Page:Poems Dorr.djvu/185

"Whether it comes from heaven or hell,
This voice I have learned to know too well—
Whether from lips alive or dead,
Or from the hovering air," she said—
"Whether it comes from sea or land,
I will not sleep till I understand
    This cry of 'Christus!'"

"Christus! Christus!" Faint and slow
Rose the wail from the drifted snow
Under a low-browed, beetling rock,
Strong to withstand the whirlwind's shock.
There, in the heart of the snowy mound,
The buried form of a man she found—
A Spanish sailor, with beard of brown
Over his red scarf flowing down,
And jewelled ears that were strange to see.
She was bending over it, whenah me!
    The shrill cry, "Christus!"

Rang out as if from the stony lips
Whence life had parted in drear eclipse,
As if the soul of the dead man cried
Again unto Christ the Crucified.
The rose had fled from her cheeks so red,
But still she knelt by his side and said,
Under her breath, "I must understand
Whether from heaven or sea or land
    Comes that cry, 'Christus!'"

She laid her hand on the pulseless breast!
What fluttered beneath the crimson vest?
A bird with plumage of green and gold,
Nestling away from the piercing cold,