone; The deed I did? what profits me the plea In judgment pity, and in death, and now. 2. Thou Who hast borne all burdens, bear our load, |