From Bethlehem to Calvary the Savior's journey lay;
Doubt, unbelief, scorn, fear and hate beset Him day by day,
But in His heart He bore God's love that brightened all the way.

O'er the Judean hills He walked, serene and brave of soul,
Seeking the beaten paths of men, touching and making whole,
Dying at last for love of man, on Calvary's darkened knoll.

He went with patient step and slow, as one who scatters seed;
Like a fierce hunger in His heart He felt the world's great need,
And the negations Moses gave He changed to loving deed.

Lovely ter of lovely eye,
Why dost thou me so wo?
Sorful ter of sorful eye,
Thou brekst myn herte a-two.

Thou sikest sore,
Thy sorwe is more
Than mannes mouth may telle;
Thou singest of sorwe
Mankin to borwe
Out of the pit of helle.

I proud and kene,
Thou meke and clene
Withouten wo or wile;
Thou art ded for me,
And I live through thee —
So blissed be that while! ...

Thyn herte is rent,
Thy body is bent
Upon the roode-tree;
The weder is went,
The devel is shent,

The fog is freezing on the trees and shrubs;
Each tendril of the larch is edged with lace;
The tiniest twigs are filigreed with frost;
There is faint movement through an open space —
And lovely white ghosts wake mysteriously
Like white thoughts smiling through gray memory.

Flowers I would bring if flowers could make thee fairer,
And music, if the Muse were dear to thee;
(For loving these would make thee love the bearer)
But sweetest songs forget their melody,
And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:
A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she
Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her,
Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry.
Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee,
What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee;
When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee,

Flower , that I hold in my hand,
Waxen and white and unwoful,
Perfect with your race's lovely perfection,
Pure as the dream of a child just descended from the heavens,
Chaste as the thought of the maid on whose sight first shines the glow of love's planet,
Trustful as a boy who holds the world in hands of power unrelaxing,
Flower, graceful, lovely,
Lo! I give you to the waves that roll across the ocean's expanses.

I watch you like a star on the waters,
I watch you floating away in the distance;
The ocean gives you reception and dwelling,

Flow, O my tears, to mitigate my sorrow!
Alas, a flood will not suffice me:
My store of tears is spent, and who a tear can borrow?
When human pity flies me,
Then, O my soul, betake thee
To God by prayer,
Whose love did ne'er

A Folk Poem

Fisher, in your bright bark rowing,
Whither fishing are you going?
  All is lovely, all is lovely,
  All is lovely, fisherman.

See you not that last star hiding
In a cloud, as you are riding?
  Take your sail in, take your sail in,
  Take your sail in, fisherman.

If your net you are entangling,
Sail and oar soon will be dangling.
  O be wary, O be wary,
  O be wary, fisherman.

Danger lurks for him who listens
Where the singing mermaid glistens,
  Gaze not on her, gaze not on her,

The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book;
And the South Wind, washing through the room,
Makes the candles quiver.
My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,
And I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots
Outside, in the night.
Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love?

‘A featherd fowl 's in your orchard, father,
O dear, but it sings sweet!
What would I give, my father dear,
That bonnie bird to meet!’
What would I give, etc.

‘O hold your tongue, my daughter Mary,
Let a' your folly be;
There 's six Scots lords tomorrow, child,
That will a' dine wi me,
And ye maun serve them a', Mary,
As 't were for meat and fee.’

She served them up, sae has she down,
The footmen a' the same,
But her mind was aye on Love Robbie,
Stood out below the rain.

A hundred pun o pennies roun,
Tied in a towel so sma,

Farewell, Love, and all thy laws for ever:
Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more;
Senec and Plato call me from thy lore,
To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavour.
In blind error when I did persever,

Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh ay so sore,
Hath taught me to set in trifles no store,
And scape forth, since liberty is lever.
Therefore, farewell: go trouble younger hearts,
And in me claim no more authority;
With idle youth go use thy property,
And thereon spend thy many brittle darts;
For hitherto though I have lost all my time,