C.S.A. (continued 2)

Only the bird can rest upon the deep, And sleep upon the wave, And dream its peaceful dreams where wild winds sweep. And sweet the God who gave The birds a rest place on the restless sea — But this, my heart, is not His way with thee.

Over the world, ah! passion's tempests roll, And every fleck of foam Whitens the place where sank some sin-wrecked soul That never shall reach home. Ah! the tranquil shore of God's sweet, calm grace, My heart, is thy only resting place.

Sea Rest

Far from "where the roses rest", Round the altar and the aisle, Which I loved, of all, the best — I have come to rest awhile By the ever-restless sea — Will its waves give rest to me?

But it is so hard to part With my roses. Do they know (Who knows but each has a heart?) How it grieves my heart to go? Roses! will the restless sea Bring, as ye, a rest for me?

Ye were sweet and still and calm, Roses red and roses white; And ye sang a soundless psalm For me in the day and night. Roses! will the restless sea Sing as sweet as ye for me?

Just a hundred feet away, Seaward, flows and ebbs the tide; And the wavelets, blue and gray, Moan, and white sails windward glide O'er the ever restless sea From me, far and peacefully.

And as many feet away, Landward, rise the moss-veiled trees; And they wail, the while they sway In the sad November breeze, Echoes in the sighing sea To me, near and mournfully.

And beside me sleep the dead, In the consecrated ground; Blessed crosses o'er each head. O'er them all the Requiem sound, Chanted by the moaning sea, Echoed by each moss-veiled tree.

Roses! will you miss my face? Do you know that I have gone From your fair and restful place, Far away where moveth on Night and day the restless sea? But I saw eternity

In your faces. Roses sweet! Ye were but the virgin veils, Hiding Him whose holy feet Walked the waves, whose very wails Bring to me from Galilee Rest across the restless sea.

And who knows? mayhap some wave, From His footstep long ago, With the blessing which He gave After ages ebb and flow, Cometh in from yonder sea, With a blessing sweet for me.

Just last night I watched the deep, And it shone as shines a shrine, (Vigils such I often keep) And the stars did sweetly shine O'er the altar of the sea; So they shone in Galilee.

Roses! round the shrine and aisle! Which of all I loved the best, I have gone to rest awhile Where the wavelets never rest — Ye are dearer far to me Than the ever restless sea.

I will come to you in dreams, In the day and in the night, When the sun's or starlight's gleams Robe you in your red or white; Roses! will you dream of me By the ever restless sea?

____ Biloxi, Miss.

Sea Reverie

Strange Sea! why is it that you never rest? And tell me why you never go to sleep? Thou art like one so sad and sin-oppressed — (And the waves are the tears you weep) — And thou didst never sin — what ails the sinless deep?

To-night I hear you crying on the beach, Like a weary child on its mother's breast — A cry with an infinite and lonesome reach Of unutterably deep unrest; And thou didst never sin — why art thou so distressed?

But, ah, sad Sea! the mother's breast is warm, Where crieth the lone and the wearied child; And soft the arms that shield her own from harm; And her look is unutterably mild — But to-night, O Sea! thy cry is wild, so wild!

What ails thee, Sea? The midnight stars are bright — How safe they lean on heaven's sinless breast! O Sea! is the beach too hard, tho' e'er so white, To give thy utter weariness a rest? (And to-night the winds are a-coming from the West).

* * * * *

Where the shadows moan o'er the day's life done, And the darkness is waiting for the light, Ah, me! how the shadows ever seek and shun The sacred, radiant faces of the bright — (And the stars are the vestal virgins of the night);

Or am I dreaming? Do I see and hear Without me what I feel within? Is there an inner eye and an inner ear Thro' which the sounds and silences float in In reflex of the spirit's calm or troublous din?

I know not. After all, what do I know? Save only this — and that is mystery — Like the sea, my spirit hath its ebb and flow In unison, and the tides of the sea Ever reflect the ceaseless tides of thoughts in me.

Waves, are ye priests in surplices of gray, Fringed by the fingers of the breeze with white? Is the beach your altar where ye come to pray, With the sea's ritual, every day and night? And the suns and stars your only altar light?

Great Sea! the very rhythm of my song (And the winds are a-coming from the West), Like thy waves, moveth uncertainly along; And my thoughts, like thy tide with a snow-white crest, Flow and ebb, ebb and flow with thy own unrest.

____ Biloxi, Miss.

The Immaculate Conception

Fell the snow on the festival's vigil And surpliced the city in white; I wonder who wove the pure flakelets? Ask the Virgin, or God, or the night.

It fitted the Feast: 'twas a symbol, And earth wore the surplice at morn, As pure as the vale's stainless lily For Mary, the sinlessly born;

For Mary, conceived in all sinlessness; And the sun, thro' the clouds of the East, With the brightest and fairest of flashes, Fringed the surplice of white for the Feast.

And round the horizon hung cloudlets, Pure stoles to be worn by the Feast; While the earth and the heavens were waiting For the beautiful Mass of the priest.

I opened my window, half dreaming; My soul went away from my eyes, And my heart began saying "Hail Marys" Somewhere up in the beautiful skies,

Where the shadows of sin never rested; And the angels were waiting to hear The prayer that ascends with "Our Father", And keeps hearts and the heavens so near.

And all the day long — can you blame me? "Hail Mary", "Our Father", I said; And I think that the Christ and His Mother Were glad of the way that I prayed.

And I think that the great, bright Archangel Was listening all the day long For the echo of every "Hail Mary" That soared thro' the skies like a song,

From the hearts of the true and the faithful, In accents of joy or of woe, Who kissed in their faith and their fervor The Festival's surplice of snow.

I listened, and each passing minute, I heard in the lands far away "Hail Mary", "Our Father", and near me I heard all who knelt down to pray.

Pray the same as I prayed, and the angel, And the same as the Christ of our love — "Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father" — Winging just the same sweet flight above.

Passed the morning, the noon: came the even — The temple of Christ was aflame With the halo of lights on three altars, And one wore His own Mother's name.

Her statue stood there, and around it Shone the symbolic stars. Was their gleam, And the flowerets that fragranced her altar, Were they only the dream of a dream?

Or were they sweet signs to my vision Of a truth far beyond mortal ken, That the Mother had rights in the temple Of Him she had given to men?

Was it wronging her Christ-Son, I wonder, For the Christian to honor her so? Ought her statue pass out of His temple? Ask the Feast in its surplice of snow.

Ah, me! had the pure flakelets voices, I know what their white lips would say; And I know that the lights on her altar Would pray with me if they could pray.

Methinks that the flowers that were fading — Sweet virgins that die with the Feast, Like martyrs, upon her fair altar — If they could, they would pray with the priest;

And would murmur "Our Father", "Hail Mary", Till they drooped on the altar in death, And be glad in their dying for giving To Mary their last sweetest breath.

Passed the day as a poem that passes Through the poet's heart's sweetest of strings; Moved the minutes from Masses to Masses — Did I hear a faint sound as of wings

Rustling over the aisles and the altars? Did they go to her altar and pray? Or was my heart only a-dreaming At the close of the Festival day?

Quiet throngs came into the temple, As still as the flowers at her feet, And wherever they knelt, they were gazing Where the statue looked smiling and sweet.

"Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" were blended In a pure and a perfect accord, And passed by the beautiful Mother To fall at the feet of our Lord.

Low toned from the hearts of a thousand "Our Fathers", "Hail Marys" swept on To the star-wreathed statue. I wonder Did they wrong the great name of her Son.

Her Son and our Saviour — I wonder How He heard our "Hail Marys" that night? Were the words to Him sweet as the music They once were, and did we pray right?

Or was it all wrong? Will he punish Our lips if we make them the home Of the words of the great, high Archangel That won Him to sinners to come.

