CHRISTMAS, 1917

A key no thief can steal, no time can rust;

A faery door, adventurous and golden;

A palace, perfect to our eyes—Ah must

Our eyes be holden?

Has the past died before this present sin?

Has this most cruel age already stonèd

To martyrdom that magic Day, within

Those halls, enthronèd?

No. Through the dancing of the young spring rain,

Through the faint summer, and the autumn’s burning,

Our still immortal Day has heard again

Our steps returning.

THE SECRET DAY

My yesterday has gone, has gone and left me tired,

And now to-morrow comes and beats upon the door;

So I have built To-day, the day that I desired,

Lest joy come not again, lest peace return no more,

Lest comfort come no more.

So I have built To-day, a proud and perfect day,

And I have built the towers of cliffs upon the sands;

The foxgloves and the gorse I planted on my way;

The thyme, the velvet thyme, grew up beneath my hands,

Grew pink beneath my hands.

So I have built To-day, more precious than a dream;

And I have painted peace upon the sky above;

And I have made immense and misty seas, that seem

More kind to me than life, more fair to me than love—

More beautiful than love.

And I have built a house—a house upon the brink

Of high and twisted cliffs; the sea’s low singing fills it;

And there my Secret Friend abides, and there I think

I’ll hide my heart away before to-morrow kills it—

A cold to-mor