The arid loneliness of life he knew,

The doubtful darkness of the starless night,

And fear lest he should never see the sight

Of dawn and God the Father breaking through.

Brave offspring of a disenchanted age

He lived as though illusion were not dead;

His was the pain of faiths discredited

Which with new knowledge civil battles wage.

In all his deeds for righteous quests he stood

And we, who watched his face and heard his voice,

Dreamed of the Christ; we had not any choice,

In loving him we knew that God was good—

We knew. And thus, beneath the hooded sky,

Lightly we followed where his pain had made

A path for us; if one should fall, he stayed

To raise him, lest his frailer hope should die.

Ofttimes when summer's day had ceased to shine

And on our London roofs the moon looked down,

We two would wander through the gas-lit town

Speaking in whispers of the things divine;

Or in love's stillness, high above the strife,

We found our spirits strangely catching fire,

And told of that " unspeakable desire

After the knowledge of the buried life."

He knows its secret now; the morning mist

Drifts up the road where his last footprint lies;

And I, as ever when a Christ-man dies,

Stand awe-struck, asking, "Was not this the

Christ?"

His soul craved God. I think we always knew

He would be with us but a little while.

Night vanished; dawn broke—when he saw God

smile

Back like a homing-bird to God he flew.