Questions & Answers
Who loves not June, Is out of tune With love and God; The rose his rival reigns, The stars reject his pains, His home the clod! And yet I trow, When sweet rondeau Doth play a part, The curtain drops on June, Veiled is the modest moon, Hushed is the heart.
The flowers of June The gates of memory unbar: The flowers of June Such old-time harmonies re tune, I fain would keep the gates ajar,— So full of sweet enchantment are The flowers of June. — James T.
Close up the ranks my comrades, Hear ye not the trumpets' call? Fear not, for God is with thee, His strength and power are all. The prophet has arisen, To call the remnant home; Their frankincense they're bringing,— From distant lands they come.
I Read when God would answer once for all The question, What is love?—that Woman was His thought expressed. I knew that it was true, But long I looked for one who had rent the veil Of earthly sense and found it so; who saw In heaven's clear light, her heart was God's own heart In perfect full expression.
Our Holy Cause in concord stands, Majestic, blest, serene. And from Her Horeb height commands, An army, vast, supreme.
Flee as a bird, from the snare of the fowlers Flee to your mountain ye faithful ones, flee, Preening your wings, soar above earth's illusions, Wing your flight far beyond sin's surging sea. Losing the sound of time's turbulent billows, Lashed into discord by sorrow and fear, Flee from the snare of the merciless fowlers, Rise till the heights of your mountain appear.
I longed to gird the harness on, To work with might and will; Stern was the voice that said to me,— "My child, wait and be still. He only knoweth how to serve Who knoweth how to wait; Thus test I all who wish to work Within my vineyard gate.
Laus deo , it is done. Rolled away from loving heart Is a stone, Lifted higher we depart Having one.
"Arise!" cried forth a mighty Voice, "all ye That sleep. " O earthborn Lily, who told thee To come forth with the living, from the dead? The little Lily answered, "The great Head And Heart of Nature, God Himself, called me.
Oh gentle Patience, plodding slow the way! Thou sober-robed one, no light is shed Of holy aureole around thy head, To show thou art a saint of heavenly sway! We love the winged ones, and would array Ourselves beside the glowing Faith, deep-eyed, And fly with Hope to yonder mountain side; For Patience is a homely maid, we say. But ah, the hour when heavy shadows fall, And sore feet stumble; when we cannot see Fair Hope, or Faith, but doubt and darkness, all! Aye, then, through night and gloom shines gloriously Thy simple face; and sweet the tender call, " My steps alone are slow enough for thee!".