[Written for the Sentinel.]


I crossed a road where wild pathetic roses fell
At feet of fleeting June, whose fingers magical
Drew resinous charm from flow'ring Gilead's balm;
I mourned that I had missed the petals' full-blown grace,
Yet on a tide of summer air,
Faint attar, presence-like and rare,
Breathed that the rose hath life beyond her rooted place.

Take, with thy hope, the road where prayers like petals fall,
Choose noonlit hours, or go when cumbrous shadows pall;
Not suppliant tears, but radiant thought endears
The likeness that doth prove thee child of Him all-wise;
Thy orison doth need no ear,
Some deed of thine shall find Him near;
From hearts like thine and pure, do prayers like incense rise.

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February 10, 1912

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