While beside it deeply shine
Blooms that take its light divine:
The perilous sweet flower of Hope
Here its hiding eyes doth ope,
And Gentleness doth near uphold
Its healing leaves and heart of gold;
Here tender fingers push the seed
Of Knowledge; pluck the poisonous weed;
Here blossoms Joy one singing hour,
And here of Love the immortal flower.
What this blossom, fragrant, tender,
That outbeams the rose's splendor—
Purer is, more tinct with light
Than the lily's flame of white?
Of beauty hath this flower the whole,
And its name—the Human Soul!
THE CHRIST-CHILD
A PICTURE BY FRANK VINCENT DU MOND
Done is the day of care.
Into the shadowy room
Flows the pure evening light,
To stem the gathering gloom,
The lily's flame illume,
And the bowed heads make bright
The heads bowed low in prayer.
