And being familiar, have so long been borne
That habit trains us not to break but bend :
Mourning grows natural to us who mourn

In foresight of an end,

But that which ends not who shall brave or mend?

Surely the ripe fruits tremble on their bough,

They cling and linger trembling till they drop: I, trembling, cling to dying life; for how

Face the perpetual Now?

Birthless and deathless, void of start or stop,

Void of repentance, void of hope and fear,
Of possibility, alternative,

Of all that ever made us bear to live

From night to morning here,

Of promise even which has no gift to give.

The wood, and every creature of the wood,
Seemed mourning with me in an undertone;
Soft scattered chirpings and a windy moan,
Trees rustling where they stood

And shivered, showed compassion for my mood.

Rage to despair; and now despair had turned
Back to self-pity and mere weariness,

With yearnings like a smouldering fire that burned,
And might grow more or less,

And might die out or wax to white excess.

Without, within me, music seemed to be ;
Something not music, yet most musical,

Silence and sound in heavenly harmony ;

At length a pattering fall

Of feet, a bell, and bleatings, broke through all.

Then I looked up. The wood lay in a glow
From golden sunset and from ruddy sky;

The sun had stooped to earth though once so high;
Had stooped to earth, in slow

Warm dying loveliness brought near and low.

Each water-drop made answer to the light,

Lit

up a spark and showed the sun his face; Soft purple shadows paved the grassy space And crept from height to height,

From height to loftier height crept up apace.

While opposite the sun a gazing moon

Put on his glory for her coronet,
Kindling her luminous coldness to its noon,
As his great splendor set;

One only star made up her train as yet.

Each twig was tipped with gold, each leaf was edged And veined with gold from the gold-flooded west; Each mother-bird, and mate-bird, and unfledged Nestling, and curious nest,

Displayed a gilded moss or beak or breast.

And filing peacefully between the trees,
Having the moon behind them, and the sun
Full in their meek mild faces, walked at ease
A homeward flock, at peace

With one another and with every one.

A patriarchal ram with tinkling bell

Led all his kin; sometimes one browsing sheep Hung back a moment, or one lamb would leap And frolic in a dell ;

Yet still they kept together, journeying well,

And bleating, one or other, many or few,

Journeying together toward the sunlit west; Mild face by face, and woolly breast by breast, Patient, sun-brightened too,

Still journeying toward the sunset and their rest.

"ALL THY WORKS PRAISE THEE,
O LORD."

A PROCESSIONAL OF CREATION.

I

ALL.

ALL-CREATION sing my song of praise

To God Who made me and vouchsafes my days,

And sends me forth by multitudinous ways.

SERAPH.

I, like my Brethren, burn eternally

With love of Him Who is Love, and loveth me;
The Holy, Holy, Holy Unity.

CHERUB.

I, with my Brethren, gaze eternally

On Him Who is Wisdom, and Who knoweth me;

The Holy, Holy, Holy Trinity.

ALL ANGELS.

We rule, we serve, we work, we store His treasure,

Whose vessels are we, brimmed with strength and

pleasure;

Our joys fulfil, yea, overfill our measure.