Nothing is so beautiful as fall,

The sky’s clear color gleams a purer blue,

The sun glows white as fountain foam, and all

The winds of heaven wake the air anew.

Through leafy awnings spreads a slow, bright fire,

Transforming them to ruby, topaz, gold,

And scatters them from every treetop spire,

In shining, spinning fragments they unfold.

Thus robed in gold and jewels, old Mother Earth

Brings from her deep heart living treasure stores,

And all her children raise a song of mirth;

On racing winds to bounteous heaven it soars.

Creation in exultant symphony

Rings with the songs that rise unceasingly!

Sometimes when the rain pounds hard

And the sky hangs heavy above,

I sink down by the side of the road,

Rest my bleeding feet

And let the rain run over me.

I don’t want to go on,

But there’s no way to go back

And no point turning aside.

So I lie on the soft, damp earth,

Absorb its stillness.

I wait for the blood to wash off my feet.

Slowly the rain softens,

A kind wind stirs.

Slowly life breathes back into my limbs,

I don’t know how.

On the horizon, past the rain clouds,

Appears a crack of light.

I fix it as my mark,

Straighten myself and move on.

We’re told this life is like a storied mountain.

We’ve seen mountains steeped in mist.

In mist things emerge and fade,

shift and metamorphose.

Each scene of our climb is yielded

only for a minute.

And even we ourselves are not what we were,

nor what we will be.

It’s easy to grieve what’s left behind,

easy to fear what comes ahead,

lonely in this pocket in the mist.

Still one thing stays fixed —

a light-speck burning at the peak,

burning beyond the mist,

burning at the trail’s end.

It tells us the trail has an end.

There, from the summit,

we look for a different view.

There, in the light,

the climber can see the trail below

as he never saw it then.

There all the scattered things are brought together.

The mists obscure the burning speck,

yet can’t quench it,

can’t bar us from desiring it.

Hope is the end of the trail,

the summit where air is clear.

Hope is the light burning above the mist.

See you there.

Our age, in all its folly, thinks

That she who chooses hearth and home life shrinks

From fullness of adventure, of life’s glory,

That hers is but a dull, short story.

But were the truth to once be seen,

They’d hail her as a champion, a warrior queen.

.

Her kingdom may be small, but oh, it’s deep,

And so wild its keepers can take but little sleep.

Day by mad day, chaos’s flooding force

Into her realm presses its course;

With patient vigil and with shrewd stratagem

That tide she finds new ways to turn or stem.

Amid the pressing jungle, for the wild things

She raises a fair dwelling, and to it brings

All things needful. This castle she looks after

Armed with her mighty weapons, love and laughter.

.

Warriors of more renown, on fields of blood,

May fight for worthy ends, and maybe do some good,

And yet there’s sorrow in a trade

That must destroy so much that God has made.

But the queen of the hearth fights not as they;

Her tactics, toils, valor are not to slay

But to bring forth life, make it thrive and grow,

To lead the Wild Things the way they ought to go.

.

And though on this dim earth no man may know nor sing

Her labors, deeds, adventures, great heart unwavering,

In courts beyond, where every story will be known,

Shall angel-minstrels tell the tale of the queen of hearth and home.

The rising, crashing waves of dark

Come rushing up around

The tiny island where we stand,

A scrap of battered ground.

Their brutal might tears round our feet,

A ravenous death-tide,

And everything that’s made of sand

Goes washing down the side.

Beset upon this barren rock,

A small and piteous sight,

Yet will we stand and never fear

The monstrous waves of night.

For all they thunder, thrash and rage,

And pound the stony beach,

The truest object of their hate

Is ever out of reach.

Above the waves, above the storm,

It ever shines the same,

And fills our eyes with certain light,

The blazing Easter flame.

The wind comes driving round our heads

And screaming in our ears

Of terror, pain, and emptiness—

All man’s heart hates and fears.

Its voiceless wails bid us give up

Our long and lonely stand

And go the same dark way as all

That’s only made of sand.

Though all but deafened by its blast,

Still if we heed, we hear

Another sound persistently

Pierce all the rush of fear.

‘Tis quieter, but stronger too,

And speaks of greater things,

Whose might and splendor yield naught

To all the tempest brings.

Above the wind, above the storm,

It rises clear and strong,

And fills our spirits’ inner ears,

The soaring Easter song.

O hearts that blow in brutal blasts

Or ride the roiling waves,

Come take your stand upon the rock

That still endures and saves!

Though fury of the floods and gale

May with no respite beat,

And though our tears fall bitterly,

Yet will our song be sweet.

Yes, and its sweetness will be sure,

For every storm must end,

And there is a shining sky above

Where all lights rise and blend.

And the Light of the shining sky above

Has taken on the night

And won a way for each and all

To shores with peace alight.

Above the shadows of the storm,

His glorious grace is poured,

His Presence changes everything—

The living Easter Lord!

Originally published in Wonder magazine

The question as I near this door

Is, do I even dare

To enter past it any more,

When ghosts await me there?

Not such as rise from frozen fear

That heroes laugh to scorn,

Nay these, by wearing faces dear,

Draw blood with sorrow’s thorn.

My heart still thirsts in tired quest

For these beloved gone;

Shades born of longing promise rest

But leave me still alone.

Each day I see these visions of

Where it seems they should be,

Faces of those whom I still love,

And yearn again to see.

