Twenty

saint within a niche--
A strait and narrow niche--you hide,
And weave a veil about you, which
Can turn our steel, Saint Bride, Saint Bride.

The eyes of coarse and pond'rous man
Are sceptic and satirical.
"_What, little saint, and still you scan
Old heaven for that miracle?_"
Oh heart deceived, yet harmèd not,
Child-widow of a truth that died,
Bearer in mind of things forgot,
Bride of a dream, Saint Bride, Saint Bride.

About you and about you thunders
The wise young public on its 'bus,
Exploding all your faery blunders,
Explaining neatly--"_Thus and thus
Hath science banished heaven now,
And see--your Groom is crucified--_"
On heaven's breast you lean your brow
And laugh, and love--Saint Bride, Saint Bride.

THE SLAVE OF GOD

The finest fruit God ever made
Hangs from the Tree of Heaven blue.
It hangs above the steel sea blade
That cuts the world's great globe in two.

The keen