Tree Ceremonies

(Vassar College, 1915)

               Druids' Chant

Great voice that calls us in the wind of dawn,
Strange voice that stills us in the heat of noon,
Heard in the sunset,
Heard in the moonrise
And in the stirring of the wakeful night,
Speak now in blessing,
Chide us no longer,
Great voice of love, we will not grieve thee more.

               Song of the Nations

Out of
Night and alarm,
Out of
Darkness and dread,
Out of old hate,
Grudge and distrust,
Sin and remorse,
Passion and blindness; 
Shall come
Dawn and the birds,
Shall come 
Slacking of greed, 
Snapping of fear—
Love shall fold warm like a cloak
Round the shuddering earth
Till the sound of its woe cease.

After
Terrible dreams,
After
Crying in sleep,
Grief beyond thought,
Twisting of hands,
Tears from shut lids
Wetting the pillow;
Shall come
Sun on the wall,
Shall come
Sounds from the street,
Children at play—
Bubbles too big blown, and dreams
Filled too heavy with horror 
Will burst and in mist fall.

Sing then,
You who were dumb,
Shout then
Into the dark;
Are we not one?
Are not our hearts
Hot from one fire,
And in one mold cast?
Out of
Night and alarm,
Out of
Terrible dreams,
Reach me your hand,
This is the meaning of all that we 
Suffered in sleep,—the white peace 
Of the waking.

               Baccalaureate Hymn 
                   (Vassar College, 1917)

Thou great offended God of love and kindness,
  We have denied, we have forgotten Thee!
With deafer sense endow, enlighten us with blindness,
  Who, having ears and eyes, nor hear nor see.

Bright are the banners on the tents of laughter;
  Shunned is Thy temple, weeds are on the path;
Yet if Thou leave us, Lord, what help is ours thereafter?— 
  Be with us still,—Light not today Thy wrath!

Dark were the ways where of ourselves we sought Thee, 
  Anguish, Derision, Doubt, Desire and Mirth;
Twisted, obscure, unlovely, Lord, the gifts we brought Thee, 
  Teach us what ways have light, what gifts have worth.

Since we are dust, how shall we not betray Thee? 
  Still blows about the world the ancient wind—
Nor yet for lives untried and tearless would we pray Thee: 
  Lord let us suffer that we may grow kind!

"Lord, Lord!" we cried of old, who now before Thee,
  Stricken with prayer, shaken with praise, are dumb; 
Father accept our worship when we least adore Thee, 
  And when we call Thee not, oh, hear and come!