"ELMWOOD," THE HOME OF LOWELL, CAMBRIDGE, MASS,

But, since the earth clashed on her coffin,
I keep hearing that, and not you.

Console if you will, I can bear it;

'Tis a well-meant alms of breath; But not all the preaching since Adam Has made Death other than Death.

It is pagan; but wait till you feel it,
That jar of our earth, that dull shock
When the ploughshare of deeper passion
Tears down to our primitive rock.

Communion in spirit! Forgive me,
But I, who am earthy and weak,
Would give all my incomes from dreamland
For a touch of her hand on my cheek.

That little shoe in the corner,

So worn and wrinkled and brown,

With its emptiness confutes you,

And argues your wisdom down.

IN THE TWILIGHT.

MEN say the sullen instrument,

That, from the Master's bow, With pangs of joy or woe,

Feels music's soul through every fibre sent,

Whispers the ravished strings

More than he knew or meant;

Old summers in its memory glow;
The secrets of the wind it sings;
It hears the April-loosened springs;
And mixes with its mood

All it dreamed when it stood
In the murmurous pine-wood
Long ago!

The magical moonlight then

Steeped every bough and cone;

The roar of the brook in the glen

Came dim from the distance blown;

The wind through its glooms sang low,

And it swayed to and fro

With delight as it stood
In the wonderful wood,
Long ago!