Ah, me! does He blame my own mother, Who taught me, a child, at her knee, To say, with "Our Father", "Hail Mary"? If 'tis wrong, my Christ! punish but me.

Let my mother, O Jesus! be blameless; Let me suffer for her if You blame. Her pure mother's heart knew no better When she taught me to love the pure name.

O Christ! of Thy beautiful Mother Must I hide her name down in my heart? But, ah! even there you will see it — With Thy Mother's name how can I part?

On Thy name all divine have I rested In the days when my heart-trials came; Sweet Christ, like to Thee I am human, And I need Mary's pure human name.

Did I hear a voice? or was I dreaming? I heard — or I sure seemed to hear — "Who blames you for loving My Mother Is wronging my heart — do not fear.

"I am human, e'en here in My heavens, What I was I am still all the same; And I still love My beautiful Mother — And thou, priest of Mine, do the same."

I was happy — because I am human — And Christ in the silences heard "Our Father", "Hail Mary", "Our Father", Murmured faithfully word after word.

* * * * *

Swept the beautiful ~O Salutaris~ Down the aisles — did the starred statue stir? Or was my heart only a-dreaming When it turned from her statue and her?

The door of a white tabernacle Felt the touch of the hand of the priest — Did he waken the Host from its slumbers To come forth and crown the high Feast?

To come forth so strangely and silent, And just for a sweet little while, And then to go back to its prison. Thro' the stars — did the sweet statue smile?

I knew not; but Mary, the Mother, I think, almost envied the priest — He was taking her place at the altar — Did she dream of the days in the East?

When her hands, and hers only, held Him, Her Child, in His waking and rest, Who had strayed in a love that seemed wayward This eve to shrine in the West.

Did she dream of the straw of the manger When she gazed on the altar's pure white? Did she fear for her Son any danger In the little Host, helpless, that night?

No! no! she is trustful as He is — What a terrible trust in our race! The Divine has still faith in the human — What a story of infinite grace!

~Tantum Ergo~, high hymn of the altar That came from the heart of a saint, Swept triumph-toned all through the temple — Did my ears hear the sound of a plaint?

'Neath the glorious roll of the singing To the temple had sorrow crept in? Or was it the moan of a sinner? O beautiful Host! wilt Thou win

In the little half-hour's Benediction The heart of a sinner again? And, merciful Christ, Thou wilt comfort The sorrow that brings Thee its pain.

Came a hush, and the Host was uplifted, And It made just the sign of the cross O'er the low-bended brows of the people. O Host of the Holy! Thy loss

To the altar, and temple, and people Would make this world darkest of night; And our hearts would grope blindly on through it, For our love would have lost all its light.

~Laudate~, what thrilling of triumph! Our souls soared to God on each tone; And the Host went again to Its prison, For our Christ fears to leave us alone.

Blessed priest! strange thou art His jailor! Thy hand holds the beautiful key That locks in His prison love's Captive, And keeps Him in fetters for me.

* * * * *

'Twas over — I gazed on the statue — "Our Father", "Hail Mary" still came; And to-night faith and love cannot help it, I must still pray the same — still the same.

____ Written at Loyola College, Baltimore, on the Night of December 8, 1880.

Fifty Years at the Altar

"To Rev. Father E. Sourin, S.J., from A. J. Ryan; first, in memory of some happy hours passed in his company at Loyola College, Baltimore; next, in appreciation of a character of strange beautifulness, known of God, but hidden from men; and last, but by no means least, to test and tempt his humility in the (to him) proud hour of the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination."

To-day — fifty years at the altar — Thou art, as of old, at thy post! Tell us, O chasubled soldier! Art weary of watching the Host? Fifty years — Christ's sacred sentry, To-day thy feet faithful are found When the cross on the altar is blessing Thy heart in its sentinel-round.

