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Oh haste, my Sweet! Impatient now I wait,
Lord of all Life! When my hours are done,
Love maketh its own summer time,
0 heart of mine - if I were but a swallow -
Love reckons not by time - its May days of delight
I love red poppies! Imperial red poppies!
'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow,
As pearls slip off a silken string and fall into the sea,
Little honey baby, shet yo' eyes up tight; -
April! April! April!
Turn to thy window in the silver hour
Turn Thou the key upon our thoughts, dear Lord,
Just above the boxes and where the high lights fall
With all the little children, far and near,
Give thanks, my soul, for the things that are free!
Oh! little pink and white god of love,
When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
There is an old Italian legend which says that on the eve of the beloved festival of All Saints (Hallowe'en) the souls of the dead return to earth for a little while and go by on the wind. The feast of All Saints is followed by the feast of the dead,
Not with the haloed saints would Heaven be
It was the Angel Azrael the Lord God sent below
He is not desolate whose ship is sailing
Jean de Breboeuf, a priest of the Jesuit Order, came to Canada as a missionary to the Indians about the year 1625. He belonged to an old and honourable French family that had given many sons to the army, and was a man of great physical strength, one
Love came to her unsought,
In lonely gardens deserted - unseen -
Infold us with thy peace, dear moon-lit night,
How like a hooded friar, bent and grey,
Oh! I will hold fast to Joy!
Where yesterday rolled long waves of gold
Sing me a song - a song to ease old sorrows,
The Saints of Thy great Church, 0 Christ,
Afar in the turbulent city,
"Thou trumpet made for Shakespeare's lips to blow!"
Down the white ward with slow, unswerving tread
Across the dusty, foot-worn street
He stood alone on Fame's high mountain top,
Hail, little herald! - Art thou then returning
An angel found a daisy where it lay
Silver clock! O silver clock! tell to me the time o' day!
As children gather daisies down green ways
Across the wind-swept spaces of the sky
Who hath a heart courageous
Keen in his blood ran the old mad desire
On this little pool where the sunbeams lie,
We used to fear the lonely road
Up from the templed city of the Jews,
Now cometh October - a nut-brown maid,
Sweet April! from out of the hidden place
Little brown brother, up in the apple tree,
Though I follow a trail to north or south,
Oh, fairy palace of pink and pearl
When hills and plains are powdered white,
When day is ended, and grey twilight flies
Enter the temple beautiful! The house not made with hands!
A toast to thee, 0 dear old year,
If the bird knew how through the wintry weather
Long had she knelt at the Madonna's shrine,
Throughout the sunny day he whistled on his way -
WHO DIED BRAVELY AT NIAGARA, ON THE AFTERNOON OF SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 4TH, 1912.
When April comes with softly shining eyes,
For thee, my small one - trinkets and new toys,