That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west-winds play;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

ENTICED.

I.

W

from room to room,

ITH what clear guile of gracious love enticed, I follow forward, as Through doors that open into light from gloom, To find, and lose, and find again the Christ!

He stands and knocks, and bids me ope the door; Without he stands, and asks to enter in :

Why should he seek a shelter sad with sin? Will he but knock and ask, and nothing more?

He knows what ways I take to shut my heart,
And if he will he can himself undo

My foolish fastenings, or by force break through, Nor wait till I fulfil my needless part.

ENTICED.

But nay, he will not choose to enter so,
He will not be my guest without consent,

Nor, though I say "Come in," is he content;
I must arise and ope, or he will go.

He shall not go; I do arise and ope,

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Come in, dear Lord, come in and

sup
with me,

O blessed guest, and let me sup with thee,” Where is the door? for in this dark I grope,

And cannot find it soon enough; my hand,
Shut hard, holds fast the one sure key I need,
And trembles, shaken with its eager heed;
No other key will answer my demand.

The door between is some command undone;
Obedience is the key that slides the bar,
And lets him in, who stands so near, so far;
The doors are many, but the key is one.

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Which door, dear Lord? knock, speak, that I may know;
Hark, heart, he answers with his hand and voice,
O, still small sign, I tremble and rejoice,

Nor longer doubt which way my feet must go.

Full lief and soon this door would open too,
If once my key might find the narrow slit
Which, being so narrow, is so hard to hit,
But lo! one little ray that glimmers through,

Not spreading light, but lighting to the light,

Now steady, hand, for good speed's sake be slow, One straight right aim, a pulse of pressure, so, How small, how great, the change from dark to bright!

II.

Now he is here, I seem no longer here!

This place of light is not my chamber dim,
It is not he with me, but I with him,

And host, not guest, he breaks the bread of cheer.

I was borne onward at his greeting, — he

Earthward had come, but heavenward I had gone; Drawing him hither, I was thither drawn, Scarce welcoming him to hear him welcome me!

And feel his heart, and time my heart thereby;
The tune so sweet, I have no need to try,
But rest and trust, and beat the perfect chord.

A little while I lie upon

his heart,

Feasting on love, and loving there to feast,

And then, once more, the shadows are increased Around me, and I feel my Lord depart.

Again alone, but in a farther place

I sit with darkness, waiting for a sign; Again I hear the same sweet plea divine, And suit, outside, of hospitable grace.

WEARINESS.

This is his guile, - he makes me act the host
To shelter him, and lo! he shelters me;
Asking for alms, he summons me to be
A guest at banquets of the Holy Ghost.

So, on and on, through many an opening door
That gladly opens to the key I bring,

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From brightening court to court of Christ, my King, Hope-led, love-fed, I journey evermore.

At last I trust these changing scenes will cease;
There is a court, I hear, where he abides;
No door beyond, that further glory hides.
My host at home, all change is changed to peace.

Must wander on through hopes and fears,

Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside Inn,

Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!

O little hands! that weak or strong
Have still to serve or rule so long,

Have still so long to give or ask;

I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,

Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient feverish heat,

Such limitless and strong desires;
Mine that so long has glowed and burned,
With passions into ashes turned,

Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white

And crystalline as rays of light

Direct from heaven, their source divine;

Refracted through the mist of

years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

TOUJOURS AMOUR.

RITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin,

At what age does love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen,
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair;