SACRIFICE

Love suffereth all things,

And we,

Out of the travail and pain of our striving,
Bring unto Thee the perfect prayer:

For the lips of no man utter love,

Suffering even for love's sake.

For us no splendid apparel of pageantry

Burnished breast-plates, scarlet banners, and trumpets Sounding exultantly.

But the mean things of the earth Thou has chosen, Decked them with suffering;

Made them beautiful with the passion for rightness, Strong with the pride of love.

Yea, though our praise of Thee slayeth us,
Yet love shall exalt us beside Thee triumphant,
Dying that these live;

And the earth again be beautiful with orchards,
Yellow with wheatfields;

And the lips of others praise Thee, though our lips

Be stopped with earth, and songless.

Yet we shall have brought Thee their praises
Brought unto Thee the perfect prayer:

For the lips of no man utter love,

Suffering even for love's sake.

O God of sorrows,

Whose feet come softly through the dews,

Stoop Thou unto us,

For we die so Thou livest,

Our hearts the cups of Thy vintage:

And the lips of no man utter love,

Suffering even for love's sake.

19022: Private Frederic Manning, 3rd R. S. L. I.

on Warren!

THE WILD BIRD

Like silence of a starlit sky,

Like wild birds rising into night,

Such was her dying, such her flight
Into eternity.

But I, who dwell with memory,
Dream in my grief that she may soar

Too high, and needing love no more
Come nevermore to me.

Gretchen Warren

HE BUILDETH HIS HOUSE

He hewed him the gray cold rock

To make the foundations under.
The walls and the towers should lock
Past the power of the earth to sunder,
Then, masking the bastions' frown,
Art came, embroidered and gilded
That beauty and joy might crown
The palace which power had builded.

God sighed: "Why build so tall
Thy prison wall?”

THE POET'S PART

L.A. Ling

It is a little world where poets dwell-
A little, hidden world; and few there be
Who know its sign or language, or can tell
Whence come the visions that the poets see.
The great world beats about it heedlessly,
With things to win, to own, to buy, to sell,
With myriad cares that leave no mortal free,
With hopes that spur and bafflements that quell.

Yet ever does the great world in its might Swing onward through the darkness by the light

Caught up by poet hand from poet hand;
And if but once should sink that flaming brand,
Why, then would come at last the endless night,
To hide the ruin of what God had planned.

Lily A. Long

THE WIND IN THE TREES

The wind goes whispering

The leaves among;

It has a silken,

A siren tongue.

The leaves all listen

Quivering there;

A thousand kisses
Caress the air.

So stirs my heart

When he goes by:

Wind is a breath,

Love is a sigh.

Lulu W. Knight

GOOD MORNING

Why, there's the morning and get-up-o'clock! The dream-dewed freshness and the keen delight— Do you remember? There-those ashes were Our fire last night; the sun is laughing at them. Look in the valley where we passed beforeYou see that little winding of the road? The selfsame, big, important yesterday That seemed so steep and threatening a hill! Come, let us bathe and break the fast and start!

Peter Norden

TO A CERTAIN FAIR LADY

Your heart is like a poplar tree,

Full of sunlit greenery,

A thin lace pattern on the sky,

That trembles when the winds go by.

And every zephyr, every day,
That comes adventuring that way,
Feels it as tremulously waken,
As if it never had been shaken.

Lyman Bryson