ALBERT E. S. SMYTHE

WITH fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud, The little song I sing with so much care, Sweet for a day, will swoon upon the flood Of days that will forget my song was fair. The master-song is mighty rushing wind Mixed with all fragrance, strong with a great breath From cloudland, and the climes that win the mind, And full of pulses to awaken death. Full well I know the storm will smite my flower, My tiny short-stemmed blossom of the sod; But when my flower and I have lived an hour I'll bear it on the wind away to God: And wind and flower and spirit may adorn Some Eden-garden where new worlds are born.

I KNOW that death is God's interpreter: His quiet voice makes gracious meanings clear In grievous things that vex us deeply here Between the cradle and the sepulchre. We, gazing into darkness, greatly err, And fear the shrouded shadow of a fear Till dawn reveals the vestments of a Seer With gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh. There is a mystery I cannot read Around the mastery I no more dread; For love is but a heart to brood and bleed, And life is but a dream among the dead Whose wisdom waits for us. God give me heed Till the day break and shadows all be fled!