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A haunting mermaid mid the swell And rapture of that summer sea; A siren of elusive spell,

Born of the womb of mystery, —

That, airy-limbed, swims fancy free, Glad in the summer's perfect prime, Full-veined with life's felicity

And faith that knows no winter-time.

At eve, when firefly lustre burns

On that green flood like mirrored stars, Against the hush her faint voice yearns, Breathed to a light harp's happy bars.

Till sinks at last in sunset slow Midsummer's long, luxurious day,

And amber-red the ripe waves glow,
Ah, then it is she slips away!

For with the blighting dog-star's blaze,
The reapers wade within the wheat,
And as they work in harvest ways,
What amorous sights their vision cheat!

For lo, upon some eddying wash
Or hollow of the wind-swept grain,
Her wafted fingers foam-like flash,
Her laughing body drifts amain.

It is the sylph's divine farewell;
A sighing ebbs along the wheat;
Borne onward by a golden swell,

She fades into the wrinkling heat.

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O Earth, O Sky, your use is done, Take care of me.


My love leads the white bulls to sacrifice.

He is white, and he leans against their folded necks.

Blue is the sky behind them, and the dust from the highway yellows his ivory limbs.

He leans and moves, restraining, yet drawn on by tossing heads.

He feels the festal music; rapid and strong are his arms and breast;

Yet from his waist beneath, loose and slow is his resting pace,

Flowers are in his hair, and he is fair. He thinks he is but strong; he can overcome,

And his mind sees only the impatient horns; But my heart sees his slimness, and would care for him like a mother.

My love leads the white bulls to sacrifice.

Stephen Crane

Gray, heavy clouds muffled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward God alone.

"O Master, that movest the wind with a finger,

Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. Grant that we may run swiftly across the world

To huddle in worship at Thy feet.”

In the morning

A noise of men at work came the clear

blue miles,

And the little black cities were apparent.
"O Master, that knowest the meaning
of raindrops,

Humble, idle, futile peaks are we.
Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord,
That we may sing Thy goodness to
the sun."

In the evening

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The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny Until they were as sand


Thrown between me and the sky.

1 Copyright, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

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Herbert Bashford


THESE lands are clothed in burning weather, These parched lands pant for God's cool


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FIERCE burns our fire of driftwood; overhead

Gaunt maples lift long arms against the night;

The stars are sobbing, sorrow-shaken, white,

And high they hang, or show sad eyes grown red With weeping for their queen, the moon, just dead.

Black shadows backward reel when tall and bright

The broad flames stand and fling a golden light

On mats of soft green moss around us spread.

A sudden breeze comes in from off the sea, The vast, old forest draws a troubled breath,

A leaf awakens; up the shore of sand The slow tide, silver-lipped, creeps noiselessly;

The campfire dies; then silence deep as death;

The darkness pushing down upon the land.


A BED of ashes and a half-burned brand Now mark the spot where last night's campfire sprung

And licked the dark with slender, scarlet tongue;

The sea draws back from shores of yellow sand,

Nor speaks lest he awake the sleeping land. Tall trees grow out of shadows; high among Their sombre boughs one clear, sweet song

is sung,

In deep ravine by drooping cedars spanned, All drowned in gloom; a flying pheasant's whirr

Rends morning's solemn hush; gray rabbits


Across the clovered glade, while far away Upon the hills each huge, expectant fir Holds open arms in welcome to the sunGreat, pulsing heart of bold, advancing day!

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