OH SEEK me not within a tomb-
Thou shalt not find me in the clay!

I pierce a little wall of gloom
To mingle with the day!

I brothered with the things that pass,
Poor giddy joy and puckered grief;

I go to brother with the grass

And with the sunning leaf.

Not death can sheathe me in a shroud;
A joy-sword whetted keen with pain,

*Reprinted, with the author's permission, from "The Quest," published by The Macmillan Company.

I join the armies of the cloud,
The lightning and the rain.

Oh, subtle in the sap athrill,

Athletic in the glad uplift,
A portion of the cosmic will,
I pierce the planet-drift.

My God and I shall interknit

As rain and ocean, breath and air;
And oh, the luring thought of it

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Is prayer!

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John G. Neihardt.

THE OXEN

CHRISTMAS EVE, and twelve of the clock.
"Now they are all on their knees,"

An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few believe

In these years! Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve "Come; see the oxen kneel

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12

"In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know,"

I should go with him in the gloom,

Hoping it might be so.

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Thomas Hardy.

TRYSTE NOËL

THE OX he openeth wide the Doore,
And from the Snowe he calls her inne,
And he hath seen her Smile therefor,
Our Ladye without Sinne.

Now soon from Sleep

A Starre shall leap,

And soone arrive both King and Hinde:

Amen, Amen:

But O, the Place co'd I but finde!

Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow,

And on his lovelie Neck, forspent,

The Blessed layes her Browe.

Around her feet

Full Warme and Sweete

His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell:

Amen, Amen:

But sore am I with Vaine Travel!

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The Ox is host in Judah stall

And Host of more than onelie one,
For close she gathereth withal

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Our Lorde her littel Sonne.

Glad Hinde and King

Their Gyfte may bring,

But wo'd to-night my Teares were there, 25

Amen, Amen:

Between her Bosom and His hayre!

Louise Imogen Guiney.

IN THE HOSPITAL

BECAUSE on the branch that is tapping my pane A sun-wakened leaf-bud, uncurled,

Is bursting its rusty brown sheathing in twain, I know there is Spring in the world.

Because through the sky-patch whose azure and white

My window frames all the day long,

A yellow-bird dips for an instant of flight,

I know there is Song.

Because even here in this Mansion of Woe

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Where creep the dull hours, leaden-shod, Compassion and Tenderness aid me, I know 12 There is God.

Arthur Guiterman.

CREATION

IN THE beginning, there was nought
But heaven, one Majesty of Light,
Beyond all speech, beyond all thought,
Beyond all depth, beyond all height,
Consummate heaven, the first and last,
Enfolding in its perfect prime

No future rushing to the past,

But one rapt Now, that knew not Space or Time.

Formless it was, being gold on gold,

And void-but with that complete Life Where music could no wings unfold

Till lo, God smote the strings of strife! "Myself unto Myself am Throne,

Myself unto Myself am Thrall

I that am All am all alone,"

He said, "Yea, I have nothing, having all." 16

And, gathering round His mount of bliss

The angel-squadrons of His will,

He said, "One battle yet there is
To win, one vision to fulfil!
Since heaven where'er I gaze expands,

And power that knows no strife or cry,
Weakness shall bind and pierce My hands
And make a world for Me wherein to die.

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