THE master’s portrait hangs upon the wall
’Mid votive flowers ; his pictures, left and right,
Hover and bend, and seem to woo his sight
With pleading look and gesture. Silent all:
Voiceless the thunders of the mighty Fall ;
Noiseless the drum-beat and the bugle-tone,
The hiss of wave and spray, the rustling leaves,
The shout which hails the heaped-up harvest sheaves,
The whisper of the father to the son,
Heart clasped to heart and tearful cheek to cheek, —
Voiceless and moveless all, and yet they speak.
And he, the master, answers to his own,
“ You are my best of life ; stand forth and be
Interpreters between the world and me.”
Susan Coolidge.