Ah ghosts of grief! how can it be

That joys so sweet and pure

Become, as living memory,

Most bitter to endure?

These shades of dear ones ne’er console,

Yet I can’t bid them fly,

For each one’s past bonds with his soul,

Love’s imprint does not die.

My God! this love is all from Thee,

Thy Spirit joined our hearts,

Let Him then all our comfort be

While distance still us parts!

Let Him who brought our bond to birth

Now keep it warm and strong,

Be our communion ‘cross the earth,

Be Thyself us among!

Keep me for them, and them for me,

And make our love, in small,

Thy mighty sun, bright Trinity,

Untouched and over all;

Lord, pain will ne’er us overwhelm

With ghosts of memory,

If in Thy single Heart we dwell

In sweet reality.

Now will I enter through this door,

Be mem’ry e’er so keen,

And should I weep there any more,
God’s light will intervene,

Illumining a landscape dim

To eyes of fleshly ken,

Where all God’s own are joined in Him

Who needs no where nor when.

Earth’s activity is stilled;
houses shut their curtained eyes;
men and beasts and birds in silence hide.
Day’s fire faded, all is soft and cool,
and the world’s colored in dark grays,
deep-water-blues, dim purples, and a bright silver,
earth submerged in a deep, serene sea.

No noise, save insects’ rasping harmony,
And then the wind flows in a light stream,
Bearing fragrance of blossom and leaf,
Turning grass to waves,
Setting leaves to ageless, quivering dance.
They whisper, whisper all the night,
repeating secrets, each to each,
in hidden tongues of mother earth.

Fireflies’ silent calls of light
fill shadows all around,
a storm of golden flash and glitter,
earth’s dark alive with wild, heavenly sparks.
And on high, in the heavens,
in the shadowed, solemn blue,
through gauze of clouds the glowing hosts
of brilliant stars in purest white
as lights of some empyrean realm
still veiled from mortal sight.

Enthroned among them in its radiance,
the moon floats o’er dim night,
to bring it some pale, cool portion
of the sun’s white glory,
a mirror of a day elsewhere.
This dream-light gleams o’er all the earth,
soft silver-white shimmer on field, tree, and wall,
all at rest in quiet and in gentle half-light.

Earth lies asleep, in a dream of heaven,
of a night that will not be dark,
but lovely as morning’s light.

Away amidst the desert wastes,
Underneath a furnace sun,
Great stones stand, reaching upward from the plains,
While strong winds, streaming free across bare land,
Make sharp, hard currents of the sand
And scourge the towering rocks continually,
Smoothing, shaping, sculpting,
Their impassioned rush fashioning something new,
Monuments of firm, enduring glory
From Nature’s hard and patient hand.

Walking the burnt, bare wilderness of self-denial
Beneath the Spirit’s ineffable fire,
Our spirits worn and chiseled by the swirling, sandy winds
Of trials that with love we bear,
Yet may joy’s deep torrent through us flow,
For our great Sculptor guides the wind,
And plies it, not to wear us all away,
But that our sculpted souls might take the shape—
From earthly roughness hewn to glorious shape—
Of that which they were always meant to be.

November wind flies swift and strong and cool
Across the crystalline blue lake of sky,
And strews without a clear design or rule
The leaves that so magnificently die.

As splendidly as for a bridal trail,
They tumble, orange, pale gold, spicy red,
And in a gentle tribute lightly sail
Around these stones that mark the sleeping dead.

Some, like small towers, witnessing the losses
Of those who could spare half a fortune’s worth;
Some, sweetly carved with angels or with crosses;
Some, lowly, worn, and sunk into the earth;

But over all, a solemn silence lies,
Thick, heavy, peaceful, like a holy veil,
Unbroken by vain fears and stormy sighs
That thunder round the earth’s embattled pale.

Here, no one worries any more if life
Ne’er granted them success or wealth or fame,
Thinks on the outcome of their weary strife,
Minds mortal talk—to them, ‘tis all the same.

One thing alone is of importance here:
Did these souls, sprung from out the Father’s hand,
Direct their flight up through earth’s little sphere
Home toward His light, the destiny He planned?

If so, they have no more to grieve or dread;
Their earthly quest fulfilled, they now are free,
Or will be soon, for even to the dead
He grants the grace to reach full purity.

And whether plunged in His ecstatic sea
Or passing first through purifying rain,
They’ve gained the priceless pearl, eternity
In His embrace—for which all loss is gain.

Then, too, they rest awaiting even more,
Full, endless life not only for the soul,
For ‘tis their Lord’s design unaltered for
Man’s flesh and spirit that they form one whole.

The day will dawn; the veil o’er all their tombs
Will by a hand on high be rent asunder;
His own will rise as from some poor bedrooms,
Ring out their grateful praise while angels wonder.

One day I too will lie beneath this field,
Desires and fears of mortal life long gone;
What then I’ll find and be remains concealed,
And yet it’s pleasant to reflect upon,

That in my tangled life, the only care
That won’t be borne leaf-like on winds of time
Is following the souls gone safely there,
True home, true life, dear country, hope sublime.

So now I kneel upon their sacred ground,
My mortal mind half grasping all of this,
And lift my suffrage for those laid all round,
To speed their passage to their Father’s bliss.

O great Redeemer, by Whose gift we hold
A hope so full of immortality,
Grant them, and us, when flesh’s fire grows cold,
Your unveiled Face for evermore to see!