Hand in pulling hand amid

Fear no dreams have known, Helen ran with me, she did, Helen all alone!

When the Horror passing speech
Hunted us along,

Each laid hold on each, and each
Found the other strong.
In the teeth of Things forbid
And Reason overthrown,
Helen stood by me, she did,

Helen all alone!

When, at last, we heard those Fires

Dull and die away,

When, at last, our linked desires
Dragged us up to day;

When, at last, our souls were rid
Of what that Night had shown,
Helen passed from me, she did,
Helen all alone!

Let her go and find a mate,
As I will find a bride,
Knowing naught of Limbo Gate
Or Who are penned inside.
There is knowledge God forbid
More than one should own.
So Helen went from me, she did,
Oh my soul, be glad she did!
Helen all alone!

THE WIDOWER

FOR a season there must be pain-
For a little, little space

I shall lose the sight of her face,
Take back the old life again
While She is at rest in her place.

For a season this pain must endure,
For a little, little while

I shall sigh more often than smile
Till Time shall work me a cure,
And the pitiful days beguile.

For that season we must be apart,
For a little length of years,
Till my life's last hour nears,
And, above the beat of my heart,
I hear Her voice in my ears.

But I shall not understand-
Being set on some later love,
Shall not know her for whom I strove,
Till she reach me forth her hand,
Saying, "Who but I have the right?"
And out of a troubled night

Shall draw me safe to the land.

THE PRAYER OF MIRIAM COHEN

FROM the wheel and the drift of Things

Deliver us, Good Lord,

And we will face the wrath of Kings
The faggot and the sword!

Lay not Thy Works before our eyes
Nor vex us with Thy Wars

Lest we should feel the straining skies
O'ertrod by trampling stars.

Hold us secure behind the gates

Of saving flesh and bone,

Lest we should dream what Dream awaits

The soul escaped alone.

Thy Path, Thy Purposes conceal

From our beleaguered realm,

Lest any shattering whisper steal
Upon us and o'erwhelm.

A veil 'twixt us and Thee, Good Lord,
A veil 'twixt us and Thee,

Lest we should hear too clear, too clear,
And unto madness see!

THE COMFORTERS

UNTIL thy feet have trod the Road
Advise not wayside folk,

Nor till thy back has borne the Load
Break in upon the broke.

Chase not with undesired largesse
Of sympathy the heart

Which, knowing her own bitterness,
Presumes to dwell apart.

Employ not that glad hand to raise
The God-forgotten head

To Heaven, and all the neighbours' gaze
Cover thy mouth instead.

The quivering chin, the bitten lip,
The cold and sweating brow,
Later may yearn for fellowship—
Not now, you ass, not now!

Time, not thy ne'er so timely speech,

Life, not thy views thereon, Shall furnish or deny to each His consolation.

Or, if impelled to interfere,
Exhort, uplift, advise,
Lend not a base, betraying ear
To all the victim's cries.

Only the Lord can understand
When those first pangs begin,
How much is reflex action and
How much is really sin.

E'en from good words thyself refrain,

And tremblingly admit

There is no anodyne for pain

Except the shock of it.

So, when thine own dark hour shall fall,

Unchallenged canst thou say:

"I never worried you at all,

For God's sake go away!"

THE SONG OF THE LITTLE HUNTER

ERE Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People

cry,

Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,

Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh-
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
And the whisper spreads and widens far and near.
And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now-
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

Ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks are ribbed with light,

When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear, Comes a breathing hard behind thee-snuffle-snuffle through the night

It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go; In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear!

But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek

It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered pine-trees fall,

When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer, Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all

It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap

Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clearBut thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy

Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter-this is Fear!