WOULD the lark sing the sweeter if he knew

A thousand hearts hung breathless on his lay?

And if "How fair!" the rose could hear us say,

Would she, her primal fairness to outdo, Take on a richer scent, a lovelier hue? Who knows or cares to answer yea or nay?

O tuneful lark! sail, singing, on your way, Brimmed with excess of ecstasy; and you, Sweet rose ! renew with every perfect June Your perfect blossoming! Still Naturewise,

Sing, bloom, because ye must, and not for praise.

If only we, who covet the fair boon

Of well-earned fame, and wonder where it lies,

Would read the secret in your simple ways!

RECONCILIATION

IF thou wert lying cold and still and white
In death's embraces, O mine enemy!
I think that if I came and looked on thee,
I should forgive; that something in the

sight

Of thy still face would conquer me, by right Of death's sad impotence, and I should

see

How pitiful a thing it is to be

V

At feud with aught that's mortal. So tonight,

My soul, unfurling her white flag of peace, Forestalling that dread hour when we may meet,

The dead face and the living, fain would

cry,

--

The lily dreams of you. The pensive rose Reveals you where it glows

In purple trance above the waterfall;

The fragrant fern rejoices by the pond, And sets your dear face in its feathery frond;

The winds blow chill, but, sounding over all, I hear your sweet voice call!

My gentle daughter! With us you have stayed.

Your life doth never fade!

O, evermore I see your blue eyes shine.
In subtle moods I cannot understand,
I feel the flutter of your tender hand
That slipped at dawn, almost without a
sign,

So softly out of mine!

WILLIAM AUGUSTUS CROFFUT

WAITING

SERENE, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;

Let witness be where all can see,
And not within a living heart.

MARY MATHEWS ADAMS

DISARMED

O LOVE, SO sweet at first.

So bitter in the end! Thou canst be fiercest foe,

As well as fairest friend. Are these poor withered leaves The fruitage of thy May? Thou that wert strong to save, How art thou swift to slay!

Ay, thou art swift to slay,
Despite thy kiss and clasp,
Thy long, caressing look,
Thy subtle, thrilling grasp !
Ay, swifter far to slay

Than thou art strong to save, And selfish in thy need,

And cruel as the grave.

AGE cannot wither her whom not gray hairs Nor furrowed cheeks have made the thrall of Time;

For Spring lies hidden under Winter's rime,
And violets know the victory is theirs.
Even so the corn of Egypt, unawares,
Proud Nilus shelters with engulfing slime;
So Etna's hardening crust a more sublime
Volley of pent-up fires at last prepares.
O face yet fair, if paler, and serene
With sense of duty done without complaint!
O venerable crown! a living green,
Strength to the weak, and courage to the

faint

Thy bleaching locks, thy wrinkles, havə but been

Fresh beads upon the rosary of a saint! WENDELL PHILLIPS GARRISO

Then from the flute, untouched by hands,
There came a low, harmonious breath:
"For such as he there is no death;
His life the eternal life commands;
Above man's aims his nature rose:
The wisdom of a just content
Made one small spot a continent,
And turned to poetry Life's prose.

"Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild,
Swallow and aster, lake and pine,
To him grew human or divine,
Fit mates for this large-hearted child.
Such homage Nature ne'er forgets,

And yearly on the coverlid

'Neath which her darling lieth hid Will write his name in violets.