Still am I haunting Thy door with my prayers; Still they are panting Up thy steep stairs! Wouldst thou not rather

THE song birds that come to me ni… Fly oft away and vanish if I slee… Nor to my fowling-net will one ret… Is the thing ever ours we cannot k… But their souls go not out into th…

They were parted then at last? Was it duty, or force, or fate? Or did a worldly blast Blow-to the meeting-gate? An old, short story is this!

‘Shew us the Father.’ Chiming sta… And lives that fit the worlds, and… A Thought that holds them up reve… A Wisdom we have been made wise t… And, looking out from sweetest Na…

Whan Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed The lift was lowerin dreary, The sun he wadna raise his heid, The win’ blew laich and eerie. In’s pooch he had a plack or twa–

Father, I cry to thee for bread With hungred longing, eager prayer… Thou hear’st, and givest me instea… More hunger and a half-despair. 0 Lord, how long? My days decline…

Lawrence, what though the world be… And twilight cool thy potent day i… The sun, beneath the round earth s… All the night through, sleepless a… Oh, be thy spirit faithful as the…

A brown bird sang on a blossomy tr… Sang in the moonshine, merrily, Three little songs, one, two, and… A song for his wife, for himself,… He sang for his wife, sang low, sa…

‘Traveller, what lies over the hil… Traveller, tell to me: Tip-toe-high on the window-sill Over I cannot see.’ ‘My child, a valley green lies the…

Here stands a giant stone from who… Comes down the sounding water: let… Till every sense of man and human… Is wrecked and quenched for ever,… Into the whirl of time, and withou…

When thy heart, love-filled, grows… And eternal bliss looks nearer, Ask thy heart, nor show it favour, Is the gift or giver dearer? Love, love on; love higher, deeper…

The Year Of The Trouble In Lanc… The skies are pale, the trees are… The earth is dull and old; The frost is glittering as if The very sun were cold.

I lay and dreamed. The master cam… In his old woven dress; I stood in joy, and yet in shame, Oppressed with earthliness. He stretched his arms, and gently…

‘Death, whaur do ye bide, auld De… ‘I bide in ilka breath,’ Quo’ Death; ‘No i’ the pyramids, No whaur the wormie rids

As to her child a mother calls, ‘Come to me, child; come near!’ Calling, in silent intervals, The Master’s voice I hear. But does he call me verily?