Frederick George Scott(7 April 1861 - 19 January 1944 / Montreal)
- by Frederick George Scott25
O little hands, long vanished in the night-- Sweet fairy hands that were my treasure here-- My heart is full of music from some sphere, Where ye make melody for God's delight. Though autumn clouds obscure the starry height, And winds are noisy and the land is drear, In this blank room I feel my lost love near, And hear you playing--hands so small and white. The shadowy organ sings its songs again, The dead years turn to music at its voice, And all the dreams come back my brain did store. Once more, dear hands, ye soothe me in my pain, Once more your music makes my heart rejoice-- God speed the day we clasp for evermore!
The Sting of Death
- by Frederick George Scott22
'Is Sin, then, fair?' Nay, love, come now, Put back the hair From his sunny brow; See, here, blood-red Across his head A brand is set, The word -- 'Regret.'
'Is Sin so fleet That while he stays, Our hands and feet May go his ways?' Nay, love, his breath Clings round like death, He slakes desire With liquid fire.
'Is Sin Death's sting?' Ay, sure he is, His golden wing Darkens man's bliss; And when Death comes, Sin sits and hums A chaunt of fears Into man's ears.
'How slayeth Sin?' First, God is hid, And the heart within By its own self chid; Then the maddened brain Is scourged by pain To sin as before And more and more, For evermore.
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