I

On the surface, foam and roar,
Restless heave and passionate dash,
Shingle rattle along the shore,
Gathering boom and thundering crash.

Under the surface, soft green light,
A hush of peace and an endless calm,
Winds and waves, from a choral height,
Falling sweet as a far-off psalm.

On the surface, swell and swirl,
Tossing weed and drifting waif,
Broken spars that the mad waves whirl,
Where wreck-watching rocks they chafe.

Under the surface, loveliest forms,
Feathery fronds with crimson curl,

The rainbows all lie crumpled on these hills,
The red dawns scattered on their colored sills.
These hills have caught the lightning in its flight,
Caught colors from the skies of day and night
And shine with shattered stars and suns; they hold
Dyed yellow, red and purple, blue and gold.

Red roses seem within their marble blown,
A painted garden chiseled in the stone;
The rose and violet trickling through their veins,
Where they drop brilliant curtains to the plains —
A ramp of rock and granite, jeweled and brightening,

The rainbow arches in the sky,
But in the earth it ends;
But if you ask the reason why,
They'll tell you: “That depends.”

It never comes without the rain,
Nor goes without the sun;
But though you try with might and main,
You'll never catch me one.

Perhaps you'll see it once a year,
Perhaps you'll say: “No, twice”;
But every time it does appear,
It's very clean and nice.

If I were God, I'd like to win
At sun-and-moon croquet:
I'd drive the rainbow-wickets in
And ask someone to play.

If thou could'st empty all thy self of self
Like to a shell dishabited,
Than might He find thee on the ocean shelf
And say — " This is not dead, "
And fill thee with Himself instead;
But thou art all replete with very thou
And hast such shrewd activity,
That when He comes He says: " This is enow
Unto itself; 'twere better let it be,
It is so small and full, there is no room for Me. "

Rain , rain — fall, fall,
In a heavy screen —
That my lover be not seen!

Wind, wind, — blow, blow,
Till the leaves are stirred —
That my lover be not heard!

Storm, storm, — rage, rage,
Like a war around —
That my lover be not found!

. . . Lark, lark, — hush . . . hush . . .
Softer music make —
That my lover may not wake . . .

Rain! rain!
For the growing grain,
For the high white mesa, the pale wide plain!
To the gods that fly
The clouds in the sky
Child of the Snake Woman, run with our cry!
Rain! rain!
For the thirsting plain,
For the sad, pale melon, the squash, and the grain!
Our prayer in your breast,
Go forth to the west,
The east, south, north, with your soft skin pressed
Down hard on the sand
Of our dry, harsh land,
That the gods may see that you bear the brand
Of the woeful need
Of the plant and the seed:

XVIII

The rain, it streams on stone and hillock,
The boot clings to the clay.
Since all is done that's due and right
Let's home; and now, my lad, good-night,
For I must turn away.

Good-night, my lad, for nought's eternal,
No league of ours, for sure.
To-morrow I shall miss you less,
And ache of heart and heaviness
Are things that time should cure.

Over the hill the highway marches

Magdalene at Michael's gate
Tirled at the pin;
On Joseph's thorn sang the blackbird,
" Let her in! Let her in!"

" Hast thou seen the wounds?" said Michael
" Know'st thou thy sin?"
" It is evening, evening," sang the blackbird,
" Let her in! Let her in!"

" Yes, I have seen the wounds,
And I know my sin."
" She knows it well, well, well," sung the blackbird,
" Let her in! Let her in!"

" Thou bringest no offerings," said Michael.
" Nought save sin."

The rain is plashing on my sill,
But all the winds of Heaven are still;
And so it falls with that dull sound
Which thrills us in the church-yard ground,
When the first spadeful drops like lead
Upon the coffin of the dead.
Beyond my streaming window-pane,
I cannot see the neighboring vane,
Yet from its old familiar tower
The bell comes, muffled, through the shower.
What strange and unsuspected link
Of feeling touched, has made me think —
While with a vacant soul and eye
I watch that gray and stony sky —

Beneath the cross of Jesus
I fain would take my stand,
The shadow of a mighty Rock
Within a weary land;
A home within the wilderness,
A rest upon the way,
From the burning of the noontide heat,
And the burden of the day.

Upon the cross of Jesus
Mine eye at times can see
The very dying form of One
Who suffered there for me:
And from my stricken heart with tears
Two wonders I confess,
The wonders of redeeming love
And my own worthlessness.

I take, O cross, thy shadow,
For my abiding place: