The cup now clouded to the brim, For him who drinketh, clears.

Deep waters could not quench the light,
The tender light that lies,
Like splendor of the Northern night,
In thy unquestioning eyes.
Though wide the wild, unfurrowed sea,
Though high the skylark sings,
My love should build a bridge to thee,
My heart should find its wings.

I could not miss thee in the throng,
Nor pass thy dwelling-place,
No noise of war could drown thy song,
Nor darkness veil thy face.
With thee to mount from earth to sky,
With thee in dust to sleep,
What height for love could be too high,
Or depth for love too deep?

VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN

THE LONG NIGHT

WHO will watch thee, little mound, When a few more years are done,

And I go with them to rest

In the silence that is best? Grave of my beloved one, When that I mine own have found, Who will watch thee, little mound?

Who will love thee, little grave ?
Thou must be as others are.

Hearts low in the dust lie here,
Unloved, alone, unwept, and drear,
Forgotten as a fallen star.

Only from some dark sobbing wave The clouds shall bring their tears to lave

Thy withered lilies, little grave.

Airs that hover over thee,

Little mound, are strangely sweet;
Strangely sweet the odors shed
By the blossoms round thy bed, —
Blossoms for a maiden meet;
But, alas! how will it be
When I lie at rest by thee?

After years that are a day
In the swiftness of their flight,
None among us will there be
Who will live remembering thee
And thy beauty. Into night
We who mourn must take our way
When the twilight cometh gray,
After years that are a day.

Silent cities of the dead
Grow as old as hearts of men;
Flowers sanctified, that bloom
In the sunshine on a tomb,
Have their little day, and then,
All their grace and glory fled,
They are dead amid the dead.

Ah, God! how miserably lost
The loveliest must be; for naught
After a little space there lives

(Save the poor words the grave-stone
gives

To heedless eyes and careless thought) Of pure and blest or passion-tost: A few brief hours of bloom and frost, And where are those who loved the lost?

Nothing in nature purposely is fair,
Her mingled beauties never quite agree;
But here all vivid dyes that garish be,

To that tint mellowed which the sense will bear,

For I am older than the age of man,
Or all the living things that crawl or
creep,

Or birds of air, or creatures of the deep;
I was the first dim outline of God's plan:
Only the waters of the restless sea
And the infinite stars in heaven are old to

me.

CLARENCE HAWKES

EXPERIENCE

I

LIKE Crusoe with the bootless gold we stand

Upon the desert verge of death, and say: "What shall avail the woes of yesterday To buy to-morrow's wisdom, in the land Whose currency is strange unto our hand? In life's small market they had served to pay

Some late - found rapture, could we but delay

Till Time hath matched our means to our demand."

But otherwise Fate wills it, for, behold, Our gathered strength of individual pain, When Time's long alchemy hath made it gold,

Dies with us - hoarded all these years in vain,

Since those that might be heir to it the mould

Renew, and coin themselves new griefs again.

II

O Death, we come full-handed to thy gate, Rich with strange burden of the mingled years,

Gains and renunciations, mirth and tears, And love's oblivion, and remembering hate, Nor know we what compulsion laid such freight

Upon our souls-and shall our hopes and fears

Buy nothing of thee, Death? Behold our

wares,