Songs Ysame

JUST outside of the noisy town,
Half through thicket and wood revealed,
Hemmed about by a wall of stone,
Wide it lieth, the Potter's Field.

Brambles wander across the grass,
Vines creep over the broken wall,
Bindweeds blossom, and here and there
Stands a waif of the forest tall.

There no columns of gleaming white
Mark the dust that is sacred still;
Swings the gate on its rusty hinge —
All may enter and roam at will.

Who should hinder the ruthless hand,
Who protect from a vagrant's tread?
Guard the urns of the rich and great —
No one cares for the pauper dead!

Outlawed felon and sinless child
All find room in the Potter's Field.
There lies a Judas who sold his Lord,
Here a Mary, His pity healed.

Who could know of the shame and sin
Safely under the sod concealed?
Weary burdens of want and grief,
Laid away in the Potter's Field.

Who could guess? – for as swift and light
O'er it the feet of the seasons go;
Summer hides it with grace of flowers,
Winter spreads it with folds of snow.

Rains weep over the lonely mound,
Sunlight lingers, and swift shades pass;
Tender hands of the gentle wind
Smooth the knots of the tangled grass.

What though hallowed by Death alone,
Rest unbroken the sod doth yield;
Peace is here, for His constant watch
God doth set o'er the Potter's Field.

Left Out

WELL he knew that his clothes were poor:
He was common, he humbly thought;
Child as he was, he could understand
Why he was slighted and never sought.

Yet could he help it, – his mother gone, —
Help the weight of his father's shame?
Hardest sentence of childish law:
Blaming innocence not to blame.

It was hard when the children played
All together, to be left out, —
Stand aside, with a stinging sense
That 'twas he that they laughed about.

Thoughtless children, they felt no wrong, —
Pushed him out of the ring at play.
No one heard how his voice was choked,
No one cared when he stole away.

No one saw how he crept at last
Through the gate and the grasses deep,
Past the wall to a lonely grave
Where his mother was laid asleep.

Could she feel in her narrow bed,
Wee, cold hands, as they groped about —
Feel the tears that were dropped because
Even her grave had left him out?

"Our Father."

I HAVE no part with all the great, proud world:
It cares not how I live, nor when I die;
But every lily smiling in the field,
And every tiny sparrow darting by,
Claims kinship with me, mortal though they be, —
The One who cares for them doth care for me.

A Madrigal

WOODBINE

THE wild bee clings to it
Most fond and long.
The wild bird sings to it
Its sweetest song.
The wild breeze brings to it
A life more strong.

So all things lend to thee
Some charm, some grace.