The beautiful story of Thabor Fifty years agone thrilled thy young heart, When wearing white vestments of glory, And up the "high mountain apart". In the fresh, glowing grace of thy priesthood, Thou didst climb to the summit alone, While the Feast of Christ's Transfiguration Was a sweet outward sign of thy own.

Old priest! on the slope of the summit Did float down and fall on thine ear The strong words of weak-hearted Peter. "O Lord, it is good to be here!" Thy heart was stronger than Peter's, And sweeter the tone of thy prayer; 'Twas Calvary thy young feet were climbing, And old — thou art still standing there.

For you, as for him, on bright Thabor, Forever to stay were not hard; But when Calvary girdles the altar, And garments the Eucharist's guard With sacrifice and with its shadows — To keep there forever a feast Is the glory and grace of the human — The altar, the cross, and the priest.

The crucifix's wardens and watchers, Like Him, must be heart sacrificed — The Christ on the crucifix lifeless For guard needs a brave human Christ. To guard Him three hours — what a glory! With sacrifice splendors aflame! Three hours — and He died on His Calvary — How long hast thou lived for His name?

"Half a century," cries out thy crucifix, Binding together thy beads; His look, like thy life, lingers in it, A light for men's souls in their needs. Old priest! is thy life not a rosary? Five decades and more have been said, In thy heart the warm splendors of Thabor Beneath the white snows of thy head!

Fifty years lifting the chalice — Ah, 'tis Life in this death-darkened land! Thy clasp may be weak, but the chrism, Old priest! that anointed thy hand Is as fresh and as strong in its virtue As in the five decades agone Thy young hands were touched with its unction, And thy vestments of white were put on.

Fifty years! Every day passes A part of one great, endless feast, That moves round its orbit of Masses, And hath nor a West nor an East; But everywhere hath its pure altars, At each of its altars a priest To lift up a Host with a chalice Till the story of grace shall have ceased.

Fifty years in the feast's orbit, Nearly two thousand of days; Fifty years priest in the priesthood, Fifty years lit with its rays — Lit them but to reflect them When the adorers' throngs pass Out of thy life and its glory Shining each day from thy Mass.

Half of a century's service! Wearing thy cassock of black O'er thy camps, and thy battles, and triumphs! Old soldier of Jesus! look back To the day when thou kissed thy first altar In love with youth's fervor athrill. From the day when we meet and we greet thee, So true to the old altar still.

Fifty long years! what if trials Did oftentimes darken thy way — They marked, like the shadows on dials, Thy soul's brightest hour every day. The sun in the height of his splendor, By the mystical law of his light, O'er his glories flings vestments of shadows, And, sinking, leaves stars to the night.

Old priest! with the heart of a poet Thou hast written sweet stanzas for men; Thy life, many versed, is a poem That puzzles the art of the pen; The crucifix wrote it and writes it — A scripture too deep for my ken; A record of deeds more than sayings — Only God reads it rightly; and then

My stanzas are just like the shadows That follow the sun and his sheen, To tell to the eye that will read them Where the purest of sunshine has been. Thy life moves in mystical eclipse, All hidden from men and their sight; We look, but we see but its surface, But God sees the depth of its light.

Twenty-five years! highest honors Were thine — high deserved in the world: Dawned a day with a grace in its flashing O'er thy heart from a standard unfurled, Whose folds bore the mystical motto: "To the greater glory of God!" And somehow there opened before thee A way thou hadst never yet trod.

Twenty-five years — still a private In files where the humblest and last Stands higher in rank than the highest Of those who are passing or passed; Twenty-five years in the vanguard, Whose name is a spell of their strength, The light of the folds of whose standard Lengthens along all the length

Of the march of the Crucified Jesus. Loyola was wiser than most In claiming for him and his soldiers The name of the Chief of the host; His name, and his motto, and colors That never shall know a defeat, Whose banner, when others are folded, Shall never float over retreat.

To-day when the wind wafts the wavelets To the gray altar steps of yon shore, Each wearing an alb foam-embroidered, And kneeling, like priests, to adore The God of the land — I will mingle My prayers, aged priest! with the sea, While God, for thy fifty years' priesthood, Will hear thy prayers whispered for me.

Song of the Deathless Voice

'Twas the dusky Hallowe'en — Hour of fairy and of wraith, When in many a dim-lit green, 'Neath the stars' prophetic sheen, As the olden legend saith, All the future may be seen, And when — an older story hath — Whate'er in life hath ever been Loveful, hopeful, or of wrath, Cometh back upon our path. I was dreaming in my room, 'Mid the shadows, still as they; Night, in veil of woven gloom, Wept and trailed her tresses gray O'er her fair, dead sister — Day. To me from some far-away Crept a voice — or seemed to creep — As a wave-child of the deep, Frightened by the wild storm's roar Creeps low-sighing to the shore Very low and very lone Came the voice with song of moan, This, weak-sung in weaker word, Is the song that night I heard:

How long! Alas, how long! How long shall the Celt chant the sad song of hope, That a sunrise may break on the long starless night of our past? How long shall we wander and wait on the desolate slope Of Thabors that promise our Transfiguration at last? How long, O Lord! How long!

How long, O Fate! How long! How long shall our sunburst reflect but the sunset of Right, When gloaming still lights the dim immemorial years? How long shall our harp's strings, like winds that are wearied of night, Sound sadder than moanings in tones all a-trembling with tears? How long, O Lord! How long!

How long, O Right! How long! How long shall our banner, the brightest that ever did flame In battle with wrong, droop furled like a flag o'er a grave? How long shall we be but a nation with only a name, Whose history clanks with the sounds of the chains that enslave? How long, O Lord! How long!

How long! Alas, how long! How long shall our isle be a Golgotha, out in the sea, With a cross in the dark? Oh, when shall our Good Friday close? How long shall thy sea that beats round thee bring only to thee The wailings, O Erin! that float down the waves of thy woes? How long, O Lord! How long!

How long! Alas, how long! How long shall the cry of the wronged, O Freedom! for thee Ascend all in vain from the valleys of sorrow below? How long ere the dawn of the day in the ages to be, When the Celt will forgive, or else tread on the heart of his foe? How long, O Lord! How long!

Whence came the voice? Around me gray silence fall; And without in the gloom not a sound is astir 'neath the sky; And who is the singer? Or hear I a singer at all? Or, hush! Is't my heart athrill with some deathless old cry?

Ah! blood forgets not in its flowing its forefathers' wrongs — They are the heart's trust, from which we may ne'er be released; Blood keeps in its throbs the echoes of all the old songs And sings them the best when it flows thro' the heart of a priest.

Am I not in my blood as old as the race whence I sprung? In the cells of my heart feel I not all its ebb and its flow? And old as our race is, is it not still forever as young, As the youngest of Celts in whose breast Erin's love is aglow?

The blood of a race that is wronged beats the longest of all, For long as the wrong lasts, each drop of it quivers with wrath; And sure as the race lives, no matter what fates may befall, There's a Voice with a Song that forever is haunting its path.

Aye, this very hand that trembles thro' this very line, Lay hid, ages gone, in the hand of some forefather Celt, With a sword in its grasp, if stronger, not truer than mine, And I feel, with my pen, what the old hero's sworded hand felt —

The heat of the hate that flashed into flames against wrong, The thrill of the hope that rushed like a storm on the foe; And the sheen of that sword is hid in the sheath of the song As sure as I feel thro' my veins the pure Celtic blood flow.

The ties of our blood have been strained o'er thousands of years, And still are not severed, how mighty soever the strain; The chalice of time o'erflows with the streams of our tears, Yet just as the shamrocks, to bloom, need the clouds and their rain,

The Faith of our fathers, our hopes, and the love of our isle Need the rain of our hearts that falls from our grief-clouded eyes, To keep them in bloom, while for ages we wait for the smile Of Freedom, that some day — ah! some day! shall light Erin's skies.

