THE WIDOWER

For a season there must be pain
For a little, little space

I shall lose the sight of her face,
Take back the old life again

While She is at rest in her place.

For a season this pain must endure, For a little, little while

I shall sigh more often than smile Till Time shall work me a cure, And the pitiful days beguile.

For that season we must be apart, For a little length of years,

Till my life's last hour nears,

And, above the beat of my heart,
I hear Her voice in my ears.

But I shall not understand
Being set on some later love,

Shall not know her for whom I strove, Till she reach me forth her hand Saying "Who but I have the right?" And out of a troubled night

Shall draw me safe to the land.

THE PRAYER OF MIRIAM COHEN

From the wheel and the drift of Things
Deliver us, Good Lord,

And we will face the wrath of Kings
The faggot and the sword!

Lay not Thy Works before our eyes
Nor vex us with Thy Wars

Lest we should feel the straining skies

O'ertrod by trampling stars.

Hold us secure behind the gates

Of saving flesh and bone,

Lest we should dream what dream awaits

The soul escaped alone.

Thy Path, Thy Purposes conceal

From our beleaguered realm,

Lest any shattering whisper steal
Upon us and o'erwhelm.

A veil twixt us and Thee, Good Lord, A veil twixt us and Thee,

Lest we should hear too clear, too clear, And unto madness see!

The pavilion in the Gardens. Enter Ferdinand and the King

Ferdinand. Your tiercel's too long at hack, Sir. He's no eyass

But a passage-hawk that footed ere we caught him,

Dangerously free o' the air. Faith were he mine (As mine's the glove he binds to for his tirings) I'd fly him with a make-hawk. He's in yarak Plumed to the very point. So manned so weathered!

Give him the firmament God made him for And what shall take the air of him?

The King. A young wing yet

Bold-overbold on the perch but, think you, Ferdinand,

He can endure the tall skies yonder? Cozen