Borne on the vibrant, clanging wheels, I never pass that half-seen place, But flashing o’er my memory steals The vision of that sweet, lost face;
And my heart whispers low to her, Across the distance dim and chill: “Sleep softly, dearest, do not stir, I love you—I remember still.”
NOT only Peter in the judgment-hall, Not only in the centuries gone by, Did coward hearts deny Thee, Lord of all, But even in our time, and constantly; For feeble wills, and the mean fear of men, And selfish dread, are with us now as then.
To-day we vow allegiance to Thy name; To-day our souls, ourselves, we pledge to Thee, Yet if a storm-wind of reproach or blame Rises and beats upon us suddenly, Faltering and fearful, we deny our Lord, By traitorous silence or by uttered word.
We close our lips when speech would wake a sneer; We turn aside and shirk the rougher path; We gloss and blink as if we did not hear The scoffing word which calls for righteous wrath. All unrebuked we let the scoffer go, And we deny our Lord and Master so.
Come Thou, as once of old Thou camest in And “looked on Peter” in the judgment-hall; Let that deep, grievéd gaze rebuke our sin, Questioning, recalling, wakening, pardoning all, Till we go out and weep the whole night long, Made strong by sorrow as He was made strong.
ALL pale the daffodil-tinted sky; The dusky shores that ’neath it lie Are set like an etching against the color, As the great steamship plunges by.
There is the road I used to know, There are the windows still aglow, As when in those old days of welcome They lit the visitants to and fro.
There are the gates I used to pass, The belts of flowers, the shaven grass, The casements behind which well-known faces Smiled softly at me through the glass.
No other eye than mine could see If that dim shape be house or tree; The true heart hath its inner vision, It is all clear as day to me.
I see the forms so long unseen, Stately in age, of reverend mien, Gay youth, and flower-like baby faces, And manhood’s aspect grave and keen.
And, beautiful beyond compare, Mysteriously, strangely fair, Like some clear star high-hung in heaven And sweet as summer roses are,—
One dear face hovers o’er the spot, Which knew her once and knows her not; And still from out the deathly shadows, Looks forth, beloved and unforgot.