Galahad . . . knight who perished . . . awaken again,

Teach us to fight for immaculate ways among men.

Soldiers fantastic, we pray to the star of the sea,

We pray to the mother of God that the bound may be free.

Rose-crowned lady from heaven, give us thy grace,

Help us the intricate, desperate battle to face

Till the leer of the trader is seen nevermore in the land,

Till we bring every maid of the age to one sheltering hand.

Ah, they are priceless, the pale and the ivory and red!

Breathless we gaze on the curls of each glorious head!

Arm them with strength mediaeval, thy marvellous dower,

Blast now their tempters, shelter their steps with thy power.

Leave not life's fairest to perish -- strangers to thee,

Let not the weakest be shipwrecked, oh, star of the sea!

The Leaden-eyed

Let not young souls be smothered out before

They do quaint deeds and fully flaunt their pride.

It is the world's one crime its babes grow dull,

Its poor are ox-like, limp and leaden-eyed.

Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly,

Not that they sow, but that they seldom reap,

Not that they serve, but have no gods to serve,

Not that they die, but that they die like sheep.

An Indian Summer Day on the Prairie

(In the Beginning)

The sun is a huntress young,

The sun is a red, red joy,

The sun is an Indian girl,

Of the tribe of the Illinois.


The sun is a smouldering fire,

That creeps through the high gray plain,

And leaves not a bush of cloud

To blossom with flowers of rain.


The sun is a wounded deer,

That treads pale grass in the skies,

Shaking his golden horns,

Flashing his baleful eyes.


The sun is an eagle old,

There in the windless west.

Atop of the spirit-cliffs

He builds him a crimson nest.

The Hearth Eternal

There dwelt a widow learned and devout,

Behind our hamlet on the eastern hill.

Three sons she had, who went to find the world.

They promised to return, but wandered still.

The cities used them well, they won their way,

Rich gifts they sent, to still their mother's sighs.

Worn out with honors, and apart from her,

They died as many a self-made exile dies.

The mother had a hearth that would not quench,

The deathless embers fought the creeping gloom.

She said to us who came with wondering eyes --

"This is a magic fire, a magic room."

The pine burned out, but still the coals glowed on,

Her grave grew old beneath the pear-tree shade,

And yet her crumbling home enshrined the light.

The neighbors peering in were half afraid.

Then sturdy beggars, needing fagots, came,

One at a time, and stole the walls, and floor.

They left a naked stone, but how it blazed!

And in the thunderstorm it flared the more.

And now it was that men were heard to say,

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