ceased voicing. Alone, I sometimes speculate. Has Brett gone on into that outside world of which we all are only a tiny atom? What is he doing? Ami then I tell myself, what is it to me, save that it concerns Brett? The myriad, unfathomable happenings of Eternal Time in Infinite Space—what right have I, one tiny mortal, to probe them?
The beacon burns to guide Brett back to us. Will he ever come? I wonder. My brain, with its logic, says he will not. But my heart says, "Might he not come tonight?" Or with tonight passed, then tomorrow he will be here. Thus hope runs on and on, daunted but never broken. Blessed hope, to make possible a courageous living of this little life until we ourselves are plunged into that glowing Infinity of the Hereafter.
[THE END]
Ghost Lore
By Gertrude Wright
There are Things we dare not name,
There are formless, nameless Things,
Silent Shapes with sable wings,
Born of Shadows and of Shame,
See them winding wo-bedight
Through the labyrinths of Night.
Creatures pallid and forlorn,
Crawling forth from new-made graves,
Riding on the winds and waves,
Other creatures yet unborn,
See them winding wo-bedight
Through the labyrinths of Night.
Progeny of Doubt and Fear,
Some walk headless o’er the hills,
Some are great, eternal Wills,
Working evil everywhere,
See them winding wo-bedight
Through the labyrinths of Night.
Writhing, twisting, serpent Things,
Coiling through the sultry skies,
Flashing, rolling, greenish eyes,
Flapping, flaming, fiery wings,
See them winding wo-bedight
Through the labyrinths of Night.
Moaning, shrieking, sighing souls,
Wailing, whining, whirling forms,
Like the voice of vanished storms,
Their despairing anthem rolls,
See them winding wo-bedight
Through the labyrinths of Night.
