Dwellers in places waste and lone,
Toilers upon the seas--
Mayhap they seldom pray high heaven.
Softly--on bended knees--
Yet in the roll-call of Thy Saints,
Dear Christ--remember these.
AT MIDNIGHT
Turn Thou the key upon our thoughts, dear Lord,
And let us sleep;
Give us our portion of forgetfulness,
Silent and deep.
Lay Thou Thy quiet hand upon our eyes
To close their sight;
Shut out the shining of the moon and stars
And candle-light.
Keep back the phantoms and the visions sad,
The shades of grey,
The fancies that so haunt the little hours
Before the day.
Quiet the time-worn questions that are all
Unanswered yet,
Take from the spent and troubled souls of us
Their vain regret;
And lead us far into Thy silent land,
That we may go
Like children out across the field o' dreams
Where poppies blow.
So all Thy saints--and all Thy sinners too--
Wilt Thou not keep,
Since not alone unto Thy well-beloved
Thou givest sleep?
NOVEMBER
How like a hooded friar, bent and grey,
Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray
Doth sad November pass upon his way.
Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low--
In God's cathedral where the great trees grow,
Now all day long he paceth to and fro.
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