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��Beatrice Redpath

But this man, even this simple man

Stretched out his hand for the sword ;

For now was made plain

What thing was dearer even than life.

Oh, see him now,

This stumbling shattered thing,

Look in his eyes, if you can see for tears,

Is it hate you see?

Look, look in his eyes

See them, as they go past,

And is it hate you see?

Look. . . look in his eyes!

Have you seen love like this?

Look in his eyes! . . .,.

And these were simple men !

THE YEARS

ITHIN old cloistered woods I hear leaves fall

As softly as a quiet summer rain,

The earth lies silent neath its leafy pall,

While years tread softly where dead hopes are lain;

Ah, hear the wind that whispers to the fern,

The footsteps of old years shall not return !

And some passed swiftly as a pulsing flame,

While there were those that dreamed neath slumb rous

skies,

Some sped white-winged and others stumbled lame, Some years were as a wheeling flight of sighs ; Ah, hear the wind that whispers to the fern, The footsteps of old years shall not return !

Oh, time of hidden pain, oh, time of tears, Now would I rest, for I am weary quite! The years move always, slowly drifting years, Beyond the shadow of the Infinite. Ah, hear the wind that whispers to the fern, The footsteps of old years shall not return !

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