Our dead are not dead who have gone, long ago, to their rest; They are living in us whose glorious race will not die — Their brave buried hearts are still beating on in each breast Of the child of each Celt in each clime 'neath the infinite sky.

Many days yet to come may be dark as the days that are past, Many voices may hush while the great years sweep patiently by; But the voice of our race shall live sounding down to the last, And our blood is the bard of the song that never shall die.

To Mr. and Mrs. A. M. T.

Just when the gentle hand of spring Came fringing the trees with bud and leaf, And when the blades the warm suns bring Were given glad promise of golden sheaf; Just when the birds began to sing Joy hymns after their winter's grief, I wandered weary to a place; Tired of toil, I sought for rest, Where Nature wore her mildest grace — I went where I was more than guest. Strange, tall trees rose as if they fain Would wear as crowns the clouds of skies; The sad winds swept with low refrain Through branches breathing softest sighs; And o'er the field and down the lane Sweet flowers, the dreams of Paradise, Bloomed up into this world of pain, Where all that's fairest soonest dies; And 'neath the trees a little stream Went winding slowly round and round, Just like a poet's mystic dream, With here a silence, there a sound. The lowly ground, beneath the sheen Of March day suns, now dim, now bright, Now emeralds of golden green In flashing or in fading light; And here and there throughout the scene The timid wild flowers met the sight, While over all the sun and shade Swept like a strangely woven veil, Folding the flowers that else might fade, Guarding young rosebuds from the gale. And blossoms of most varied hue Bedecked the forest everywhere, While valleys wore the robes of blue, Bright woven by the violets fair; And there was gladness all around; It was a place so fair to see, And yet so simple — there I found How sweet a quiet home may be. Four children — and thro' all the day They flung their laughter o'er the place; Bright as the flowers in happy May, The children shed a sweet pure grace Around this quiet home, and they To father and to mother brought The smiles of purest love unsought; It was a happy, happy spot, Too dear to be fore'er forgot. Farewell, sweet place! I came as guest; From toil, in thee I found relief, I found in thee a home and rest — But, ah! the days are far too brief. Farewell! I go, but with me come Sweet memories that long will last; I'll think of thee as of a home That stands forever in my past.

To Virginia (on Her Birthday)

Your past is past and never to return, The long bright yesterday of life's first years, Its days are dead — cold ashes in an urn. Some held for you a chalice for your tears, And other days strewed flowers upon your way. They all are gone beyond your reach, And thus they are beyond my speech. I know them not, so that your first gone times To me unknown, lie far beyond my rhymes. But I can bless your soul and aims to-day, And I can ask your future to be sweet, And I can pray that you may never meet With any cross, you are too weak to bear. Virginia, Virgin name, and may you wear Its virtues and its beauties, fore'er and fore'er. I breathe this blessing, and I pray this prayer.

Epilogue

Go, words of mine! and if you live Only for one brief, little day; If peace, or joy, or calm you give To any soul; or if you bring A something higher to some heart, I may come back again and sing Songs free from all the arts of Art.

— Abram J. Ryan.

Posthumous Poems

In Remembrance

In the eclipses of your soul, and when you cry "O God! give more of rest and less of night," My words may rest you; and mayhap a light Shall flash from them bright o'er thy spirit's sky; Then think of me as one who passes by. A few brief hours — a golden August day, We met, we spake — I pass fore'er away. Let ev'ry word of mine be golden ray To brighten thy eclipses; and then wilt pray That he who passes thee shall meet thee yet In the "Beyond" where souls may ne'er forget.

A Reverie [`"O Songs!" I said:']

"O Songs!" I said: "Stop sounding in my soul Just for a little while and let me sleep, Resting my head on the breast Of Silence;" but the rhythmic roll Of a thousand songs swept on and on, And a far Voice said: "When thou art dead Thy restless heart shall rest."

