Bees in Amber

Yea, we may hope!
For we are seeds,
Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming.
Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting,
His loving care
May find some use for even a humble tare.

We know not what we shall be--only this--
That we shall be made like Him--as He is.

WHIRRING WHEELS

Lord, when on my bed I lie,
Sleepless, unto Thee I'll cry;
When my brain works overmuch,
Stay the wheels with Thy soft touch.

Just a quiet thought of Thee,
And of Thy sweet charity,--
Just a little prayer, and then
I will turn to sleep again.

THE BELLS OF YS

When the Bells of Ys rang softly,--softly,

Soft--and sweet--and low,
Not a sound was heard in the old gray town,
As the silvery tones came floating down,