Virna Sheard

Oh haste, my Sweet! Impatient now I wait, The crescent moon swings low, it groweth late, A night bird sings, of Life, and Love, and Fate!

Lord of all Life! When my hours are done, Take me and make me anew - And give me back to the earth and the sun,

0 heart of mine - if I were but a swallow - A thing so fearless, swift of flight, and free - On wings unwearied I would find and follow

Love maketh its own summer time, 'Tis June, Love, when we are together, And little I care for the frost in the air,

Love reckons not by time - its May days of delight Are swifter than the falling stars that pass beyond our sight. Love reckons not by time - its moments of despair

I love red poppies! Imperial red poppies! Sun-worshippers are they; Gladly as trees live through a hundred summers

'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow, To every vagrant passing breeze they dip a courtesy low, 'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here, you know.

As pearls slip off a silken string and fall into the sea, These rounded summer days fall back into eternity. Into the deep from whence they came; into the mystery -

Little honey baby, shet yo' eyes up tight; - (Shadow-man is comin' from de moon!) - You's as sweet as roses if dey is so pink an white;

April! April! April! With a mist of green on the trees - And a scent of the warm brown broken earth

Turn to thy window in the silver hour That day comes stepping down the hills of night, Infolded as the leaves infold a flower

Turn Thou the key upon our thoughts, dear Lord, And let us sleep; Give us our portion of forgetfulness,

Just above the boxes and where the high lights fall Looketh down a carven face from out the gilded wall. Van Dyke beard and broidered ruff silently confess

With all the little children, far and near, God wot! to-day we'll sing a song of cheer! To rosy lips and eyes, that know not guile,

Give thanks, my soul, for the things that are free! The blue of the sky, the shade of a tree, And the unowned leagues of the shining sea.

Oh! little pink and white god of love, With your tender smiling mouth, And eyes as blue as the blue above,

When the mist drives past and the wind blows high, And the harbour lights are dim - See where they circle, and dip and fly,

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, when for a day only the sound of the Miserere is heard throughout the cities of Italy. Hark! Hark to the wind! 'Tis the night, they say, When all souls come back from the far away -

Not with the haloed saints would Heaven be For such as I; Who have not reached to their serenity

It was the Angel Azrael the Lord God sent below At midnight, into every house in Egypt, long ago - 0 long, and long ago.

He is not desolate whose ship is sailing Over the mystery of an unknown sea, For some great love with faithfulness unfailing

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 who possessed an iron will, that was yet combined with sweetness and gentleness of temper. He lived with the Indians for many years, and spoke the dialects of different tribes, though his mission was chiefly to the Hurons. By them he was much beloved. At the time of the uprising of the Iroquois in 1649, there was a massacre of the Hurons at the little mission village of St. Louis upon the shores of Georgian Bay. There Jean de Breboeuf, refusing to leave his people, met death by torture at the hands of the conquering Iroquois. Lalement, his friend, a priest of the same order, was also martyred by these Indians upon the same day, March 16th, 1649.

Love came to her unsought, Love served her many ways, And patiently Love followed her

In lonely gardens deserted - unseen - Oh! lovely lilacs of purple and white, You are dipping down through a mist of green;

Infold us with thy peace, dear moon-lit night, And let thy silver silence wrap us round Till we forget the city's dazzling light,

How like a hooded friar, bent and grey, Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray Doth sad November pass upon his way.

Oh! I will hold fast to Joy! I will not let him depart - He shall close his beautiful rainbow wings

Where yesterday rolled long waves of gold Beneath the burnished blue of the sky, A silver-white sea lies still and cold,

Sing me a song - a song to ease old sorrows, And dull the edge of care - A song of Hope to ring through all the morrows

The Saints of Thy great Church, 0 Christ, How vast their numbers be - On holy page and ancient scroll

Afar in the turbulent city, In a hive where men make gold, He stood at his loom from dawn to dark,

"Thou trumpet made for Shakespeare's lips to blow!" No more for thee the music and the lights, Thy magic may no more win smile nor frown;

Down the white ward with slow, unswerving tread He came ere break of day - A cowl was drawn about his down-bent head,

Across the dusty, foot-worn street Unblessed of flower or tree, Faint and far-off - there ever sounds

He stood alone on Fame's high mountain top, His hands at rest, his forehead bound with bay; And yet he watched with eyes unsatisfied

Hail, little herald! - Art thou then returning From summer lands, this wild and wind-torn day? Hast brought the word for which our hearts are yearning,

An angel found a daisy where it lay On Heaven's highroad of transparent gold, And, turning to one near, he said, "I pray,

Silver clock! O silver clock! tell to me the time o' day! Is there yet a little hour left for us to work and play? Tell me when the sun will set - tiny globe of silver-grey.

As children gather daisies down green ways Mid butterflies and bees, To-day across the meadows of past days

Across the wind-swept spaces of the sky The harp of all the world is hung on high, And through its shining strings the swallows fly.

Who hath a heart courageous Will fight with right good cheer; For well may he his foes out-face

Keen in his blood ran the old mad desire To right the world's wrongs and champion truth; Deep in his eyes shone a heaven-lit fire,

On this little pool where the sunbeams lie, This tawny gold ring where the shadows die, God doth enamel the blue of His sky.

We used to fear the lonely road That twisted round the hill; It dipped down to the river-way,

Up from the templed city of the Jews, The road ran straight and white To Jericho, the City of the Palms,

Now cometh October - a nut-brown maid, Who in robes of crimson and gold arrayed Hath taken the king's highway!

Sweet April! from out of the hidden place Where you keep your green and gold, We pray thee to bring us a gift of grace,

Little brown brother, up in the apple tree, High on its blossom-rimmed branches aswing, Here where I listen earth-bound, it seems to me

Though I follow a trail to north or south, Though I travel east or west, There's a little house on a quiet road

Oh, fairy palace of pink and pearl Frescoed with filigree silver-white, Down in the silence beneath the sea

When hills and plains are powdered white, And bitter cold the north wind blows, Upon my window in the night

When day is ended, and grey twilight flies On silent wings across the tired land, The slumber angel cometh from the skies -

Enter the temple beautiful! The house not made with hands! Rain-washed and green, wind-swept and clean, Beneath the blue it stands,

A toast to thee, 0 dear old year, While the last moments fly, A toast to thy sweet memory -

If the bird knew how through the wintry weather An empty nest would swing by day and night, It would not weave the strands so close together

Long had she knelt at the Madonna's shrine, With the empty chapel, cold and grey, Telling her beads, while grief with marring line

Throughout the sunny day he whistled on his way - Oh high and low, and gay and sweet, The melody rang down the street,

WHO DIED BRAVELY AT NIAGARA, ON THE AFTERNOON OF SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 4TH, 1912. No tears for thee, no tears, or sighs, Or breaking heart -

When April comes with softly shining eyes, And daffodils bound in her wind-blown hair, Oh, she will coax all clouds from out the skies,

For thee, my small one - trinkets and new toys, The wine of life and all its keenest joys, When Christmas comes.