But for him, though long belated,
Still the wide-swung portals waited ;

Still the gracious, white-robed maiden
Welcomed in the heavy-laden.
And in slumber-haunted chamber,
Facing orient skies of amber,
From his grief he found release,
For that chamber's name was Peace.

Lord of Pilgrims, be entreated
Still to succor souls defeated !
Wash our stains more white than wool
In thy Palace Beautiful,
That our tears awhile may cease,
Resting in thy perfect peace.

THE sun hath returned to the land
And the breath of his coming is sweet.
The wood-trees eagerly stand,
Their brown arms reaching for heat.
The white lights quiver and shiver
And flash and leap on the river,
And the snow-strips wax fainter and fair,
Till I fain would lie silent, forever and aye,