All night the small feet of the rain
Within my garden ran,
And gentle fingers tapped the pane
Until the dawn began.

The rill-like voices called and sang
The slanting roof beside;
“The children of the clouds have come;
Awake! Awake!” they cried.

“Weep no more the drooping rose,
Nor mourn the thirsting tree;
The little children of the storm
Have gained their liberty.”

All night the small feet of the rain
About my garden ran;
Their rill-like voices called and cried
Until the dawn began.

Ye mariners of Spain,
Bend strongly on your oars,
And bring my love again,—
For he lies among the Moors!

Ye galleys fairly built,
Like castles on the sea,
O, great will be your guilt,
If ye bring him not to me!

The wind is blowing strong,—
The breeze will aid your oars;
O, swiftly fly along,—
For he lies among the Moors!

The sweet breeze of the sea
Cools every cheek but mine;
Hot is its breath to me,
As I gaze upon the brine.

Lift up, lift up your sail,
And bend upon your oars;
O, lose not the fair gale,—

Oh, bid the desert blossom as the rose,
For there is not one flower that meets me now;
On all thy fields lie heaped the wintry snows,
And the rough ice encrusts the fruitful bough;
Oh, breathe upon thy ruined vineyard still,
Though like the dead it long unmoved has lain;
Thy breath can with the bloom of Eden fill,
The lifeless clods in verdure clothe again;
Awake, ye slothful! open wide the earth
To the new sun and spirit's quickening rain;
They come to bid the furrows heave in birth,
And strew with roses thick the barren plain;

When life, as opening buds, is sweet,
And golden hopes the spirit greet,
And youth prepares his joys to meet,
Alas! how hard it is to die!

When scarce is seiz'd some valu'd prize,
And duties press, and tender ties
Forbid the soul from earth to rise,
How awful then it is to die!

When, one by one, those ties are torn,
And friend from friend is snatched forlorn,
And man is left alone to mourn,
Ah! then, how easy 'tis to die!

When faith is strong, and conscience clear,
And words of peace the spirit cheer,

Flower unblown; a book unread; A
A tree with fruit unharvested;
A path untrod; a house whose rooms
Lack yet the heart's divine perfumes:
A landscape whose wide border lies
In silent shade, 'neath silent skies;
A treasure with its gifts concealed—
This is the year that for you waits
Beyond tomorrow's mystic gates.

Flower unblown; a book unread; A
A tree with fruit unharvested;
A path untrod; a house whose rooms
Lack yet the heart's divine perfumes:
A landscape whose wide border lies
In silent shade, 'neath silent skies;

The foundations of Philosophic Doubt
Are based on this single premiss:
‘Shall we be able to get out
To Wimbledon in time for tennis?

The room was low and small and kind;
And in its cupboard old,
The shells were set out to my mind;
The cups I loved with rims of gold.

Then, with that good gift which she had,
My mother showed at will,
David, the ruddy Syrian lad,
With his few sheep upon a hill;

A shop down a rude country street,
The chips strewn on the floor,
And faintly keen across the heat;
The simple kinsfolk at the door;

Mary amid the homely din,
As slim as violet;
The little Jesus just within,
About His father's business set.

When one is past, another care we have,
Thus woe succeeds a woe; as wave a wave.

What fier encreaste by rage of wynde
or burnynge mowntayne can yow finde
That doth exceede my flamynge ghoste
what Occean underneath the Skies
Where waves and Billowes more doo ryse
then in the love where I am toste

The springe yeelds nott so many flowers
nor dropps of rayne in Aprill showers
Nor harvest yeelds more ripned graines
nor heaven it self more Starres off lighte
Nor more straunge dreames doo passe the night
then I for yow doo suffer paynes

Theis griefs that on our mynds doo praye
by lesse and lesse doo weare awaye

They have gone with a people's hopes and prayers,
Out over the eastern brine,
To strike for the might of Britain's right,
This bit of “the thin red line.”

And over our loyal land to-night,
Where the stars of our freedom shine,
From all true hearts the prayer goes up
For our bit of “the thin red line.”

They have gone to fight the freeman's fight,
For our far-off kith and kin;
Brothers of our own blood and breed,
In the fight where the right must win:

For the sacred cause of freedom's laws,
To win the glad release