And when they are gone, I sit dreaming

Of my childhood too lovely to last, Of joy that my heart will remember, While it wakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin, When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within.

All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountain of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must

The twig is so easily bended,

I have banished the rule and the rod; I have taught them the goodness of know ledge,

They have taught me the goodness of
God:

My heart is the dungeon of darkness
Where I shut them for breaking a rule;
My frown is sufficient correction;

My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more:
Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones
That meet me each morn at the door!
I shall miss the "good nights" and the
kisses,

And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning for me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even,

Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their delicate feet. When the lessons of life are all ended,

And Death says "The school is dis

missed!"

May the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good night and be kissed!

CHARLES MONROE DICKINSON

They have wondered why all Venice, From San Marco to Lagoon,

Is now illumined only

By a German honeymoon;

Why the steeds on the Duomo
Have not laughed horse-laughs, and shied
At the too transparent fondness

Of the modern German bride!

Why the very stones of Venice,
Which the great John Ruskin loves,
Are nothing but a roosting-place
For German turtle-doves!

LAURENCE HUTTON

MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS

JACK AND JILL

Aн, Jack it was, and with him little Jill, Of the same age and size, a neighbor's daughter,

Who on a breezy morning climbed the hill To fetch down to the house a pail of water. Jack put his best foot foremost on that day,

Vaulting ambition we have seen before,
He stepped too far, of course, and soon he
lay

In the vile path, his little crown so sore!
The next act in the tragedy was played
By Jill, whose eager foothold, too, was
brief.

Epitome of life, that boy and maid
Together hoped, together came to grief.
And in their simple story lies concealed
The germ of half that's plucked in fiction's
field.

SIMPLE SIMON

f. BOY named Simon sojourned in a dale; Some said that he was simple, but I'm sure That he was nothing less than simon pure; They thought him so because, forsooth, a whale

He tried to catch in Mother's water-pail. Ah! little boy, timid, composed, demure, He had imagination. Yet endure

Defeat he could, for he of course did fail. But there are Simons of a larger growth, Who, too, in shallow waters fish for whales, And when they fail they are "unfortunate." If the small boy is simple, then are both, And the big Simon more, who often rails At what he calls ill luck or unkind fate. HARRIET S. MORGRIDGE

V

My sword is quick, my arm is strong to

smite

In the dread joy and fury of the fight.
I am with those who win, not those who fly;
With those who live I am, not those who die.
Who die? Nay, nay, that word
Where I am is unheard;

For I am the spirit of youth that cannot change,

Nor cease, nor suffer woe;

And I am the spirit of beauty that doth range

Through natural forms and motions, and each show

Of outward loveliness. With me have birth All gentleness and joy in all the earth. Raphael knew me, and showed the world my face;

Me Homer knew, and all the singing race, For I am the spirit of light, and life, and mirth.

THE CELESTIAL PASSION

O WHITE and midnight sky! O starry bath!

Wash me in thy pure, heavenly, crystal flood;

Cleanse me, ye stars, from earthly soil and scath;

Let not one taint remain in spirit or blood! Receive my soul, ye burning, awful deeps; Touch and baptize me with the mighty

power

That in ye thrills, while the dark planet sleeps;

Make me all yours for one blest, secret

hour!

O glittering host! O high angelic choir!
Silence each tone that with thy music jars;
Fill me even as an urn with thy white fire
Till all I am is kindred to the stars!
Make me thy child, thou infinite, holy
night-

So shall my days be full of heavenly light!

I COUNT MY TIME BY TIMES THAT I MEET THEE

I COUNT my time by times that I meet thee;

These are my yesterdays, my morrows, noons,

SHERMAN

GLORY and honor and fame and everlasting laudation

For our captains who loved not war, but fought for the life of the nation; Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife, not peace;

Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that war might cease.

Glory and honor and fame; the beating of muffled drums;

The wailing funeral dirge, as the flagwrapped coffin comes;

Fame and honor and glory; and joy for a noble soul,

For a full and splendid life, and laurelled rest at the goal.

Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier prizes;

The league-long waving line as the marching falls and rises;

Rumbling of caissons and guns; the clatter of horses' feet,

And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting street.

But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic sorrow;

Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to-morrow;

Better than honor and glory, and history's iron pen,

Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fellow-men.

HAST THOU HEARD THE

NIGHTINGALE?

YES, I have heard the nightingale.
As in dark woods I wandered,
And dreamed and pondered,
A voice passed by all fire
And passion and desire;