Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/104

 Across that calm, like gales of balm

Some low, sweet household voices ran,

Thrilling, like flute notes straying out

From land to sea some stormy night,

The ear that listens for the shout

Of drowning boatman lost to sight,

And died away again so soon

The pulseless air seemed fallen in a swoon.

Once, pure and clear,

Clarion strains fell on the ear:

The preacher rent the soulless creeds,

And pierced men's hearts with arrowy words,

Yet failed to stir them to good deeds—

Their new-fledged thoughts, like July birds,

Soared on the air and glanced away

Before the eloquent voice could stay.

"'Tis very sad, the man is mad,"

The men and women gaily said

As they laughing tread their homeward road,

Talking of other holidays;

Of last year how it rained or snowed,

Who went abroad, who wed a blaze

Of diamonds with his sickly bride,

On certain days—and who had died.

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