And the songs will never let me sleep. I plead with them; but o'er the deep They still will roll On, and on, and on, Their music never gone. Ah! world-tired soul! Just for a little while, Just like a poor, tired child Beneath its Mother's smile — Only to fall asleep! Silence! be mother to me! But — No! No! No! The waves will ebb and flow. I wonder is it best To never, never rest Down on the shores of this strange Below?

Only a Dream

Only a Dream! It floated thro' The sky of a lonely sleep As floats a gleam Athwart the Blue Of a golden clouded Deep.

Only a Dream! I calmly slept. Meseems I called a name; I woke; and, waking, I think I wept And called — and called the same.

Only a Dream! Graves have no ears; They give not back the dead; They will not listen to the saddest tears That ever may be shed.

Only a Dream! Graves keep their own; They have no hearts to hear; But the loved will come From their Heaven-Home To smile on the sleeper's tear.

The Poet

The Poet is the loneliest man that lives; Ah me! God makes him so — The sea hath its ebb and flow, He sings his songs — but yet he only gives In the waves of the words of his art Only the ~foam~ of his heart.

Its sea rolls on forever, evermore, Beautiful, vast, and deep; Only his ~shallowest~ thoughts touch the shore Of Speech; his ~deepest~ sleep.

The foam that crests the wave is pure and white; The ~foam~ is not the ~wave~; The wave is not the sea — ~it rolls~ forever on; The winding shores will crave A kiss from ev'ry wavelet on the deep; ~Some come~; some always ~sleep~.

The Child of the Poet

The sunshine of thy Father's fame Sleeps in the shadows of thy eyes, And flashes sometimes when his name Like a lost star seeks its skies.

In the horizons of thy heart His memory shines for aye, A light that never shall depart Nor lose a single ray.

Thou passest thro' the crowds unknown, So gentle, so sweet, and so shy; Thy heart throbs fast and sometimes may grow low; Then alone Art the star in thy Father's sky.

'Tis fame enough for thee to bear his name — Thou couldst not ask for more; Thou art the jewel of thy Father's fame, He waiteth on the bright and golden shore; He prayeth in the great Eternity Beside God's throne for thee.

The Poet Priest

~Not~ as of one whom multitudes ~admire~, I believe they call him great; They throng to hear him with a strange desire; They, silent, come and wait, And wonder when he opens wide the gate Of some strange, inner temple, where the fire Is lit on many altars of many dreams — They wait to catch the gleams — And then they say, In praiseful words: "'Tis beautiful and grand." And so his way Is strewn with many flowers, sweet and fair; And people say: "How happy he must be to win and wear Praise ev'ry day!" And all the while he stands far out the crowd, Strangely ~alone~. Is it a Stole he wears? — or mayhap a shroud — No matter which, his spirit maketh moan; And all the while a lonely, lonesome sense Creeps thro' his days — all fame's incense Hath not the fragrance of his altar; and He seemeth rather to kneel in lowly prayer Than lift his head aloft amid the Grand: If all the world would kneel down at his feet And give acclaim — He fain would say: "Oh! No! No! No! The breath of fame is sweet — but far more sweet Is the breath of Him who lives within my heart; God's breath, which e'en, despite of me, will creep Along the words of merely human art; It cometh from some far-off hidden Deep, Far-off and from so far away — It filleth night and day." ~Not~ as of one who ever, ever cares For earthly praises, not as of such think thou of me, And in the nights and days — I'll meet with thee In Prayers — and thou shalt meet with me.

Wilt Pray for Me?

Wilt pray for me? They tell me I have Fame; I plead with thee, Sometimes just fold my name In beautiful "Hail Marys"! And you give me more Than all the world besides. It praises Poets for the well-sung lay; But ah! it hath forgotten how to pray. It brings to brows of Poets crowns of Pride; Some win such crowns and wear; Give me, instead, a simple little Prayer.

—-

The living child of a dead Poet is like a faintly glowing Sanctuary lamp, which sheds its rays in the beautiful Temple whence the great Presence hath departed. — Abram J. Ryan