Thy lovely cheek, God guard it From th' evil eye! prays Hafiz;
For wrought it hath to-us-ward All manner good, says Hafiz.

Come; 'tis the time of concord And faith-keeping and friendship:
That which hath past between us From mem'ry's book raze, Hafiz.

What though my lip have drunken Thy heart's blood? Take to bloodwit
A kiss, which all thou'st suffered (And more than all) pays, Hafiz.

Nay, who art thou to cherish The hope of her enjoyment?
Upon her skirts no beggar, God wot, the hand lays, Hafiz.

Since ye have banished Beauty from my soul,
I wander in a faint and drear amaze;
Gone are the ancient, the familiar ways,
Strained the fine bonds of sufferance and control.

The utterness of sorrow none can know
Who have one help, assured, tho' distant far;
One fiery love, concentred to a star—
Night should be sombre that such stars may show.

They venture evil that they little guess,
Who hide that shining mercy from our eyes;
What though it mark a dreamer's paradise?
It is a world 'twixt us and nothingness.

O God, our loving Father, help us
Rightly to remember the birth of Jesus,
That we may share in the song of the
Angels, the gladness of the shepherds
And the worship of the wise men.

Close the door of hate and open the
Door of love all over the world.

Deliver us from evil by the blessing
That Christ brings, and teach us
To be merry with clear hearts.

May the Christmas morning make us happy
To be thy children and the Christmas
Evening bring us to our beds with
Grateful thoughts, forgiving, and
Forgiven, for Jesus' sake. Amen.

When the mists of the twilight
Day's glories displace;
Like a delicate veil
O'er a beautiful face:
When the breath of the roses
First mingles with ours;
And the spirit of Love
Is awake 'mid the flowers:
When starlight and twilight
In Night's bosom meet,
Oh, Love hath no moment,
No meeting so sweet!

When a shade of dejection,
Like twilight appears;
And the cheek of affection
Is star-like with tears!
When the voice of emotion
First trembles to prove
Its truth and devotion—
Its passion and love!

The Lord is in his Holy Place
In all things near and far:
Shekinah of the snow-flake, he,
And Glory of the star,
And Secret of the April land
That stirs the field to flowers,
Whose little tabernacles rise
To hold him through the hours.

He hides himself within the love
Of those whom we love best;
The smiles and tones that make our homes
Are shrines by him possessed;
He tents within the lonely heart,
And shepherds every thought;
We find him not by seeking long,—
We lose him not, unsought.

The listening ear doth Sinai hear,

That seeking Prelude found its unforetold
Unguessed intention, trend;
Though needing no fulfilment, did enfold
This exquisite end.

Bach led his notes up through their delicate slope
Aspiring, so they sound,
And so they were, in some strange ignorant hope
Thus to be crowned.

What deep soft seas beneath this buoyant barque!
What winds to speed this bird!
What impulses to toss this heavenward lark!
Thought—then the word.

Lovely the tune, lovely the unconsciousness
Of him who promised it.
Lovely the years that joined in blessedness

He was a boy when first we met
His eyes were mixed of dew and fire
And on his candid brow was set
The sweetness of a chaste desire.
But in his Veins the pulses beat
Of passion waiting, for its wing,
As ardent veins of summer heat
Throb through the innocence of spring.

As manhood came, his stature grew,
And fiercer burned his restless eyes
Until I trembled, as he drew
From wedded hearts their young disguise.
Like wind-fed flame his ardor rose
And brought, like flame, a stormy rain:
In tumult, sweeter than repose

A sad sweet song at even-tide
Came from the neighb'ring grove;
It was no song of sorrow, nor was it a lay of love,
It was no song of sorrow,
Nor was it a lay of love.
'Twas but a pretty Robin's trill,
With melancholy strain,
Among the leafy branches sung.
They said, portending rain
Among the leafy branches sung, they said, portending rain
The sky was bright with rosy red
And dusky mists were hanging low;
Than that sweet song at even-tide,
No sweeter sadder song we know.

Dear lovely Death
That taketh all things under wing—
Never to kill—
Only to change
Into some other thing
This suffering flesh,
To make it either more or less,
But not again the same—
Dear lovely Death,
Change is thy other name.

What though it please you light my heart with fire
(Heart that is yours, your subject, your domain),
With fire of Furies, not with Love's sweet pain,
To waste me body and bone till life expire!

The ill that others deem too cruel-dire
Is sweet to me—I will not once complain,
For I love not my life, nor hold it fain
Save as to love it pleases your desire.

But yet, if Heaven hath made me, Lady mine,
To be your victim, may it not suffice
To lay my loyal service at your shrine?

'Twere better you should have my service meet